#the grip this man has on me is coming back full swing

[hplonesomeart]

HEY. HEY SO UH. SO UPDATE ON THAT SNATCHER ANIMATION I WAS MENTIONING UH JKSJKSJSP

[rafecameronssl4t]

Reminder || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: It was just harmless banter between you and another socialite, but rafe reminds again you what the diamond ring meant on your finger.

Warnings: angst, jealous/possesive rafe hehehehe

Word count: 2,160

A/n: guys guys guys it's getting hot in here.

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The gala is in full swing, the grand ballroom echoing with the hum of conversation and the soft clinking of champagne glasses. You stand next to Rafe, dressed to perfection in an elegant gown that draws more than a few eyes in your direction. Rafe's hand rests lightly on your waist, his touch possessive but distant—as it usually is during events like this—as you mingle with other high-society figures.

The night feels long, your polished smile tiring as you listen to half-hearted pleasantries from the guests surrounding you. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Alexander Hawthorne making his way over, his smile wide and confident, his eyes locked on you. He’s known for his silver tongue and effortless charm, especially with married women. Tonight, his gaze feels particularly intent.

"Well, well, if it isn't the most beautiful woman in the room," Alexander says smoothly, his eyes lingering on you just a little too long. "You always manage to outshine everyone, don’t you?" You offer a playful smile, aware of Rafe's tightening grip on your waist. "Oh, you flatter me, Alexander," you reply lightly, not fully dismissing the compliment. "But I’m sure there are plenty of others here more deserving of your attention." Alexander chuckles, clearly pleased that you're playing along.

"I highly doubt that. No one else in this room could possibly compare." His eyes flicker briefly to Rafe, but he seems unfazed by his presence. "I was actually hoping to steal you away for a dance, if I may be so bold." You glance at Rafe from the corner of your eye. His jaw is clenched, his posture rigid, but he says nothing. The tension between you and him has been building over the past few weeks, and part of you enjoys testing his limits.

"A dance?" you echo, your tone teasing. "That sounds tempting." Rafe’s hand tightens even more on your waist, his irritation palpable. "I don’t think that’s a good idea," Rafe’s voice cuts through the playful banter, his tone sharp and controlled, though you can feel the storm brewing beneath the surface. His grip on your waist has gone from possessive to borderline painful, but you don’t flinch.

Instead, you tilt your head and glance up at him, your expression sweet yet defiant. "Oh? Why not, darling?" you ask, your voice dripping with mock innocence. "It’s just a harmless dance." Alexander, sensing the tension but relishing the drama, grins wider. "Come on, Rafe, it’s just a dance. Surely you trust your wife enough to let her have a bit of fun tonight?"

You notice Rafe’s jaw clench even tighter. He glares at Alexander, but the challenge is unspoken, simmering beneath the surface. You can feel Rafe’s jealousy in the way his body stiffens beside you, and for some reason, the idea of provoking him further feels oddly satisfying. "I don’t mind," you continue, turning your gaze back to Alexander.

"After all, it’s not every day a charming man asks me to dance." Rafe’s fingers dig into your side, and you suppress a wince, though your heart flutters at the possessiveness. "You’re not going anywhere," Rafe says, his voice dangerously low. His eyes lock on Alexander, who merely raises his brow in amusement.

"Rafe," you start, keeping your tone light though there’s an edge to it, "you’re being dramatic. It’s just one dance." But you know you’ve pushed him too far. The moment the words leave your lips, you feel Rafe's grip on your waist disappear, replaced by an icy tension that makes your breath catch. In one swift motion, Rafe steps forward, his broad shoulders blocking Alexander from your view entirely.

His stance is commanding, exuding an unmistakable fury, though his face remains composed—a deadly calm that’s somehow more terrifying than if he had exploded. "Back off, Hawthorne," Rafe snaps, his voice a cold, simmering threat. Each word is sharp, delivered with a quiet intensity that sends a chill through the air. "You don’t want to test me right now." If it wasn't Rafe height that loomed over him that intimidated him, it was the icy look in Rafe's eyes that did.

Alexander’s usual bravado falters, and though he holds up his hands in a gesture of nonchalance, the gleam in his eyes fades. If it wasn’t Rafe’s towering height that made him take a step back, it was the icy, penetrating look in Rafe’s eyes. Alexander hesitates, his playful smirk faltering, eyes flickering between you and Rafe.

"Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to step on any toes." He glances at you with a wink before adding, "But you can’t blame a man for trying, right?" Rafe’s gaze doesn’t waver. His silence hangs heavy in the space between them, tension crackling like electricity. It’s clear that Alexander, for all his charm and wit, knows better than to push Rafe any further.

As soon as Alexander retreats, Rafe's shoulders remain stiff, his body radiating with tension. The darkness in his eyes lingers, the anger now fully redirected toward you. Without a word, his hand closes around your wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough to make it clear that this conversation isn’t over. He pulls you with him, weaving through the crowd and out of the grand ballroom, into the quieter, more secluded hallways of the estate.

The moment you’re alone, Rafe spins around to face you, his body towering over yours as he leans down, his breath warm and rapid against your ear. The fury in his gaze makes your stomach twist with both dread and excitement. "What the hell was that?" Rafe growls, his voice barely above a whisper but thick with anger. His grip on your wrist tightens just slightly as he looks down at you, eyes wild with accusation.

"Flirting with him right in front of me?" You lift your chin, meeting his gaze with a calmness you don’t quite feel. "It was just harmless fun, Rafe," you reply, though your voice lacks its usual conviction, "you’re the one who overreacted." "Harmless?" Rafe repeats, his voice growing even lower, his face so close now you can feel the heat of his hander.

"He was crossing the line, and frankly, so were you" Rafe steps closer, his body looming over you, his hand gripping your waist. "You think I didn’t see the way he was looking at you? Or how you were playing along?" You swallow, your heart beating faster at the intensity in his eyes. "Maybe I was," you admit, your voice steady but challenging. "Maybe I wanted to see how far I could push you. Like I said, it was harmless."

Rafe's grip on your waist tightens even further, his fingers pressing firmly into your side, the pressure bordering on painful. You let out a small groan, a sound that escapes involuntarily from the mix of discomfort and the charged intensity of the moment. The pain is sharp, a physical reminder of his anger and possessiveness, and you can’t help but shiver at the heat of his touch.

"I don't care if it was harmless," Rafe growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You're not playing those fucking games with me." Each word is punctuated with a barely restrained fury, his breath hot against your skin. You want to speak, to push back, but the fire in Rafe's eyes freezes you in place. The fierce protectiveness radiating from him mixes with his jealousy, overwhelming and intoxicating.

His hand moves from your waist to your hand, fingers brushing over the large diamond on your wedding ring. "Did you forget what this ring meant?" Rafe's voice is low, almost a growl, as he taps the diamond, each tap a reminder of the vow that binds you both. The possessiveness in his touch sends a shudder through you, your breath catching as his lips graze your ear once more.

You can feel the tension thick in the air between you, the hallway around you fading into insignificance as his words cut deep. "You’re mine," he whispers, his tone raw, dangerous, and resolute. "And I don’t share." Your heart pounds in your chest, a mix of thrill and fear coursing through you at the intensity of his words. You glance down at the ring he’s tapping, a tangible symbol of everything that’s between you—love, control, obligation, desire. It’s suffocating, yet addictive.

You shiver as Rafe’s words linger in the air, thick with possessiveness. His grip on your wrist tightens, but it’s the way he looks at you that keeps you frozen in place—intense, unrelenting, a silent challenge burning in his eyes. You try to keep your composure, to push back against the overwhelming force of his jealousy. "Rafe," you say softly, your voice barely steady. "It was just a dance. It wouldn’t have meant anything."

"That’s not the fucking point," he snaps, his tone sharper now. He steps closer, his body pressing against yours, almost forcing you to look up at him. "You knew exactly what you were doing. I saw the way you looked at him—like you wanted me to react." You swallow hard, but you refuse to break eye contact. "Maybe I did," you admit, your voice low but challenging. "Maybe I wanted to see if you even care."

The words hang between you, and for a moment, Rafe’s expression shifts—his anger momentarily flickering into something else, something raw and vulnerable. But just as quickly, his walls slam back up, his face hardening again. He releases your wrist, but not before pulling you closer, his lips inches from yours, the tension crackling between you.

"Care?" he growls. "You think I don’t care when I’m right here, watching you entertain someone else? You’re mine, and I won’t let anyone forget it." You feel the possessiveness in his words like a pulse between you, and despite the storm raging inside him, there’s something about it that draws you in. His jealousy, his frustration—it’s all because of you, because deep down, beneath the cold exterior, he does care. You can feel it, even if he won’t admit it out loud.

Your voice softens, just enough to break through the tension. "I wasn’t trying to make you angry, Rafe." "You know that’s a lie," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours. His voice drops lower, and you can feel the intensity in his words. "But you succeeded. And I don’t like being tested." You glance down for a moment, trying to gather yourself, but when you look back up at him, your heart beats faster.

"Maybe I wanted to see if you still care. Lately… it feels like you’ve been distant." His jaw clenches at your confession, his eyes narrowing slightly. For a brief second, something softer flickers across his features—a trace of regret. But Rafe doesn’t back down, his hand still resting on your lower back, firm and possessive. "I’ve been busy," he mutters, but you know it’s not the full truth. You’re about to push him on it when he pulls you closer, his breath warm against your cheek.

"But that doesn’t mean I don’t care. You should know that by now." You let the silence stretch between you, your body pressed against his as you absorb his words. His anger, his frustration, all boil down to the same thing—he doesn’t want to lose you, not to someone like Alexander or anyone else. "You don’t have to act so cold all the time, you know," you whisper, your voice soft but daring.

Rafe’s lips curl slightly into a smirk, though his eyes remain serious. "You think I’m cold?" "Most of the time." You challenge him, your tone laced with honesty. His hand moves from your back to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Then I’ll remind you," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "how I feel about you."

Before you can respond, Rafe leans in and captures your lips with his, the kiss fierce and possessive, like he’s trying to prove something—to himself, to you. His hand tightens around you, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you, every inch of his body pressing against yours. The kiss is raw, full of unspoken frustration, but also something deeper—something neither of you are ready to name.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing heavy, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. "Don’t ever doubt that you’re mine," he whispers, his voice ragged but full of conviction. Your breath comes in shallow, your heart racing from the intensity of it all. "And you’re mine," you murmur back, your fingers curling into his jacket, holding him close.

Rafe pulls you back into him, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "Let’s get out of here. I’m done with this place." Without waiting for your response, he takes your hand and leads you out of the manor, his grip possessive, his pace quick. You follow silently, your heart racing, knowing that tonight’s encounter has stirred something deeper between you both—something raw and dangerous that neither of you can ignore any longer.

[ace-turned-confused]

seashells & sandcastles | dbf!joel miller x f!reader

joel masterlist

summary: weekend break in full swing, you spend the day “relaxing” with joel word count: 5,3k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied / wears a bikini & a dress / can swim, Joel picks up & carries reader but Joel = huge big strong man so he can carry anyone (fight me if you disagree), pet names, unspecified age gap, food & alcohol consumption, parents getting tipsy, smut, super duper explicit grinding (?), public fingering, unprotected p in v, come eating, creampie, dirty talk, spanking, pussy pronouns huzzah!, praise kink, size kink a/n: so........... sea spray was just a silly little oneshot that now has over 1k notes which is actually insane????? actually cried about that btw but anyways i cannot thank everyone enough for all the kind words 🥹 this follows on from where we left off, but could be read on its own :) big thanks to @morallyinept for helping me with some of the warnings 💗 idk how some of this got in here guys i swear and special thanks to my bestie for calling me a wizard and always screaming with me, love you so much 🕺🏻 not beta'd, have fun 😇

Drifting in and out of sleep just as the sun starts filtering through the curtains, the distant sound of rolling waves and the rich smell of the sea air floats through the window. In the back of your mind, you register the sturdy frame behind you, the arm draped over your waist, the heft pressed against your ass. With the sheet bundled up in your arms and barely covering you, the air in the room is stifling, even with the fan blowing — only you can’t blame the summer temperatures for the heat crawling under your bare skin and settling between your legs.

By the time you wake completely, the arm over you is held tight and the heft against you is hot and hard, poking into you. Your memory comes back to you and that's when you realise — you’ve slept with Joel Miller. You know, dad’s best friend Joel Miller. You’re not sure what good will come from this, but he’s still in your bed the morning after, so that must be a plus — right?

With steady breaths being puffed against your neck, you shift around and slowly grind yourself back into him, your eyes fluttering closed and quiet whimpers falling from your lips. His arm around you tightens even further, pulling you into him and he starts rutting against you, still sound asleep. Reaching between your legs, you drag your fingers through your folds, the inside of your thighs slippery and wet as you rub them together.

You reach behind your back and feel for him. You were rendered speechless seeing the size of him last night, air taken from your lungs at how impossibly full you were and he feels just the same now as you touch him for the first time — a fair gap between your fingers and thumb as you try to wrap your hand around his girth, beads of precome starting to pearl as you brush your thumb over his tip.

Joel keeps mindlessly grinding himself against you as you take a finger to your clit, drawing in tight, steady circles. You push yourself into him more forcefully, soft moans gradually getting louder. You could just finish the job yourself, but why do that when you could have Joel do it instead.

“Joel?” It comes out breathy, your voice still raspy from sleep. He doesn’t respond, and you pull your hand from between your legs to grip his hip behind you. You shake him as best you can, fingers digging into his skin and he murmurs.

“Joel.” Twisting your torso to look at him, you drag your hand up his side to shake him more vigorously — his eyes finally flit open and he grumbles a good morning.

“Need you, Joel.”

“Already got me, ‘m right here.”

He grinds himself into you one more time and pushes your leg up and away from him, revealing your glistening cunt to his eyes. He drags his fingers through you, coating his fingers before taking his cock in his hand, stroking your slick up and down his length.

“Barely woken up and you’re already all needy, huh? S’what happens when you get fucked real good.”

Guiding you with a hand on your hip, he pulls you back to press his cock against you, slipping himself between your folds. He moves your leg back into place, holding himself in the wet heat between your thighs and starts thrusting, the fat head of him just catching on your entrance but never pushing in. You gasp and clench around nothing, feeling painfully empty.

“You’re gonna come just like this.”

“Joel-“ 

“Don’t wanna hear any complaints. You be good and come for me like this, then maybe I’ll give you what you want and fuck you nice ‘n hard later. Understand?”

You whine back at him, eyes falling closed and he snakes a hand around you, holding two fingers on your clit and he stops moving.

“Understand?”

“Yes, yes I understand.” You nod frantically and he resumes his movements, fingers swirling round and round, cock dragging against you.

Just before you start unravelling, a loud knock sounds from your door and Joel slows his hips to an agonising pace.

“Hey kiddo, you up?” Your dad’s voice is muffled and you see the door handle start to turn.

“DON’T-“ You’re shouting back at him before you can even think. “I’m getting dressed, Dad! I’m, uh… I’m up.”

You pray your voice comes across more steady through the door than it sounded to your own ears. It was bad enough that you were nearly caught palming the bulge in Joel’s shorts the night before, but this…

The handle snaps back up and you glance around with a sigh of relief, really taking the two of you in for the first time this morning: bodies moulded to one another, damp and sticky with sweat, Joel’s throbbing cock sliding along your cunt, fingers pressed firmly into your clit, your thighs a mess of precome and slick that’s been dripping out of you since before you even woke up.

Tightening your jaw and breathing hard through your nose, you knock your head back into Joel’s to hold back a moan as you clench down again.

“Your mom and I are heading out, you wanna come?”

Joel actually snorts at that and you whip your head around to glare at him, his eyes dark and a sly smirk on his face.

“Um, no, thanks. I’ll stay here.”

“Okay, see you later. Looks like Joel must’ve headed out for a walk, will you let him know we’ve gone when you see him?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

“Alright, you have fun.”

His footsteps fade off, the front door closing with a click and Joel takes your jaw in his hand, pulling you to look at him. You can smell yourself on his fingers, and feel him leaving cold, wet fingerprints on your cheeks.

“You having fun?” Joel punches forward more forcefully this time, the tip of his cock knocking into your clit. Your mouth falls open at the feeling, nodding your head as best you can.

“Asked you a question,” he whispers to you, squeezing his fingers into you.

“Yes, Joel.” You smile elatedly and he huffs a laugh at you.

“You wanna come for me?”

“Oh, please, yes please.”

Letting go of your jaw, he presses his fingers into your clit again, gliding between your folds at a steady pace. What was sea air has been replaced with the smell of Joel and sex, his thick fingers and heavy cock and deep, gravelly voice are hurtling you to your end in record time.

“Never felt a pussy as drenched as this one. Bet I could slip right in her like it’s nothing.”

You’re still twisted around to watch him, and he pulls back to watch where he disappears into you, over and over again.

“Feels like heaven, baby. Looks like it too, fuck me.”

He snaps his hips into you repeatedly, taking your hand in his and replacing his fingers on your clit with your own, flicking them over the swollen bud.

“Come on sweetheart. Soon as you come I’m going right with you.”

And you do — thighs tightening around him and hips jerking, a high-pitched whine coming from the back of your throat. He holds your hand in place and comes after a few more thrusts, spilling into the tight space between your legs. You feel it pool between your folds, seeping down your thighs and he forces your fingers apart, coating your hand in his spend.

Lifting your hand to your face, he shoves both your own and his fingers into your mouth.

“I got to taste you, now you get to taste me.”

If you weren’t still trembling with aftershocks you might’ve come again from the sheer depravity of it all.

Joel pulls his hand from your mouth and turns you to face him, pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy exchange of tongues and spit and his come.

“You okay?” Breaking away from you, he tugs the sheet up to wipe your mouth, followed by his own.

“Am I okay? Jesus, Joel.” You laugh and burrow your face into the pillow, completely fucked out and you haven’t even had breakfast.

He cradles the back of your head, planting a gentle kiss on your temple and you can feel him smiling into you.

“Go shower, we’re heading for the beach today, remember? Plus, your dad said to have fun, and I’m gonna make sure you do.”

He traces a hand down your body, pushing himself off the bed and stretching with a groan. You could easily drift off to sleep again, but spending the day alone with Joel, free from your parents? That’s better than any dream you could have.

-

Joel can’t remember the last time he had a break like this — summer sun, bottomless drinks, the serenity of the sea. It’s off-season and the beach isn’t too crowded. Lounging back in his fold-out chair, he watches — a father and son excavating trenches and building up sandy defence walls, a little girl carving patterns with the end of her spade, an elderly couple strolling hand in hand just where the water breaks, seagulls nip at each other over old sandwich crusts, and a handful of surfers are far out in the waves.

With the sea ahead of him and the mountains behind, he could easily get used to this: friendly faces, quiet chatter, and hearty laughter all around; peace and stillness as far as the eye can see — and then there’s you.

You haven’t sat down for longer than five minutes the whole time. Zig-zagging along where the water washes over your feet, you crouch down every few steps to dig around in the sand, collecting an array of shells, pebbles, and glass smoothed by the everlasting waves. You’ve already been back twice to empty your shorts pockets, only to venture out again to continue your search. Every so often you look back at him to flash a smile, hand in the sky to shield yourself from the sun.

On your third trip back to unload your findings you stand, hands on your hips to inspect your haul.

“What you gonna do with all this?” He asks as you finish scattering everything out on your towel.

“Dunno, I just like picking them up.” You take a pebble in hand, smoothing your fingers over its surface.

“And how you gettin’ it all home?”

You lift your head to look at him, perching your sunglasses on your head and squinting in the sun.

“Don’t your shorts have pockets too?” You grin and he shakes his head, turning his attention to his unopened book.

“You brought a book?” Your voice is laced with disbelief, and he draws his eyes back to you again.

“Didn’t come here just to drool over you all day, believe it or not.”

“I’m sure you could multitask. Come on, you’re seriously not gonna swim or anything?”

“And who’s gonna guard these ancient artifacts of yours? I’m sure there’s some real rare finds here, sweetheart.” He raises his eyebrows as he leans over to look at everything.

“‘Ancient artifacts’ my ass, it’s a heap of fucking rocks and glass Joel, come on.” You hold your hand out in waiting, scoffing when he doesn’t move to get up.

“Fine, if you’re not gonna come with me then at least put more sunscreen on my back.” You pull your shorts down, rounding the towel to stop before him.

As he starts to stand up, you drop down to your knees, eyes locked on his and a cheeky grin spreads across your face as you sink into the sand, head levelled perfectly with his crotch. You lean to the side, a hand planted on his covered thigh to steady yourself while you rummage through your bags, and all moral thoughts flee his mind.

“You’re real trouble, sweetheart.” You ignore his comment and stand, handing him the bottle and turning your back to him.

He starts below the nape of your neck and you jerk forward, muscles in your back tensing briefly from the stark cold sensation. Palms massaging between your shoulder blades, you soon relax and lean into his touch and he lifts each strap of your bikini top, letting them snap back against your skin once the area is covered.

Moving further down your back, he pushes his hands under the band of your bikini top, curling them around your body until his fingers brush against the supple skin of the sides of your breasts, your breath catching just so.

Leaning in close behind you, he lowers his voice right into your ear, “You just wanted my hands on you.”

He smirks to himself and withdraws his hands, dragging his palms down your sides and sneaking his fingers under your waistband, squeezing your soft, unsunned skin. Part of him wishes you were somewhere secluded, where he could just take them right off, but working you up and fogging your mind is far more rewarding.

Glancing around, the few other people on the beach are well occupied — he grips your hip with one hand and twists the other around to your front, dipping down to cup you entirely.

“Joel…” You say in warning, but he knows it’s an empty threat.

“What, you can tease me but I can’t do the same? Seems a little unfair, sweetheart.”

He applies pressure on your clit with the heel of his palm and you try angling your hips, chasing any relief you can find. Curling his fingers into your heat, he confirms his suspicions. 

“Thought this morning you were just bein’ needy, but this pussy’s always drooling for me, isn’t she?”

You whine at that, already sounding desperate and you push your head back against his chest.

“Please, Joel.”

“Please what? What you want, baby?”

“Want you.”

“Wrong answer.” He keeps his hand steady between your legs, fingers just prodding at your entrance and you try to press your thighs together. “Tell me what you want.”

“I…” Your voice trails off to near silence before you can get the words out, and you turn your head to the side, trying to burrow yourself into him.

“Don’t waste my time, sweetheart. Either tell me, or you’re gettin’ nothing at all.”

“Want your fingers. Please Joel, wanna come on your fingers.”

“Good girl, that wasn't so hard.”

Finally pushing two fingers into you, you’re already pulsing around him. Your mouth hangs open, a strained moan slipping out.

“Only doing this if you keep quiet, or this whole beach is gonna know I’m knuckle deep in this tight cunt.”

You whine again but close your mouth and nod. It seems you really are trying your best to be good — either that or you’re so desperate you’ll do anything. Joel keeps watch of your surroundings, knowing you won’t keep your eyes open — or stay alert — long enough to do it yourself.

Pumping his fingers in and out, in and out, you’re sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, hands gripping his arms to keep yourself upright, small whimpers sounding from the back of your throat. He can feel how close you are, walls fluttering around him, but you’re tense, maybe unable to let go in fear of being caught.

He’s a fast learner, though, and already knows that his words alone are enough to give you that final push.

“Nobody’s gonna see you, sweetheart, been keepin’ watch the whole time. You been such a good girl for me, keepin’ so quiet.”

You clench around him more forcefully — he knows he’s heading in the right direction and curls his fingers into you, pressing that same delicious spot he found so easily the night before.

“That feel good? Know my fingers are so much bigger than your own. Bet it’s not as nice as my cock, though, huh? Had you completely stretched out, took me so well.”

Your chest is heaving as you hold yourself back, thighs trembling and he knows you’re impossibly close.

“You’ve been so good for me, ‘m gonna fill you up again tonight — I’m gonna fuck ya nice ‘n hard, just like I promised. You can be as loud as you want, wanna hear all the pretty noises you can make.”

That does it. Nails digging into his skin, you cross your knees and squeeze your thighs tightly, face screwed up as you come around him and soak your bottoms. He keeps whispering praises to you, pulling his sticky fingers from you when you still and lean your weight against him. Wrapping his arms around you, he holds you upright until you’re ready to stand by yourself.

When he notices you’re sound of mind again, he turns you in his arms, hands resting on your waist.

“How ‘bout that swim you wanted?”

You huff through your nose, a small smile on your face as you throw your head forward, knocking into his chest. He bends his knees as he tightens his grip on you, lifting you up and practically throwing you over his shoulder. You shriek with laughter, your fists landing in playful punches on his back and feet kicking in the air as he marches towards the water.

Placing you down on your feet again, he doesn’t give you time to scold him and seals his mouth to yours, one hand pulling you into him by the small of your back, the other cradling your cheek. For the first time, he notices how the softness of your skin elsewhere carries over into your lips, and you hang your arms over his shoulders, fingers threading gently through his curls. Considering all the time he’s spent with you has been frankly pornographic, this kiss in contrast is surprisingly pure.

Pulling back from you, your eyes are warm as you stare up at him. Taking a hand in his, he laces your fingers together and starts walking, pulling you into the gentle waves.

-

After your… escapades on the beach, you and Joel spent the afternoon winding your way through town — perusing all the tucked-away shops filled with antiques and random nick-nacks, stopping for ice cream, Joel taking your photo for you to send to friends. You insisted on taking one of him too, promising you’d be the only one to see it.

He’s been casually handsy since you left the beach — crossing the street hand in hand, guiding you by the small of your back, that same hand drifting down to rest on your backside.

A few repulsed glances were shot in your direction whenever he had his hands on you for too long, and rather than back off, he only made it more obvious — pulling your body into his, his hands groping the nearest stretch of skin, a kiss lasting far too long to be publicly decent. With a constant smirk on his face, you reckon he was rather proud of himself for getting you flustered and pissing off the townsfolk even further.

It’s almost disconcerting how easy things are. You’re not used to feeling so laid back, not worrying about making a fool of yourself, not caring about the looks you’ve been getting. 

You’re making your way down a quiet side street when Joel’s phone rings from his pocket.

“Hello?”

He shifts his weight to one leg, a hand on his hip with his lax knee popping out to the side.

“Yeah, we’re just walking through town.” He looks at you, mischief in his eyes as the corner of his mouth lifts in a skew smile.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. We’ll see you soon.”

Joel says his goodbyes, dropping his phone back into his pocket. Taking his place by your side again, he drapes an arm around your shoulders as you resume your journey.

“So?” You look up at him, face framed beautifully by the late afternoon sun — skin glowing, curls tousled by the salty air, eyes crinkling at the corners as he turns to look down at you.

“Was your dad — he just wanted to know where we were.” His grin only spreads wider as you make your way down the street. “He told me I didn’t have to do all this, that you’re a big girl who doesn’t need to be taken care of. Said I should take some time for myself, relax a little.”

You realise then that, much to your annoyance, your dad does have a point — Joel hasn’t relaxed at all, he’s spent almost every hour together with you. Not to mention he’s barely seen your dad, the man who invited him to begin with.

“Oh… I mean, he is right. I’m sure you came here for a nice break, and you haven’t actually had a moment on your own.”

“Sweetheart, this is the most relaxed I’ve been in years, thanks to you.” He plants a kiss to the top of your head and you feel warm at his words.

“I just thought it’s funny what your old man said about you — that’s the one thing you do need, right baby? Just need someone to take care of ya.”

You’re scared to admit it, but Joel really has taken care of you — in more ways than one. You decide not to fret about what’ll happen after this weekend — you can still enjoy the rest of your time here and whatever Joel has in store for after dark.

-

Upon arriving home, your dad had asked what you and Joel got up to — Joel stayed tight-lipped and you managed to keep your voice level as you recounted the day’s happenings, minus the obscenities. Your dad mentioned that he and your mom had also gone into town, curious that they didn’t bump into you — you’d brushed it off as just missing each other, and thank God for that.

With all the concerned looks you’d received throughout the afternoon, it never crossed your mind that they could’ve come from your own parents, too. You’ve had two close calls now and your luck is bound to run out at some point. You cringe at the thought of your dad finding out about this whole situation — his best friend sleeping with his daughter, his daughter sleeping with his best friend. You’re not sure which version would horrify him more.

You gave him a tight smile in an attempt to cut the conversation short, walking off to your room to avoid further interrogation.

You’d been looking forward to dinner though, but when Joel approached the table, he sat down across from you, leaving your mom to take up the chair next to you. You’d twitched your eyebrows in questioning, but all he gave you was a slight nod of his head.

You thought back to last night — with Joel sitting beside you, you’d tested him and in return, he fucked you better than anyone before. You were keen on trying to push him again, but the added obstacle of the extra distance tonight would’ve made it far more risky.

Throughout dinner he made sure your parents' glasses were never empty, sending you a wink and a slanted smile with each pour as they became more and more carefree, his free hand caressing your back every time he rounded the table.

You’re not usually one to back down from a challenge, especially now that Joel is involved, but you suspected you wouldn’t need to tease him anymore to get what you wanted.

With dinner over and your parents having blissfully stumbled to their room, you now find yourself pinned against the countertop with Joel mouthing kisses along your neck. You’d told your parents you would handle the dishes, but you doubt you’ll even get a start on that.

“Y’know, I’m surprised you didn’t try anything funny under the table tonight.” Joel’s hands roam all over you as he nuzzles up against your jaw.

“I thought about it, but someone made it rather difficult.”

“Yeah well, you were enough of a brat last night, ‘bout time you started behaving.”

“Seemed to me you rather liked it.”

You’re smiling to yourself when you feel his hand smack down on your ass and you yelp, your dress barely doing anything to soften the blow.

“Seems to me that you quite like bein’ punished. Now, I do enjoy puttin’ you in your place, but it’s nice when you’re a good girl and I can reward you instead. You’re all dressed up too, you put on this pretty dress for me?”

Gripping the counter’s edge, you drop your head as he lifts your dress around your waist and holds it against your back. He pushes himself into you until you’re flush with the cool granite top, held down underneath him. He smacks down again and you’ve already soaked through your panties.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, you should know this by now. Been good all night, don’t start actin’ up now.”

“Yes…” You’re met with silence, Joel unmoving on top of you — that wasn’t a good enough response. “I wore it for you.”

“Looks real nice, pretty dress for my pretty girl.” 

He lifts his chest off of you, pressing a hand between your shoulder blades as he stands. Trailing his hands down your back, he tightens his grip when reaching your hips again, grinding himself into your core. A small gasp falls from your lips and he chuckles as you try pressing your legs together.

He hooks a finger under the gusset of your panties and pulls them to one side, tracing over the lips of your pussy as gently as possible, kneading your ass to spread you open — that and the cool, late-night air coats his finger in a fresh wave of arousal.

“All weepin’ and I’ve barely touched her.”

You’re whining at his words, on the verge of begging him to do something, anything to relieve you. He pulls your panties off completely, dropping them to your ankles and he pulls loose the tie of his shorts.

“Joel?” You prop yourself up on your elbows, turning your head to look at him.

“Hey, what’s wrong? You alright?” He rests a hand on you, thumb drawing soft circles into the swell of your ass, concern in his eyes.

“Are we not, uh… not going to bed?”

His eyes turn almost black as all traces of worry fly out the window, lips parted as he ticks his jaw to the side.

“Had no problem with me finger fuckin’ you on the beach, but now you wanna hide away again? What, you scared your old man’s gonna open his door and see his little girl gettin’ railed within an inch of her life? And by his own best friend, of all people.”

That really shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, even more arousal seeping out of you and trickling down the inside of your thighs. Joel lays his fingers flat and wipes his hand up through you before slapping you hard and leaving a burning, sticky handprint on your ass — you buck your hips back into him, letting out a strangled moan.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

His shorts rustle as he shifts them down his thighs, and he swipes his hand up your cunt a second time, spreading his fingers and coating them in slick. You can hear how he takes hold of his length, the room filled with your heavy breathing and the lewd sounds of Joel stroking himself with his sticky hand.

He just slips into you and grabs you by the upper arms to pull you up into his chest, your back arching. He grunts as he thrusts up into you and bottoms out in one swift motion, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as you cry out, Joel taking up all empty space inside of you, your clit aching from lack of attention.

“You remember what I told you? Wanna hear what pretty noises you can make.” Joel pries your hand away, keeping it in his own as he takes hold of your hip, his other hand moving to your shoulder. “And before you argue, your parents ain’t wakin’ up any time soon baby — you saw ‘em heading off.”

He pulls out to his tip devastatingly slowly and knocks back into you, repeating the same rhythm over and over — you can feel every ridge, vein, and inch of him. Your eyes are pinched shut and your brow knitted, a choked moan sounding out from the back of your throat with each movement.

“Still just as tight as last night, even after bein’ stretched so wide.”

“Mmh, Joel…”

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles into you, lips pressed into your skin.

“Please touch me, please Joel, wanna come.”

“Greedy, are we? Pussy’s stuffed full and she still wants more.” Taking half a step back, he pulls you away from the counter’s edge and removes his hand from your shoulder. “Askin’ so nicely though, really are bein’ such a good girl for me.”

He feels down between your legs and parts his fingers around where he splits you open, wetting them in your creamy slick that coats his cock before reaching around to your front and pressing them into your clit. Your hips jerk as he starts swirling his fingers, still withdrawing slowly and thrusting into you hard — you’re so worked up and sensitive that you’re coming already.

“Ohh, fuck, Joel!” you shout out, clamping down on him, your legs shaking as you struggle to keep yourself standing.

“Good girl, come on now, let it out.” He keeps the same pace in both hand and hips as he works you through it. You whine, face contorted and body writhing in pleasure.

Joe eventually stills inside you as you come down from your high, wrapping his arms around you to hold you against him. 

“You ever felt so good, sweetheart?”

“No.” You shake your head haphazardly, still breathless, but you want to see if you can drive him as crazy as he does you. “Never had a cock as big as yours, Joel. Never been so full.”

You feel him twitch inside of you and you break out into a wide grin.

Hand taking ahold of your shoulder once again and readjusting his grip on your hip, he starts slamming his hips into yours, the force of his movements jolting you forward as unabashed moans start falling from your mouth again.

“Never knew you had such a dirty mouth, baby. Definitely ruined this cunt for anyone else, nobody’s gonna make her come like I can. Stretched her so well that anyone else just ain’t gonna do the job.”

Last night was supposedly a punishment, Joel setting you straight after you’d teased him, but this? This feels like you’re being used, having Joel just take what he wants and God do you love it.

“Please come inside me, Joel — wanna be full of your come, want it dripping out of me while I fall asleep.”

It seems like your words work just as well as Joel’s — he pistons into you a handful of times before he erupts, groaning as he empties himself inside of you. He withdraws slightly just to push back in again, working himself even deeper into you, head falling to rest on your back as he folds on top of you.

His hands rub all over your body as he catches his breath, lazy kisses being dotted all over your back and neck. Pulling out of you, Joel grunts and you whimper at the feeling, he crouches down to pull your panties up off the floor, now ruined even further as you feel him start to leak out of you and soak into the already wet cotton.

He turns you to face him, hands cradling your head as he leans to kiss you, the same kind of kiss as earlier on the beach — not driven by lust or need but something real.

“Come on, now let’s go to bed.”

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[bunnyrafe]

𓊆ྀིrafe gets high before you two have very important plans𓊇ྀི

content / warnings -> 18+, MDNI. 600 f/kook!reader, high/mean!rafe, drug use, addiction, toxic relationship, light violence, angst (hurt & comfort).

Truthfully— you’ve never been this angry at him before.

You believe you both reached a new low the second he walked through your bedroom door with shaky hands and blown out pupils, a mere hour and a half before dinner with your parents. Immediately you pout, the light in your eyes dissipates, and then the rage takes over. You stand up from your vanity, finding yourself pointing and screaming before you can blink. You don’t allow him a chance to begin running his mouth or start spewing bullshit excuses you’ve heard one too many times already.

“You promised me you’d be sober, Rafe!”

He doesn’t seem to be bothered by your smaller hands smacking his own away or the tears collecting at your painted lashes. Rafe only cares about himself when he’s high. So he grabs up your waist, attempting to press kisses to your freshly blushed cheeks to calm you down—

“Princess...”

“Fuck off,” you sniffle between the words.

At that, Rafe’s eyes narrow. Fury pools in his irises, forcing a shiver down your spine and fear induced heat to prickle at the back of your neck. Your glossy lips part, staring up at him while he closes in on you. His handsome but contorted features a mere inch away from your own— you can smell it on him— a mixture of chemicals and weed smoke, some bourbon disguised by mint gum on his breath as the cherry on top. His teeth clench as he speaks, “You need to watch that fucking mouth of yours, do you understand?”

“Let go of me,” you squeal. Only for Rafe’s arms to tighten around you, practically swinging you back and forth as you try to escape him.

“I said— fuckin’ stop,” Rafe growls, trying his best to hold you right against his brick wall of a chest. Your squirming and fighting dies down just enough for him to keep you planted there while he continues on, a large hand gripping your jaw and giving your pretty head a little shake that makes a whimper crawl up your throat, “I asked if you understand. ‘Cause if my girl thinks she can keep runnin’ her mouth like that, we’re gonna— gonna have a big problem.”

It hits you then. A wave of shame and regret when you realize how stupid it was of you to ever question him. Let alone defy him… to start something you could never finish with the way you’re wrapped around his finger. You’re full blown sobbing now, sniveling and shaking, “But you promised me…”

Maybe there are a lot of bad bones in Rafe’s body. God knows that's true. But if there’s one complete and utter soft spot he has in this world, it’s you. Watching you so upset, even when it’s brought on by him, makes him nervous. Makes him weak at the knees and nauseous. He’s quick to shush you, whispering out sweet names and squeezing you in his hold while you hiccup pathetic noises.

“Oh, princess.” He breathes out. He’s guiding you to your bed, and you’re now pliant enough to let him lay you down. His fingers mess with the strings on your silk robe. They tug until the garment comes loose, barely covering your trembling body from him so he can nuzzle his face into the soft, perfumed skin of your chest.

“I’m sorry, okay? I-I’ll get ready right now— show your parents that their little girl has the best man, alright?”

You nod once. When you look at him with those tear filled eyes, he feels a dagger through his heart. Your lashes flutter and it slows down the drumming in his chest brought on by the drugs, knocks the breath right out his lungs. It’s enough to have him suddenly acting right…

©BUNNYRAFE 2024

[gibberishfangirl]

WINDBREAKER | sloppy toppy

Synopsis ✰ when they get head…

Characters ✰ Haruka Sakura, Hajime Umemiya, Hayato Suo, Akihiko Nirei, Toma Hiragi, Mitsuki Kiryu, Jo Togame, Choji Tomiyama

Contains ✰ oral (m!receiving), messy head, head pushers, face fucking, hair pulling, choking/gagging, degradation, praise, Hiragi smokes in this, cigarettes, recording, video footage, masturbation, mean!characters, nice!characters, ume being huge, toga is also huge sorry not sorry, mix of the boys being submissive/dominant, some characters are experienced, experienced!reader, 18+ / nsfw!

Sakura ᡣ𐭩 couldn’t help himself. his face turning the brightest shade of red imaginable as he looked down to your lewd expression. you were drooling all over him, he felt the liquid of your spit trickling down his thigh. he swallowed hard trying to maintain eye contact with your teary eyes. god, he should be ashamed for himself for taking advantage of your throat in such an indecent manner. he should feel even worse for the strong grip he has on your hair. however, all that doubt was lost once he felt the vibration of your moans and whimpers around the base of his cock. it was easy for him to throw his head back in a moan as he started to push his cock deeper down your throat. any amount of shame that should’ve entered his mind evaporated as the pleasure he felt of his tip hitting the back of your throat took over. he was always so eager to have your throat please him in a way he’s never been pleased before. “so so so good. fuck~” his voice would give out on him as he’d start to whimper and chant a series of cuss words. what made matters worse is how he’ll fuck his fist later that same exact night to the memory of you choking and gagging around him. Sakura became a sinner the day he finally felt what it was like to receive head and he could never get enough. not that you minded, it was flattering to see how your boyfriend blushed and moaned each time as if it was the very first time all over again.

Umemiya ᡣ𐭩 was always patient with you. he knew he was big, bigger than what you might’ve been used to. he always caressed the side of your cheek while fixing your hair. his rough hands tucking a strand or two behind your ear so he can get a better look of your cute face. “so pretty for me~ you take cock so good don’t you?” he’d coo at you with soft words. praising you for relaxing your throat around his girth so well. “you ready baby? ready to take my cock? be good for me.” he’d ask you before getting up from his seat rising at his full height. you stayed on your knees humming a small “mhmm” in response. he looked so handsome standing in front of you, it felt like he wasn’t even real. the way he stood tall and prideful as his muscles tensed and silver hair rested perfectly on his head. his hands tangled themselves into your hair in order to makeshift a ponytail. you looked so beautiful underneath him like this. “tap my thigh if it’s too much for you pretty.” Despite being with other men in the past, none of them ever managed to fuck your throat as good as Umemiya did. hell, they didn’t even come close to half a man Ume was. the way he took control of you and dominated you through every step as he harshly thrusted his hips into your mouth. Ume was everything you could wish for in a man. Especially with the way he rewarded you after taking his cock so well. the way he’d shower you in kisses and interlock your lips after he pulls you off his cock. setting you down gently on the soft sofa ready to return the favor.

The most gentle being on earth, Suo ᡣ𐭩. he’d hate to get too selfish with you while you were on your knees doing your absolute best to please him. he was in awe that someone as perfect as you was willing to get to filthy for him. he’d let out the softest moans as he swing his head back. this is the time where he felt the most relaxed, having you in between his legs bobbing your head up and down his shaft was like heaven to him. the closest thing to heaven he’ll ever feel that is. he lived in complete bliss with how talented you were with your tongue. letting your delicate tongue swirl itself around his tip and then up and down his length before taking his whole once again. “fuck~ do that again please. you’re so good at this. almost like you were made for it huh? made to take me?” he’d tease at you with a small smile. you’d have to try to hold back a smile as you hummed in response. being made for only Suo was the biggest compliment you think anyone could give you. “such a perfect girl for me. all mine.” he’d whisper before pulling you off his length. leaning down to give you a kiss “mhm all yours Suo, i promise.” reassure him say once the kiss ends. before he could even respond you’ll find yourself making your way back to his cock already missing the presence of it inside your mouth. Luckily for you Suo wasn’t much of a head pusher, he’d relax and let you move at your pace while he grips the sheets with his hands. his moans and grunts as his legs began to tremble as he reaches his high keeps you going.

being mean was completely out of his comfort zone. actually… it was completely out of character for him. anyone who knows Nirei ᡣ𐭩 would be able to testify that the guy doesn’t have a single mean bone in his body. that’s also what you thought before you had the privilege to please his perfect pinkish colored tip from his cock. he never meant to get mean with you but he always lost himself in his feeling of ecstasy. it felt too good for him to hold back. he would be mean with the way he rutted his cock down your throat. giving you no room to breathe or relax as he set a brutal pace. not to mention the tight grip he’d have on your hair as he yanked you off his cock as soon as he felt himself getting too close too early. he’d hold you in place with a deadly strength you didn’t even know he had inside him. he’d pant and you’d sit there with a pout on your lips from being pulled off his cock. Nirei was so selfish in these moments he didn’t realize you didn’t want him to stop, you wanted him to keep going until he shot another load deep down your throat. Nirei would let out an exhale as he finally set his eyes on your pouty cute expression. he felt a blush creeping up to his cheeks as he noticed the amount of drool, spit, and cum you had smeared all around the sides of your mouth. your lips that also happened to be swollen into a deep shade of red from how harsh his pace was. “i’m sorry baby, i got too carried away huh?” he’d sheepishly apologize as you pulled him back closer to you once again by the belt loop from his pants. “it’s okay ni’ want more of you okay?” you’d look up at him with a smile that melted his heart. you’ll be the absolute death of him.

this is exactly what Hiragi ᡣ𐭩 needed after a long day dealing with the crew. you knew how stressed the poor guy got after having to deal with absolute chaos for most of his day. not to mention all the reports he had to give Ume about everything that went wrong. he felt his body finally get a chance to settle and relax into the comfort of his soft bed sheets. “fuck~ just like that.” he’d groan gripping the side of his sheets with one hand as the other reached over to grab his pack of cigarettes. funny, you used to hate the smell of cigarettes before you met him. never thought you’d be the kind of person to be in between a man’s leg as he took a drag on his cigarette but here you are. your eyes flicked with innocence and memorization as you glanced up and saw him light the cig in between his fingers. was it bad to say you found it attractive how quick he was able to open up a pack and take out a single cig with only one hand? you bobbed your head up and down quickening your pace making your boyfriend hiss at the new feeling. his rested his hand gently on the back of your neck soaking in the wetness and pleasure your mouth had to offer him. “nghn- what’d i do to deserve you?” he’d grunt in pleasure before pulling you off of him. your lips glistening in a mix of his precum and your saliva, he leaned down to deliver a soft kiss onto your lips. you leaned into him deepening the kiss as your hand traveled from his thigh to his shaft. pumping him soft and slowly as he moaned against your lips. the bitter taste of nicotine from his tongue poisoned your mouth in the most addictive way possible. if anyone asked Toma what was his favorite way to relax he’d most likely respond with sleeping but in reality it was this.

Kiryu ᡣ𐭩 was incredibly experienced, more experienced than you were. he was a ladies man he couldn’t help himself but to indulge in indecent acts before meeting you. he’d always reassure you that you’re the best he’s ever had. it wasn’t a lie either, his perfect soft moans that sound like they came from a movie were all yours to hear. he was perfect, the way he had the right amount of girth while standing at a good 7 inches when completely erect. in his eyes you were also perfect with the way your glossy pink lips would smear the substance around the base of his cock, marking how deep you can take him. he can’t even keep count of the amount of times he’s found himself shoving a hand down his pants as he watched the video of you sucking him off on his phone. the wet lewd sounds that could be heard in his headphones whenever you moved your head up and down. he perfectly captured the moment you gagged around him as he held your pretty little head in place. he picked up the pace on fucking his fist with hie cock tryna match his climax to be on time with the version of him in the video. wishing he could relive that exact moment right now, but of course you were too busy studying for your final exam. “oh shit~ agh fuck.” he’d let out small pants trying to catch his breath as he made a mess of himself all over his hand. he’d take a pic of the mess and send it to you with a message ‘hope my hand gets replaced by your pretty mouth soon’.

“fuck, such a good slut hm? take me in so well, look at you. couldn’t even wrap your whole hand around it yet you’re taking it so easy down your throat.” Togame ᡣ𐭩 would tease at you not letting you respond as he shoved himself deeper down your throat. he felt his cock throb in response to your gag and tears streaming down your face. such a humiliating position your lover would put you in as he waved a camera in your face. “wanna show everyone what a good slut you are? bet you’re wet right now too huh.” your mascara and make up got ruined long ago when he first climaxed in your slutty mouth. you’d figure toga would be tired of overstimulating himself but no he loved wearing you down more than anything. he loved pushing your buttons and testing your limits as he edged himself again and again with your throat. he’d take himself out of your mouth just to slap your tongue with his length before rubbing the tip of his cock around your lips. “such a pretty face, getting all ruined for me.” “mhm” all you could do was agree wanting him to continue his actions already missing the bitter taste of him in your mouth. “relax, don’t be so desperate. we’re just getting started.” he’d scold you and grab you by your hair when you tried taking him back in without permission. “c’mon open your mouth f’me” he’d command giving the camera a full view of your cute face as you stuck out your tongue to reveal the mess Toga made. “ugh, so good for me angel”

“agh~ shit shit shit shit, so good. oh god, pleaseplease, holy shit. fuckksaghm.” the poor boy couldn’t help but spew gibberish as he felt his legs buckle and tremble under him. felt so so good. his eyes were clinched as he swung his head back lost in complete bliss as your tongue slid up his shaft and licked across the slit of his tip. “Choji ᡣ𐭩 ~ ya gotta look at me baby. it’s no fun if i can’t see your face.” you teased. Choji built up the courage to look down and face your eyes. you gave him a soft smile before popping his tip back into your mouth maintaining eye contact as you started to deep throat him. Choj swallowed hard, already struggling to keep looking at you commit such a lewd act. he couldn’t help but wonder what others would say if they knew how quick he was to melt under your touch. the panting whimpering mess he becomes with a blush that trails from his cheeks to the very tips of his ears. he was supposed to be a big bad leader yet here he was, being so weak for you. he snapped out his trance when you began to massage his balls with your free hand. his eyes shut themselves again as he let out a sharp gasp “ah- fuckk. so good. too good.” his hands would instinctively slam themselves against his eyes as he covered his very heated expression. you had to fight back a smile from his cute reactions. such a sweet sensitive guy. feeling his hips buckle against your other hand as you held him down was always a sweet treat. knowing how you were the one holding your lover back.

[honeekyuu]

mine. [suna rintarou x f!reader]

>>You catch Miya Atsumu's attention, and Suna struggles to deal with that.

or

Everyone always makes assumptions about your relationship with Suna Rintarou, and he has no problem proving them right.<<

______________________________

tags: chubby!reader, smut, fluff, angst, childhood best friends to lovers, penetrative sex, fingering, rough sex, tattoo shop owner suna rintarou, miya atsumu is a bit of a menace, jealousy, unprotected sex, creampie, hand job

a/n: suna rintarou x chubby!reader is my favorite flavor of cake

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

------------------

“What are you doing here?” Suna stands over the wheely chair at the receptionist’s desk, glaring down at the top of Miya Atsumu’s head. The twin only turns to look up at him, smiling brightly.

“I got bored.”

“Go be bored somewhere else.”

“Aw, come on, Suna-” Suna grabs the back of chair and drags it to the side, effectively shoving Atsumu out of his way so he can look through his appointments on the computer. He’s got a regular coming in at 3, so – he glances at the clock hanging over the window in the waiting area – he’s free for the next couple hours.

“-out here today. Just today?”

“You’re still talking?” Suna pokes around in the calendar, seeing that he’s fully booked for the weekend. Thank God his secretary had asked for today off and not tomorrow.

“Your secretary’s not even here today! I can play the part!” “If I needed someone to play the part, I wouldn’t have given her the day off.” He mumbles it under his breath, feeling Atsumu’s gaze burning into the side of his head. He knows the man won’t leave. Never once in the time they’ve known each other has he listened to anyone but himself.

He turns and leans against the desk, sighing as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed-“ He waves a hand out toward the empty shop. “-there’s no one here. My entire staff is at the beach, which means that if I didn’t need them -“ He tries to reach for Atsumu so he can push the man out of that stupid chair he’s currently spinning circles in. The blond just wheels out of reach. “-then I don’t need you-Can you just go ?!” 

The bell above the door jingles, interrupting Rintarou’s temptation to swing a fist into his friend’s face. He turns to find a young man nervously perusing the art on the walls. He stands to full height and combs a hand through his hair, remembering that he’s still a business owner.

“Hey, how’s it-”

“Welcome in, welcome in!” Suna’s shoved out of the way by a pair of excited hands, Atsumu decidedly his obnoxious secretary for the day. “This your first time?”

The man jumps, turning and offering an anxious smile. “Y-Yeah. I was wondering if you take walk-ins…?”

Suna nods, reaching into the desk for an intake packet. “For sure. I’m free until 3, if you don’t mind just filling out this-” He sighs in annoyance, because Atsumu’s ripping the papers from his hand and presenting them to the man with a flourish.

“If you could just fill out this quick form, kind sir-” 

The man takes the packet, a bit startled, and moves toward the waiting area for a seat. He pauses briefly, peering at Atsumu’s face.

“Hey, aren’t you that famous volleyball player…?”

Atsumu beams at the man, but Suna’s pressing an irritated hand to his shoulder and gripping tight. The twin barely winces.

“Yes, he is . Which is why he’s leaving . Because he already has a job .” Every emphasis comes with a harsh squeeze of Suna’s fingers into Atsumu’s shoulder bones.

“How could I leave you without a receptionist, Suna? In your time of need? Never!” Atsumu brushes him off and takes a seat, plopping down into the chair with a satisfied smile. Suna just stares at him, wondering if it’s too much to just call the cops and pretend they don’t know each other.

Instead, he just sighs, meeting the customer’s eyes and gesturing back to one of the many curtained-off sections of the shop.

“I’m gonna go set up - you can just come find me when you’re ready.” 

The man nods meekly as Suna moves to set up at his station. He’s joined a few minutes later, and within the hour, this shy man officially has his first tattoo. It’s some simple line art on his wrist, but he’s staring at it in wonder as if it were Suna’s life work.

“Dude… Thank you so much.”

Suna just chuckles.

“You’re good, man. Come back when you’re ready for a sleeve, yeah?” He flexes his own decorated arm at the man to emphasize the quip, and the guy just laughs, still peering down at his tiny tattoo.

The bell above the door jingles again, and he checks his watch with a subdued sigh. He’d been looking forward to a quiet afternoon.

“ Well, hello, Miss! Welcome in! Is this your first time? ”

Suna rolls his eyes as he starts wrapping up his customer’s wrist, because he can recognize that sleazy tone in Atsumu’s voice from a mile away. He’d had it since high school.

The last thing he needs is that idiot driving away potential customers with his gross attitude.

“ O-Oh, no, it’s not- ” Suna freezes, tape clinging to his thumb instead of to the wrapping. “ -I just came to see Rin-er-Suna. Suna. ” 

God, this cannot be happening.

The silence that follows is full of curiosity on Atsumu’s end. Suna rushes to finish up, desperate to cut their interaction short.

“ Oh, you know Suna personally? Where from?”

“We grew up together!”

“What?! Since when? ” 

Why is it so god-damn hard to wrap a tattoo today? He’s been doing this shit for years.

The quiet laughter that rings out in his shop is enough to make him flinch. Oh, he bets Atsumu loves that laugh.

“We were neighbors until high school! Roommates now, actually-” “Roommates?!”

“Alright, you’re good. You can see my secretary up front for the bill.” Suna stands with unnecessary force, his head poking up from behind the curtain. 

When he turns to the front, he has to force himself not to sigh.

You’re standing in the waiting area, dangling a lunch box from one hand as you laugh brightly at Atsumu’s reaction. 

The summer dress you’re wearing is one of his favorites – the way it hugs your curves has made his mind wander more often than he’d care to admit. And when you spot him looking at you, the twinkle that fills your eye is one he doesn’t want to share with anyone.

Especially not Miya Atsumu .

“Rin!” You thrust the lunch box out in his direction, shaking it playfully at him. 

He leads his client up to the front, not bothering to respond aside from a nod of acknowledgement. 

“Atsumu-” He claps him hard on the shoulder, but the blond is just staring up at him, scandalized. “-will ring you up.” He smiles down menacingly. “Won’t you?”

Atsumu just nods dumbly and meets the customer’s eyes, still processing the information he’s just received.

“Yeah, sure.”

Suna uses the break in his attention to glance at you, catching your interested gaze. He nods over his shoulder, leading you to the back room. You skip to catch up with him, your dress swaying around your hips. Suna pretends not to see it, choosing instead to shoulder the door open with a sigh. 

“Don’t you work today?”

“Yeah, I’m on my break!” You smile up at him, dangling the lunch box in his face again. He takes it without a word, flopping down onto the leather couch and setting it on the coffee table. You sit beside him, kicking your sandals off and curling your knees into your chest as you lean against him. “You said you had a light day today, though.”

“I do. That was a walk-in.” He gestures out to the front in explanation, leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees as he unpacks the lunch. A trio of onigiri in one container and some cutely decorated hot dog bites in the other. 

He bites into an onigiri and hums.

“Spicy crab.”

You lean forward, eyes sparkly. “Does it taste okay? I tried something new today! Can you guess what it is?”

Suna just hums and takes another bite, knowing you’ll tell him anyway. You’d always had that hyperactive personality, that sweet girl persona. Growing up, he’d only ever needed to sit quietly in your presence. His friends had always been your friends, because he could never be bothered enough to make his own and you always had so many. He’d liked it better that way – he’d never needed anyone but you.

“Why didn’t you tell Miya that you work at his brother’s shop?”

“It’s spicy flakes! Can you taste them?” Only when he hums again, noncommittal to a fault, do you answer him. “Well, why haven’t you or Osamu told him yet?”

Because we know how he is.

Suna just shrugs, reaching for the second one. It’s filled with tuna.

You watch his reaction to the taste closely – the flavor isn’t anything abnormal, but you watch him as if tuna were suddenly a bold choice. You’d always liked watching him eat your cooking. It warms you to see him eat well.

Finally, you answer his question like an afterthought.

“I figured that if he didn’t already know from you two, then there was no reason to know. And he comes into the shop all the time, anyway, but he’s always ranting about volleyball so he never notices me in the kitchen.”

Suna snorts. Of course Atsumu hadn’t noticed you until it was convenient for him.

He reaches for a hot dog – it’s cut to resemble an octopus. He feels like he’s in high school, eating a bento made by a girlfriend.

He shoves that thought to the back of his head, popping the thing in his mouth and chewing with interest. It’s good, just like everything you make.

“Why didn’t you tell him you knew who he was?” He takes another. Did you cook them in something sweet? This is new. “He is famous.”

“You always complained in high school that he had a big head.” You smile when he smirks at your simple reasoning. “You like the honey soy glaze?”

So that’s what it is.

“‘s good.”

You beam at him, always excited for literally any response other than his grunt of general acknowledgement. Taking him in, you have to hide your grin behind a hand, because this 6’2”, heavily pierced and tattooed gloom of a man is eating a bento that looks like it was decorated by a teenage girl. 

The moment is thoroughly interrupted when the door to the room is thrown open.

“So this is where you two wandered off to!” 

Suna only realizes he’s sighed in irritation when you nudge him, a gentle reprimand. He glances back at you, finding that sweet expression you always put on around people you don’t know well.

Part of him hates that you’d bless Miya Atsumu with even your fakest smile.

Atsumu barges in, taking a seat on the stool by the counter. He smiles smoothly at you, his eyes lingering on where your exposed thighs press into Suna’s side. He can think of at least a dozen girls from high school who would have killed for that kind of proximity to Suna Rintarou. 

And looking at you? He has no clue how a girl like you – so innocent-looking and cute, just his type – could end up this close with such a dry, deadpan man. 

“So, Rin-” Atsumu’s eyes linger shamelessly on any amount of plush skin he can manage a glimpse of. You pretend not to notice, if only for Rintarou’s sake. He’s got his eyes locked on the bento, determined to ignore his friend, and you don’t want him to get any more upset than he already is. 

“Why have you never mentioned this lovely lady to me? I’ve only known you - what, ten years ?” The blond counts the years on his fingers just to be sure, meeting your eyes flirtily when you laugh generously at his obvious attempt to be funny.

Suna’s not sure why he’s suddenly wondering how good it would feel to kick Atsumu’s fat head right off his shoulders.

“Because she’s none of your business.”

He takes another bite of hot dog, as if he hadn’t just set up an implied boundary about whose business you really are. He’s staring down at the lunch, practically stabbing it with his chopsticks, so he doesn’t see the way Atsumu’s eyebrows lift surprise, the way you just smile knowingly like this moment is familiar.

The blond glances at your face, but you’re just smiling at the back of Suna’s head fondly.

Interesting.

He asks for your name, and when you give it, Atsumu’s repeating it back slowly, appreciatively.

Suna’s self-aware enough to stifle the sigh this time. This guy’s so full of shit sometimes.

“Well, Suna and I met in high school.” He tilts his head in your direction, waiting for you to meet his eyes. It comes far later than he’d have liked, your gaze lingering on the food that Suna’s eating. You watch for the man’s reaction to the onigiri he’s biting into, and when Suna nods with a hum, you’re beaming. 

And then you’re turning your attention to Atsumu’s comment.

“Oh, I know.” You settle back into the couch, throwing an arm onto the back of the cushion and leaning your head on your hand. “I’ve heard all about you , Mister Miya.”

Suna knows he’d only ever complained about Atsumu in high school, but the way you say it to the blond makes it feel like you’re flirting.

Was that an accident of your tone? Or did you do that on purpose?

He glances up through his lashes, finding that interested gleam in Atsumu’s eye as he lifts his eyebrows.

“Oh? Only good things, I hope.”

“I bet you do.”

Okay, that one was definitely on purpose. Suna has to restrain himself from glancing back at the look on your face - he’s a little afraid of what he’ll find.

“We were on the same volleyball team, you know.”

“I know that, too. I caught a couple of your games, when I could make the trip.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows lift impossibly higher, and he’s leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees.

You note that he doesn’t look as good as Rintarou when he does it.

“Oh, really? Then maybe - if you’re interested in volleyball - you might know that I went pro?”

Suna spears right through the last hot dog with one of his chopsticks. He’d heard Atsumu use that line on so many girls before you. Fuck the fact that it never fails – he’s irritated that Atsumu would even dare to use it on you in the first place.

A recycled pickup line. What does he take you for?

He waits for you to humor him, at the very least. Of course you know he went pro. You work in his brother’s onigiri shop. Osamu had gotten a TV installed for the sole purpose of airing Atsumu’s games live.

“Oh, did you? Sorry, I don’t really follow it anymore. Not since Rin stopped playing in college.”

It takes every single ounce of Suna’s strength to keep his smile down. He’s never seen such a clean shutdown in his life.

Apparently, neither has Atsumu. The man looks stunned, like he doesn’t know how to respond. Suna takes the opportunity to pack up his empty bento, laying the chopsticks flat on the lid. He falls back into the couch with a satisfied sigh, unknowingly nestling his head into the space where you’re leaning.

You drop your arm around his shoulders with a smile. He turns to look at you, not realizing how close he is until it’s too late. His eyes widen just a fraction, and he’s turning away quickly to stare down at his lap, but you can see the color filling his cheeks.

“Was lunch good?”

Suna just hums, adding a shallow nod after the fact. He clenches his jaw when he hears Atsumu scoff across the room.

“Dude, she made you a whole feast and all you do is nod ?” The blond puffs his chest out, meeting your eyes again. You smile sweetly, excited to see what he’ll try next. “You should make me lunch next time, Y/n. I’ll treasure it, I promise.”

Your grin grows, and Atsumu looks proud of himself, but you’re only laughing because he’s had your cooking. More than once, in fact. But he’d always been too caught up in himself to notice.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you always bring Suna his lunch?” 

You shake your head, leaning away from Rintarou briefly to reach for something in your bag. “No, it was just a quiet day at work. I guess everyone is enjoying the weather.”

You pull out a container full of cut watermelon and a fork, passing it to Rin as Atsumu’s asking a follow-up question.

“Where do you work?”

You smile to yourself, taking the lid from Rin. “I’m in the restaurant business.”

Suna stares down into the container. You’d cut the watermelon into star shapes.

“What, did you get fucking trigger happy with a new fruit cutter or something?”

You just shake your head curiously.

“No, I did it by hand. Why?”

Suna rolls his eyes with a smile as he takes a bite. Of course you did.

Atsumu clears his throat for your attention.

“Which restaurant? Maybe I’ll stop by during your next shift to say hi.”

Suna narrows his gaze at the man.

“What exactly do you think she does?”

Atsumu meets his glare, eyes wide.

“She said she was a waitress.”

You smile brightly at his response. Suna only scowls.

“Did she?”

In the blond’s defense, he does look to you right away, realizing he’s misunderstood.

“Oh, sorry - Did I…” He trails off when you laugh and shake your head.

“It’s fine. I spend most of my time in the kitchen, though, so I probably wouldn’t have time to say hi if you stopped by.”

Atsumu lifts his brows, clearly impressed. “Oh, shit, you cook? That’s pretty cool - my brother owns an onigiri shop, actually. You guys might get along!”

Suna purses his lips to hide his grin, shaking his head and stabbing at another piece of watermelon when you giggle and mumble ‘ Oh, really? ’ in response.

And then the door jingles out front, and Suna’s glancing at Atsumu. The blond makes no move to get up.

“You know, usually my secretary is the one to greet the clients.”

Atsumu barely spares him a glance, too focused on smiling at you.

“Yeah, well, your secretary also gets paid, so…”

Suna glares – he would rather choke than leave you alone in here with him.

You recognize the look in his eye, your smile full of affection.

“I should probably get back to work, anyway. My break ends in…” You check your watch. “Oh. Ten minutes ago.” You laugh loudly, rushing to pack up and slip your sandals on. Rintarou stands, propping the door open and poking his head out to wave at his 3 o’clock.

“Hey, sorry – I was just eating lunch.” You slip past him, all but jogging to the front. Atsumu’s not far behind, offering to walk you back to work. You brush him off quickly, glancing back at Suna as you hoist your bag over your shoulder.

“Pick me up after work, Rin? I want to go grocery shopping.”

Suna just nods, leading his client back to his station and waving at you. He catches Atsumu following you out briefly, and he hears something about asking for your number, but he just sits at his stool and shakes his head with a heated sigh. His client settles into the chair and slips off his shirt, revealing their current work in progress.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

Atsumu barges back into the shop a moment later, and Suna hears the blond flop down into the chair at the front desk and call back to him excitedly.

“ Dude, where have you been keeping a girl like that all these years?!”

Suna shakes his head again, trying to clear his mind so he can work. The response he mumbles to the client is bitter, even to his own ears.

“I don’t.”

–

“You’re quieter than usual.” You pick up another onion, examining it before setting it in the basket Rintarou’s holding.

“Funny.” He says nothing else, watching you glance down at the list in your hand before following you across the produce section to an area full of herbs like a dedicated boyfriend. There are two women not too far away, and when they spot the two of you – you in your pretty sundress with your bright smile, and him in all black with ink covering every inch of his arms and hands – they immediately start to whisper to each other, not even bothering to hide their glances.

You just pick up a bundle of cilantro, sniffing at it and humming in disapproval. You replace it and reach for another, the voices of the two women drifting through the otherwise empty area.

“ -had a man like that, I’d never let him out of the house-”

“Oh, my God, stop it! That’s so awful-”

“I can’t help it! Look at him, he’s perfect!”

You snort into the new bundle, barely hiding your smile as you reach for a bag to wrap it in. When you place it in the basket, you find Rintarou glaring at a display of parsley like he’s trying very hard not to listen, the tips of his ears red. You grin widely, shaking your head as you move down just a bit to reach the basil.

A bunch near the back of the display catches your eye, and you’re leaning forward to grab it. It’s just a bit too far out of reach, the tips of your fingers barely brushing on it. You’re about to ask for Rin’s help when the voices reach your ears again.

“- not sure what he’s doing with a girl like that, though…”

“Yeah… I mean, she’s pretty-”

“I don’t know, I just feel like I would take care of myself a little bit more if I wanted to keep a guy that hot.”

You blink, the heat of humiliation familiar in your cheeks. You’re used to moments like these – you and Rin had always looked out of place together, always at odds with people’s expectations. And you’re no fool – you know what Rintarou looks like. How attractive he is.

If you’d been any younger – any less secure in yourself – you might have felt like crying when you heard that. Luckily, you’re not, but… it’s still not a fun experience.

“ -do we even know if they’re together? She’s probably not even his type. ”

“ Do you think they’re not? Maybe I should go over there and try talking to him.”

Their giggles feel a lot like the ones from high school, from elementary school. Girls who’ve decided you aren’t a threat to them because you look like this .

That’s fine. It’s not like they’re wrong. You and Rintarou aren’t together, so that woman can do whatever she wants-

There’s a clatter as a basket hits the floor, and a tattooed arm is reaching past your face before you can process that it was your basket. The cold metal of Rin’s lip ring against your ear contrasts with the heated sigh he breathes into your skin, and you feel the front of his jeans pressing into the curve of your ass.

Oh.

His other hand finds your waist, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your dress. Your skin starts to burn where his fingertips dig into your hip. 

Oh.  

Were his hands always that big?

You watch with unseeing eyes as he wraps his hand with ease around the bunch of basil you’d been struggling to reach, the difference in your height suddenly painfully clear.

“ They couldn’t have me even if they begged for it .” His voice presses into the shell of your ear, the sound ricocheting around your head. You can hear the irritation in his voice, but you can’t focus on anything except the fact that he’s never been this close before.

It’s devastatingly intoxicating.

He leans away after a breath, fingers dragging on your waist as he drops his hand, and you have to force yourself to remember that you need to stand up straight. Only when you spin around, watching Rintarou reach for the discarded basket as you press cold fingers to your flushed face, do you realize that the women are gone.

You crack a weak joke when he stands to full height, desperate for anything to break the sudden silence around you. Just so Rin doesn’t end up hearing how hard your heart is beating.

“Not even if they begged for it, huh?” You laugh, looking away from that piercing stare. “Can’t imagine what a girl like me would have to do, then.”

Well, that certainly hadn’t helped anything.

He just stares, eyes wide. You panic, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away again when you find nothing but his shock. When you look down at your list, trying to remember what you’d come here for, you see that the paper is crumpled in your fist – evidence of your nerves.

“Breadcrumbs. N-Need breadcrumbs.” You mumble to yourself and turn away, heading to another aisle. The brand you like is on the top shelf, so you just point to it, because you really don’t need a repeat of the Basil Situation in the middle of your recovery.

“Well-” Rintarou breaks the silence this time, letting you take the basket while he reaches up. “-you did have a professional volleyball player thirsting after you just this afternoon, so you could probably have whatever you wanted without begging for it.” He examines the label as if he cares at all what it says. “That is, of course-” He meets your eyes, setting the can of breadcrumbs in your hand.

“-unless that’s your thing.”

Your lips part in surprise as Rin stares down at you like he hadn’t just insinuated that you might be one to beg him for something.

“Uhm-” You don’t know why you started talking. You have nothing to say. There is nothing that could be said right now, when all you can do is look at him.

He’s kind enough not to revel in your stunned silence, a grin peeking out as he reaches out and plucks the list from your hand. He says nothing about the fact that it’s violently crumpled and a little warm from how hard you’d squeezed it.

“What’s next-” He breathes it out, as if he can’t feel the weight of your stare on his face. He hums when he finds it. “Chicken.” He meets your eyes again, gaze searching yours. You blink rapidly and look away, mumbling the word ‘ chicken ’ under your breath as you lead the way down the aisle.

You’d always known Suna Rintarou was different. You’d known from the moment you’d met, those eyes uncaring even as a child. You’d known when he’d decided silently that you were his new friend, that no one else could be your friend the way that he was. 

You’d known whenever the rare boy in junior high would try to flirt with you, because Suna Rintarou was the name they would whisper furiously to their friends after their failed attempts. Suna Rintarou was the boy in school they had to look out for, because he was always right beside you. He would never say anything, watching you politely interact while they’d flirt, but his empty stare was always enough.

It was enough that, even though he’d moved two hours away to an entirely different prefecture, his name had followed you to high school. Boys in high school were meaner – more judgmental of your appearance – so it never really mattered. But the girls would whisper about you, until your whole class knew the name of a student who didn’t even go there.

‘Claimed’. ‘Taken’. ‘His’.

Suna Rintarou’s girl.

You’d never minded. In fact, you’d secretly enjoyed it – being part of those rumors that blew up and spread until some boys wouldn’t even approach you for homework help. You’d thought it was funny. They were so scared of a person who was nowhere near them, of a relationship that didn’t exist.

It was only when you moved to Tokyo with him for college that you’d realized that maybe your classmates had been right.

Living together for the first time, you’d realized just how much of your life was taken up by him. Every morning, every break, every meal. Even if you weren’t physically together – the Nutritional Sciences Department was irritatingly far from the Art Department – those moments always involved him. A text during your quick lunch break with a friend. A call while he was heading to his next class. A walk home, because he’d waited outside your department until you were done with meetings for the day, sketching art into his skin with a ballpoint pen to keep from getting bored.

And even though the new friends you’d made knew he was nothing to be afraid of, there was nothing that could stop them from saying those words again. 

That you were Suna Rintarou’s girl.

And why wouldn’t they? The evidence against it wasn’t convincing in the slightest. Not when Suna was a wall to any girl who was interested in him, his attention wholly yours. Not when he hadn’t even bothered to look up from his YouTube video when you’d asked one night if he wouldn’t be interested in spending time with any of those girls. Not when his response was immediate and clear, like he’d never consider it.

‘ Why would I? I have you.’

That had been almost 5 years ago, and you hadn’t asked him something like that since. You’d just let yourself get used to the fact that it was obvious now–

The way his eyes search for you immediately in a crowded room.

The way he lets you fall asleep in his bed while he sketches out ideas for his clients on his iPad.

The way he’d stabbed the octopus-shaped hot dog bites in his bento like they’d personally offended him while Miya Atsumu was flirting with you.

You know now, probably more than even he does, that you’re his. You’ve accepted that fact with whatever it means, platonic or otherwise, because it had always been that way.

20 years, it had been that way.

So why – why the fuck – did he have to go and do something about it now , in the middle of a grocery store on a random Friday evening?

–

Suna hates that his heart skips whenever the bell above the shop door jingles. He hates that, for the last two days, he’s glanced over at the door every single time, hoping it was you.

He’d known you wouldn’t show. You usually don’t. But… something had changed between you two. Ever since the he’d handed you a can of fucking breadcrumbs and not-so-subtly hinted that you might be a girl who’s into begging.

He wants to hit himself over the head with the nearest blunt object.

He sighs, shaking his head, and pulls open the cabinets in the back room. The weekend had been hectic with appointments – it was enough to keep his thoughts occupied – but Mondays are notoriously slow, and now he’s stuck back here doing inventory and thinking about you.

The bell jingles outside again, but he’s got two artists and a piercer on shift today, so he can’t possibly be needed for anything outside of his appointments.

But then the door to the back room is slamming open, and the person he wants to see least in the world right now is barging through.

“ Why didn’t you tell me that Y/n works at Onigiri Miya?!”

Suna stares, unblinking.

“Who let you back here? They need to be fired.”

“Suna-” Atsumu tries to grab for him, but the man is quick to smack his hands away with the clipboard he’s holding. “-I need you to be honest with me.”

“What?” It comes out in a sigh, Suna counting stock on the first shelf of the cabinet he’s staring into.

“Are you hitting that?”

He loses count.

One breath, just enough to steady his growing agitation.

He starts counting again.

“Am I hitting what ?”

“ That .” Suna makes the mistake of glancing back at Atsumu – the man is gesturing in the space between them, making the shape of your ass and the curve of your breasts right in front of him. “I mean… Jesus, dude.”

Suna wonders if there are any more clipboards in the shop, because he’s thinking of smashing this one into Atsumu’s face.

“Care to be a little more respectful?”

Atsumu waves him off. Suna’s grip tightens on his clipboard. One little swing wouldn’t kill him.

“Are you fucking her or not?” When Suna’s lips part with surprise, his gaze finally showing a glimpse of emotion as he turns to tear into Atsumu, the twin cuts him short, oblivious. “Because if you’re not, can I have her?”

Suna’s free hand shoots out, fisting Atsumu’s shirt tightly and dragging the shorter man toward him.

“Miya, I swear to God- ”

“ Ah .” Atsumu smirks up at him. “You do like her. No wonder she didn’t give me her number that day.”

“What?” Suna furrows a brow. You hadn’t given him your number? “Where the hell did that come from?”

Atsumu just points down at the fist Suna has curled into his shirt, as if it were obvious.

“You like her.”

Suna shoves him away, watching with satisfaction when Atsumu’s back slams against the cabinets over on the opposite counter, the blond wincing slightly. Still, he finds himself being examined with knowing eyes.

He turns away, because he’s not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed by Miya Atsumu on a Monday afternoon.

“How do you do it, man?”

Suna just grunts in response and starts taking inventory again, waiting for Atsumu to elaborate. 

“How do you wake up every day in the same house as that and not lose your fucking mind-”

“Well, I start by having a shred of human fucking decency.” Suna almost tears the paper with how hard he’s writing. “Her body’s not the only thing worth looking at.”

There’s silence, and Suna glances over his shoulder again to find Atsumu just staring at him with deadpan eyes.

“No, really. How do you do it?”

Suna rolls his eyes and turns back to the cabinet, not wanting to admit that he has no fucking clue how he does it. But he has, on more than one occasion, had to rely on the self-control and discipline of a former athlete to keep him from snapping when you leave your room in the tight tank top and baby shorts you dare to call pajamas .

You’d been too self-conscious to wear revealing clothing in college – he’d had no idea how good he’d had it back then. Four years living with the girl who’d grown into a woman in the years of high school that you’d been apart. He’d managed to survive it, only to watch your self-esteem grow after graduation, and now he lives every day in his own personal hell.

He’s happy to see that the shy elementary schooler that used to cling to him had grown into this confident, successful woman – but fuck him, you really like to knock him on his ass when he’s least expecting it.

And when you’d laughed and asked him what a girl like you would have to do to get his attention, in the middle of a grocery store on a Friday evening? 

He’d almost dropped everything and dragged you home just to show you.

But he hadn’t, and you two had acted like nothing had happened when you’d gotten home. You’d put the groceries away, and he’d ordered takeout for your movie marathon, and then later – when he was sure you were asleep – he’d taken a shower, praying to whatever higher power that might exist that the running water would mask the way he’d choked out your name when he had come all over his hand to the thought of fucking you in that dress.

“You know, Suna-” Suna shakes his head to clear it, moving on to the second shelf. He organizes as he starts counting. “-you might want to actually make a move instead of just hovering over her.”

“Oh, yeah? What would you know?” He mumbles it, his jaw clenched in annoyance as he makes a few more notes on the inventory sheet. Atsumu’s response is smug.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know anything. But I would think that you’d want to do something about the fact that she technically isn’t yours at all.”

Suna stills, his gaze blank as he stares down at the clipboard. What is that supposed to mean?

“She’s still single, you know. But-” He hears Atsumu lift away from the counter and move toward the door. The blond opens it, sighing back at him. “-I don’t know. Maybe she won’t be for long.”

And then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him. 

Suna considers banning Atsumu from his shop entirely.

–

By the time Suna’s stepping through the door of Onigiri Miya, his mood has tanked significantly. He’d spent the rest of the work day in his office, ordering supplies and fighting off a headache with a third – and then a fourth – cup of coffee. And then he’d stared out the window, watching the sky darken and open up right in front of his eyes, the downpour sudden and entirely unmentioned by the weather app on his phone.

Still, he’d walked in the direction of the restaurant after closing up shop, his clothes soaked by the time he’s ducking into the air-conditioned restaurant. 

“Oh-” He looks up through his dripping bangs at the sound, finding Osamu at the swinging door to the kitchen. The twin disappears without another word, returning a moment later with a towel. He throws it carelessly over Suna’s head. “You’ll get sick.”

Suna hadn’t even realized he was shivering.

“Thanks.” He pats at his clothes and skin and then leaves the towel on his head, following Osamu over to a table. The restaurant’s basically empty, but he spots several takeout orders at the counter. At least they still have good business on a day like this.

“Want me to get Y/n to make you something?” Osamu pulls out his order notepad, clicking his pen with an obnoxious grin. Suna just breathes out a laugh, shaking his head and scrubbing the towel through his hair.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to distract her.”

“Well…” 

Suna meets his eyes. Osamu’s scratching at his neck awkwardly. “She’s already half-distracted, so…”

“What?” He stands, following Osamu to the swinging door. The twin pushes it open, revealing the kitchen on the other side. 

You’re standing at one of the stainless steel counters with your back to the door, rolling rice balls as you laugh at something Atsumu’s just said.

“-don’t think that’s a good idea at all-”

“You aren’t even slightly curious about the idea of dessert onigiri?!”

“Not enough to waste ingredients on it!” You shake your head fervently, setting another rice ball down on the tray next to you. Atsumu smiles flirtily, leaning forward onto the counter across from you.

“What if I buy them? Free ingredients for you to experiment with, how’s that? You can come over to my place, and we can-” His gaze cuts over your shoulder, finding Suna’s cold glare. Osamu hums sympathetically, mumbling low so only Suna can hear.

“Sorry… I tried to keep him from noticing her.”

Atsumu grins as if he can hear perfectly well what his twin is saying. Suna swallows, the words ‘ maybe she won’t be for long ’ echoing in his head.

“It’s fine. It’s none of my business.” He doesn’t see the way Osamu blinks at him in surprise, too busy keeping his gaze trained on Atsumu’s. 

You only now seem to notice the silence, your attention fully on the rice balls before. You hum in question and then turn over your shoulder when you see where Atsumu’s looking.

Atsumu doesn’t miss the fact that Suna only breaks eye contact for you.

“Rin!” Your eyes sparkle when you beam at him, and then you run to wash your hands. “Let’s go home! I thought up some new ideas for dinner – I want to try them out.”

Suna raises an eyebrow. Your shift doesn’t end for another half hour. 

Atsumu’s grin grows on his face.

“Oh, sorry, man. ‘Samu let her off early because of the rain, but I guess we just got caught up chatting.”

You shake your head to yourself as you dry your hands and move to store the prepped rice balls for tomorrow’s batch. You can hear Atsumu trying to get under Rintarou’s skin. 

He’d come in for lunch and only then realized that you actually work here, almost 3 years after you’d been hired. He’d disappeared after eating, and the smug look in his eye when he’d returned only 20 minutes later had told you that he’d certainly stopped by Suna’s shop to mess with him.

You’d already had a feeling, but that moment had solidified the fact that Miya Atsumu is not your type.

Still, you’d humored him all afternoon, dodging his obvious attempts to get a date out of you and paying more attention to Osamu when the owner would wander into the kitchen from the front, just so Atsumu doesn’t think he has a monopoly on your time.

And when you’d seen Rintarou at the door, wet hair falling into his eyes and cheeks flushed from the rain, you’d forgotten for just a moment that the twins were even in the room with you.

You rush to the back room after storing the rice balls, hurrying to put your apron away and grab your bag. The last few nights had been a bit strange, Suna’s walls coming up in the way they do only when he’s stressed. You hadn’t expected him to pick you up from work.

Maybe tonight would be different.

You hurry out to the kitchen, practically skipping up to him with a bright smile. He meets it with his usual deadpan.

“Stay here while I go down to the convenience store for an umbrella.”

You shake your head, latching onto his arm when he starts to turn away.

“Nope! We go together.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but you’re already bidding farewell to the twins.

“See you tomorrow, ‘Samu!” You offer Atsumu nothing more than a wave, keep the interaction minimal.

When you and Suna are gone, running past the window toward the convenience store, Osamu turns to his brother with arms crossed over his chest.

“What are you doing?”

Atsumu just smiles to himself knowingly. He really had been interested in you. But it’s obvious that it won’t go anywhere — you won’t even give him the time of day, but it seems like you’d give Suna Rintarou the world if he asked for it.

“Giving Suna the push he needs, apparently.”

–

“Do you like guys like that?”

You turn to look at Rintarou, but he’s not looking at you. You’re at the stove, mixing the last of the ingredients into the pasta dish you’d wanted to try, and he’s at the counter setting out some bowls and utensils.

Still, it doesn’t slip your notice that he’d kept his back to you when he had asked.

“Guys like what?” When he doesn’t respond, you realize what he’s referring to. You watch him with a growing smile, glancing back at the stove only to turn the burner off. “Guys like Miya Atsumu?”

His clenched jaw tells you everything. All you can do is snort, hiding your smile behind your hand. He turns to you now, incredulous that you would laugh at him.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing-” You keep laughing anyway. “I’m just wondering if you’re genuinely asking if I’m into another man.”

His eyelids flutter as he turns away, processing what you’ve just given him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Rin-” You sigh. “Why are you asking?”

He says nothing for a minute, just moving out of your way so you can scoop pasta into each of the bowls. “I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He’s always been so good at pretending he doesn’t care.

“Okay.” You smile innocently, setting the pot back on the stove and preparing to try your first bite. Waiting, because you’ve never been anything but entirely open with him, and you just know it’ll drive him crazy that you’re keeping him in the dark about-

“Why didn’t you give him your number?”

You laugh louder this time, blatantly in his face. He shoots you a glare.

“ What? ”

“Rin, are you trying to set me up with your best friend from high school?”

“I’m not-” He rolls his eyes. “That’s definitely not what I’m doing.”

“Then why are you asking?” You turn toward him, setting your fork back into the bowl. “What are you trying to figure out?”

“I just want to know if you like him. That’s it.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

He meets your eyes, confused.

“What? Obviously.”

“Why? It never mattered before.”

He blinks rapidly. “What…? When?”

You sigh, staring down at the counter. 

Does he really not get it? Has he really been this blind all these years?

“Why did you do… what you did? On Friday.”

He flushes immediately. “Because they were being rude.”

“You could have just told them off. Or glared at them. Or done anything but that -”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have done it?” He’s getting defensive, not used to having his actions questioned by you. Never by you.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just asking why you did it.”

“Because they were making assumptions about you, and they were definitely making assumptions about me.”

You search for his gaze, but he won’t give it to you. He just stares off to the side, down the hallway of your apartment.

“Right. Assumptions about my body, assumptions about your type.” He shakes his head, scoffing as if he’s filled with renewed irritation. “But we’ve been surrounded by assumptions our whole lives.” 

Now he meets your eyes, a brow furrowed. You lean back against the corner of the counter, breathing out a laugh. “You really never noticed? Not once?”

You feel yourself grow frustrated when he just stares, eyes blank. Had it really just been you all this time? Experiencing the consequences of being claimed by a man who didn’t even realize he had done it. A man who, you now think, had lived a life without ever once feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him.

A man who looks like that , who can have whoever he wants, and a girl who looks like you . A girl who might have had a chance to date or find love when everyone else was, if boys hadn’t gone out of their way to avoid you just so they wouldn’t upset him . 

You know, even just thinking about it now, that you wouldn’t have been interested in anyone else anyway. It just hurts to know that you’d gone about your life under the impression that you were his, when you now have no idea if he was yours this whole time, too.

Rintarou breathes your name, cautious. An unspoken question – why are you upset with him?

“Did you ever date, Rin? When we were in high school?”

Suna furrows a brow. 

“No…?”

“Why not?”

Because I was yours.

He blinks and looks away. He doesn’t know if he can say that to you.

“Because I had you.” He thinks that’s close enough.

But your frown is deepening, and he realizes that it’s not nearly close enough.

“Do you know why I never dated?”

He searches your gaze, hating that it’s cold.

“You never mentioned being interested in anyone…”

“Because I wasn’t.” Your jaw clenches and you cross your arms over your chest. “Because I already belonged to someone – someone who made that fact very clear to any guy that could have possibly been interested in me.”

His lips part in surprise, and he looks like he wants to say something when he realizes what you’re saying.

But you just look away and slide your bowl toward yourself, shaking your head as you twirl pasta around your fork. 

“I didn’t realize that it might be one-sided — that maybe he didn’t belong to me . But I guess that’s just my fault for not asking. My bad.” It’s impossible not to see how bitter your smile is when you lift the fork to your lips and finally take your first bite.

Suna just stares when you hum and nod. There’s sauce on the corner of your mouth, a little more on your bottom lip. “‘s pretty good. I think you’ll like it.” A simple evaluation of your own cooking, as if you hadn’t just stopped time for him with the admission of your pain.

Pain that he’s realizing could have been prevented if he weren’t so fucking avoidant.

He steps toward you after a breath, reaching out and brushing his fingers across your knuckles just as you’re moving to grab another bite. Your fork clatters into the bowl when you pull away from the touch. You cross your arms and look away, avoiding his gaze.

But he steps too close, hovering over you in that corner of the counter. Only when his hand slips past the curtain of your hair and cups the back of your neck – the other presses into the countertop beside you, trapping you there – do you meet his eyes, your own wide with surprise.

“Wha-” The rest catches in your throat, because he’s dipping his head toward yours, hooded eyes examining something on your cheek. You stare past him, unable to find your breath, and feel the exact moment when your heart leaves your chest and makes its home in the base of your throat.

Rintarou presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, not enough to be a kiss but far too close to ever be able to take it back. But when you feel the pass of his tongue over your skin, burning into that spot and making it his, you realize that he’s not planning to draw that line with you again, the one that had always been there.

He’s going to erase it entirely, with the determination of a man who hates that it ever existed in the first place.

“You’re right. It is pretty good.” He breathes the words into that spot, and you realize that he’s talking about the food.

“Can I try more?”

He gives you no time to wonder what that means – no time to wonder ever again what he’s trying to say.

His lips push against yours, full and warm and everything you’d imagined they’d feel like. You gasp and pull away in surprise, but he’s there again, leaning forward to keep you right where he wants you. 

You can feel heat radiating off of his face, cheeks flushed and warm on yours when you cling to the front of his shirt, unable to do much else. He smiles against your lips and breaks the kiss, still close enough that your shallow pants mix in the space with his as you catch your breath, both of your chests heaving.

“What was it that your friends from college used to call you? That name that would make you blush.” You’re unable to look away from his lips, unable to understand that you can still feel the memory of them on yours. He smiles and leans close, mouth hovering over yours when he whispers. “‘ Suna Rintarou’s girl ’? Was that it?”

You flush, your eyes drifting shut when you feel him closing in on you again. 

“So you did notice…”

“I didn’t know about high school. You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to-” You can’t look at him. It’s too much, too overwhelming. “I took it for granted. That I was yours-”

“ Good .” He’s all you can feel, all you can smell and hear and touch. He’s everywhere. “You were supposed to take it for granted, that was the point.” 

His fingers close around your jaw, squeezing your cheeks and tilting your face up toward his. You know he can feel your racing pulse at the side of your throat. “Because you’re mine. You were always mine, and I made sure everyone knew.” His nose brushes against yours, breath warm on your lips. “But I guess I wasn’t clear enough… was I?”

You swallow hard, feeling the shallow laugh he breathes out when you don’t answer him.

“You’re my girl, aren’t you?” His bottom lip brushes against yours when he whispers to you. “And you were right to feel safe in that fact. Because I never looked at anyone else, not once.”

‘ Why would I? I have you.’  

Those words from 5 years ago come back to you, along with memories of the way he’d ignored the existence of any girl that would approach him, for as long as you can remember.

“And those women in the grocery store? Talking about how you’re not my type?”

You’re distinctly aware of how the hand he has on your face is starting to pull you closer, his own mouth drifting away to keep the sliver of distance between you.

“They must not have properly looked at you, Y/n.” He smiles softly down at you when your eyelids flutter open briefly at his words. “How could you not be my type? My type is you.”

The push of his lips on yours comes this time with his hands on your waist, tugging you toward him. He wraps an arm around you and lifts you without warning, setting you on the counter just as you’re gasping into his mouth.

He fills the space between your thighs the moment you spread them, one hand on the small of your back and the other cupping your neck. You fist the front of his t-shirt, anchoring yourself to him and keeping him close.

You never want to let him go.

“ I’m yours, Y/n. ” He mumbles the admission against your lips, finally confirming what you’d been worried about. “I’m yours, you hear me?” 

His mouth drops to a spot under your ear, his voice filling your senses as his fingers play with the top button of your shirt. 

“Want me to tattoo it on my skin? Just tell me where – I’ll have it done by the end of the night.”

The button comes undone, and he’s quick to move to the next one, thumb and pointer finger working efficiently down the line as his other hand slips around your waist and pulls your hips to the edge of the counter, flush to his.

Your breath comes shallow when your shirt finally falls free, because he’s pressing his hand to the spot just under the curve of your breast and pushing his lips against yours possessively – claiming you. You can’t feel your fingers when you card them through his hair and pull him close, your skin filled with a tingle that spreads over your body like a sickness. Even your head is staticky, plagued by that tingle. Rendering you defenseless to him – Suna Rintarou.

“ I love you .”

You whisper it without thinking, Rin’s mouth stilling on yours. He pulls away, staring down at you with wide eyes. Your heart drops to your stomach when you realize what you’d said, and your face burns when he just stares, dumbfounded.

“I-”

“Again.” He looks entranced, gaze glued to your lips while he waits. Because he’d felt you say the words, but he wants to watch you say them – wants to witness it with his own eyes, because he’s terrified it hadn’t actually happened.

You wet your lips nervously and repeat yourself.

“I love you, Rintarou.” 

The three syllables of his name fall past your lips, stacking on top of each other just like the words right before them and stealing the breath right out of his lungs.

When he kisses you, it’s with an urgency that hadn’t been there before. Your back slams against the cabinet when he presses into you, but you don’t notice anything except the slide of his palms on your thighs as his hands disappear under the hem of your skirt. 

His pointer fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, tugging impatiently until you lift your hips. They’re gone and on the floor before you’ve fully processed that you’d just let him take your panties off. That this is going somewhere, fast .

“Sorry, that probably wasn’t very hot-” Rintarou’s mouth is in the crook of your neck, his teeth brushing against your skin in a way that makes you shiver and slide your fingers through his hair. “In my head, it was slow and sensual, but-” His hands slide over your thighs again, fingers digging into the plush skin as he pries them just a little further apart. His lips twitch against your throat, a smile sneaking through as he laughs breathily.

“-I’ve never felt this desperate before.”

You whimper when he pulls your hips to his, the front of his jeans pressing up against your bare core and sending a shock flying up your spine. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he sucks harshly on your throat.

You feel it, too – that desperation to just make him yours. To make this the truth, after so many years of just saying it was.

“‘s okay,” You pant, feeling his fingers dancing along your inner thighs toward a spot that’s extremely warm right now. “You can just make it slow and sensual next time.”

He breathes a heated sigh against your skin, the words ‘ next time ’ mumbled back to you, like he can’t believe that next time even exists.

And then he lifts his head and plants his lips on yours, his thumb finally sliding along your folds and finding your clit with terrifying precision. You gasp, and he swallows the moan that falls past your lips when he circles that little bundle of nerves, the same way you would when you would think about him late at night.

He does everything the way you’d always wanted – slides his fingers through your folds, buries them inside of you, and curls them against your walls in a way that has you seeing stars. He does it perfectly, all while kissing you stupid and whispering your name like he’s trying to decide exactly where it would look best on his skin, permanent and for the world to see.

He touches you like he’s always known how, as if this isn’t the first time. As if his heart isn’t about to rip out of his chest from the way you’re gasping his name, those three syllables stacked on top of each other in your mouth.

And when you finally come undone, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you cry for him, he’s saying it back – the words that he needs you to hear.

“ I love you .” He feels your tears soak through his shirt as your walls tighten around his fingers, and your body starts to tremble in his arms as you gasp for breath. “I love you, Y/n- I’ve always loved you, from the day that we met-” 

“ Rin-” Your arms curl around his shoulders, and you cling to him as you come down from your high. He holds you close and kisses you, letting you recover.

Eventually, you breath a harsh sigh and meet his eyes, your cheeks flushing when you see how he’s looking at you.

“Hi…” You mumble it in embarrassment, and then jolt in shock, because he’s wiggling his fingers playfully inside of you when he responds.

“Hi yourself.”

You smack his arm and look away, eyelids fluttering when he pulls out of you and sets his hand safely on your thigh. And then you let him kiss you, soft and slow like your eyes aren’t still blurry with tears from how hard he’d made you come.

Suna pulls away, eyes roaming your face. Your skin is flushed red, just like his own, and you’re wiping unshed tears from your eyes, your expression laced with embarrassment when you realize he’s just watching you.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling your shirt closed self-consciously – you feel strange, letting him see all of your rolls and stretch marks. His eyes are lingering on those spots, and you feel like he’s seeing too much. Seeing the things you were worried about showing him, because you thought in the back of your mind that maybe he would decide then that he didn’t want you, after all.

Rintarou lets you cover yourself, lets you drape your shirt over your chest and hide your tummy with your arms. He watches with a blank expression, gaze flicking between your movements and your eyes like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. But when you try to cover your thighs – try to move his hands so you can pull your skirt down – he sighs softly, knowingly, and stops you.

His hands catch your wrists, and he presses them together in your lap, locking them tight with one hand while he uses the other to undo all your work, those uncaring eyes unbearable warm on your skin. 

Tugs your shirt open with a pointer finger.

Pushes the hem of your skirt back up your thighs.

Leans down to press his lips to the tops of your breasts, an open-mouthed kiss over your racing heart.

He mumbles all the while, his mouth tracing a path up past your collarbones and toward your neck.

“There you go again-” A nip to the column of your throat, a pass of his tongue over the spot to soothe the pain. “-listening to the wrong people.”

He leans away, watching how his hands look on you, tattooed fingers kneading into unmarked skin – like he’s tainting you. Ruining you for anyone else.

The thought makes him grin, worsened when you look up at him with those wide, innocent eyes.

“My sweet girl.” He smiles grows at your blush, and he’s reaching to push your shirt off your shoulders. You let him, even though you look nervous at how much he’s going to see. He drags the fabric down your arms, but he stops when it pools around your elbows. A gasp falls past your lips when he yanks the material taut suddenly, your forearms pulled together and the swell of your breasts forced out toward him.

He eyes them hungrily, his smirk dark when you whisper his name nervously, your arms tangled up in your shirt.

“Why do you let other people get in your head?” He drags his gaze down your chest to your tummy and thighs, his tongue poking out briefly to wet his lips. “Have you seen yourself? You’re so soft – you know how many times I’ve thought about putting my hands on you?”

You breathe harshly, your chest heaving and snapping his attention back to it. Without taking his eyes off of your breasts, he reaches for you shoulders, sliding your bra straps off slowly, one at a time. And then he hooks a finger into one of the cups, meeting your eyes.

“Are you ready to start listening to me instead?”

You swallow, nodding shallowly. He keeps you entranced, keeps your gaze locked on his, even as he’s tugging both cups down past your chest, officially leaving you completely exposed to him.

And then he drops his gaze, and you watch his eyes widen slightly, his lips parting as he takes you in. He barely notices when you move, your tied hands inching forward in front of you until you’re close enough to touch the tips of your fingers to the front of his jeans.

He flinches immediately, his eyes flying down and then back to yours when he realizes what you’re doing. You watch his eyelashes flutter when you become bold enough to press the flat of your hand against him, and you finally feel just how hard he is.

The pit of your stomach twists with arousal as you palm him gently, and your heart is thumping harshly in your chest when his hips jut forward of their own accord, chasing the feeling of your hand on him.

You feel time slow to nothing when you reach to undo his jeans, because he’s dropping his gaze to watch what you do. The sound of the zipper makes him tense, and you watch him swallow harshly when you slip your hand down the front of his jeans, cupping him through his boxers.

Your own breath comes shallow, skin tingling where he digs his fingers into your thighs, anchoring himself to you. With a steadying breath, you reach into his boxers, wrapping your hand around him. 

And then you get distracted, because Rintarou is breathing out a moan and dropping his head back, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting with pleasure as he goes. You watch him closely, heartbeat rushing in your ears, as you slide your palm against him slowly.

“ Fuck- ” He breathes it out, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows harshly. You keep your eyes on him, stroking him slowly and watching his every reaction. 

Suna drops his gaze to your hand, and he moans again, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Because watching you do this to him just like he’d always imagined – your hand wrapped around him like that, so much smaller than his own, with your thighs spread for him and your breasts spilling out of your bra, your tongue poking out past your lips as you concentrate – it might just be a little too much for him after all.

You work him closer and closer to the edge, entranced by the way his chest heaves, the way he mouths your name silently as he unconsciously pushes his hips to meet the base of your fist every time you slide against him.

And then his hand is snapping down over your wrist, stilling your movements. You jump, staring up at him as he hovers over you, breathing harshly. He leans his forehead against yours, shaking his head.

“Too close…”

You pout, wanting to watch him come undone the way you had. Wanting to make him yours.

“But… I want you to…”

His response is a breathless laugh, eyes still shut tight.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

‘-you could probably have whatever you wanted without begging for it.’ 

Your heart pounds in your head when the memory comes to you, just a few days ago. 

Oh, how you’d never imagined that you’d be here now. 

You tilt your head up toward him, lips brushing against his. He leans into it, eyes fluttering open to stare down at your mouth.

‘-unless that’s your thing.’

“…Please?”

Suna’s breath catches in his throat, and his gaze is locking on yours, eyes wide. His grip on you loosens in surprise, and you’re guiding his cock toward you, past the hem of your skirt, never taking your eyes off of him. He swallows hard, eyes flitting between yours nervously.

He breathes out shakily when the head of his cock slides against your entrance, his eyelids fluttering as he dips his head down and swears against your mouth.

“ Shit… You’re killing me…”

You whine against him, feeling the tip bump gently against your clit when he shifts toward you. “ Please , Rin. Please. I need you-”

He snaps when you properly beg for him, a low growl trapped in his throat when he pushes his lips to yours roughly. Reaching up, he fists your hair in his hands and angles your head so he can mold himself to you. He surges forward, and your back slams into the cabinet again, his mouth firmly on yours.

And then he reaches down with his free hand, pushing your hands away so he can guide himself back to your entrance.

“ I want you to say it . That I’m yours .” He murmurs against your mouth, and you mewl in response, because he’s pushing into you slowly. He stops and pulls his lips away when you don’t seem to hear him, and you almost cry out in frustration. “Y/n.”

You glare up at him, your gaze cloudy, because he’s buried halfway inside of you and still has the audacity to think that you’re able to focus on anything else.

“ What ?”

He stares down at you, seemingly patient, but you can see the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw. He’s trying hard to focus, too.

“Say I’m yours. Tell me, so I know you understand.”

Your heart drops to your stomach at his words, and you clench unconsciously around him. His eyelids flutter, and then his grip in your hair tightens.

“ Tell me , or I won’t move.”

You can’t help but laugh, even though it’s laced with a moan when he twitches inside of you.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

He just tilts his head and smiles gently at you, like he’s not struggling immensely right now.

“So that you know that this isn’t just me claiming you.”

You breathe heavily as you stare up at him, your chest soaring with affection. And then you reach out to cup his face, stacking the syllables of his name once more, filled with love and the silent promise that you’ll continue to say it like that, for the rest of your life.

“Rintarou-” He sighs when you pull his mouth to yours. “ You’re mine .” You push your lips against his, soft. “You belong to me now, okay? You’re not allowed to go anywhere. I won’t let you.”

He tilts his head, kissing you slowly, murmuring against you. “Promise?” When you breathe a confirmation, nodding, he takes a breath. Gives you just a breath.

And then he pushes forward in the next, until his hips are flush against yours.

You moan into each other’s mouths, your body tingling at the stretch. He draws his hips back, moaning your name breathlessly, and then snaps them forward, his patience gone.

You can only cling to him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, as he thrusts into you relentlessly. Your back slams into the cabinet with every snap of his hips against yours, filling the room with the sounds of your cries and the rhythmic promise of several noise complaints.

Rintarou barely notices, too lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him, tighter and tighter with every thrust. He pants into your ear, your name the only thing he has left in his head.

“I think you were made for me- ” He pulls back, pressing his forehead against yours so he can look at you. Your eyes are filling with tears again, and your voice cracks when you stutter over his name on the next thrust. “You fit so perfectly around me. Look-” He tangles his hand into your hair again, gripping tight and forcing you to look down with him. 

You choke on a sob when you watch how he slams into you, and he’s quick to lift your head so he push his mouth against yours, claiming each and every sound that falls past your lips. “You were made for me-” It’s barely audible over the noises you’re making, increasingly louder the closer he pushes you to the edge. Your foot swings and catches on something behind Rin, something that falls to the floor and shatters on the other side of the counter. He doesn’t even hear it. “ Just for me .” 

The coil in the pit of your stomach twists angrily, but it stands no chance of surviving when he reaches down and presses his thumb to your clit, just like he had the first time. The coil snaps instantly and without warning, and you’re throwing your head back against the cabinet as your vision goes white.

“ Rintarou- ” You think you might have screamed it, but your ears are ringing, because he hasn’t slowed down in the slightest. He just fucks you through it, his hips only stuttering when you clench tight around him. Only then does he slam his hands down on the counter on either side of you, his head buried in your neck.

He chokes on your name, and then you’re warm. Warm with the breath he heaves onto your skin, warm with the feeling of owning and belonging to him all at once. Warm as he spills into you, filling you up and making you his as he moans into your ear.

Finally, he stills. Slumps against you, chest heaving against yours as you comb your fingers through his hair with a trembling hand. He whispers against your skin, the ‘ I love you ’ just as warm as everything else, while he curls his arms around your waist. Eventually he lifts his head, bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat and his skin as flushed and hot as yours. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of seeing this side of him.

He presses his lips against yours gently as he pulls out of you, and then he mumbles that he’s going to get a wet rag for you. You’re strangely proud to see that your 6’2”, heavily pierced and tattooed gloom of a man actually loses his balance and stumbles slightly as he’s turning toward the hallway.

He glances back at you, embarrassed, and then breathes out a laugh when he finds you smiling lovingly up at him. He shakes his head, disappearing down the hall with a mumbled ‘ shut up ’.

He reappears a moment later, cleaning both of you up gently and kissing you every few seconds, just because he can. You lean lazily against the cabinet, your mind hazy and full of Suna Rintarou.

But then you glance down at the counter, and you’re tilting your head in confusion.

“Where’d the other bowl go?” 

He hums curiously, realizing that there’s only one bowl of pasta there. You lean forward and peer over the edge of the counter, realizing what had shattered earlier.

“Oh.” His dinner is splattered all over the floor, the bowl in a million pieces.

Rin stares down at it, too, and then he turns to your bowl, lifting it toward you with a shrug.

“We can split this one.” He twirls some pasta around your fork and takes a bite. You watch him wince as he chews. He scowls slightly, setting the bowl back down. “‘s cold.”

You let out a laugh, pulling him toward you and giggling when he swallows the food with a grimace. 

“We can just order takeout.”

He looks down at you, taking you in. You’re still undressed, skin still flushed, eyes still hazy in your afterglow. And then he shakes his head.

“Yeah, I don’t think anything’s gonna be open.”

You frown, glancing at the clock on the stove. “It’s only 7.”

“Yeah. For now .” And then he lifts you, ignoring your protests as he walks the two of you down the hall to his bedroom. He throws you down on his bed carelessly and reaches to pull his shirt over his head. 

You watch with wide eyes and a fresh sense of arousal when he drops to his knees in front of you and wraps his arms around your thighs, a smile tugging at his lips as he pulls you toward him impatiently.

“I’m not done yet."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 3: Black Opal]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

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

You dream that you are made of gemstones: fossilized, crystalized, eons spent beneath the earth, diamonds for bones, onyx glittering in the pupils of your eyes, crimson pebbles tumbling through your arteries, red beryl and rubies and cinnabar. Daemon is breaking you apart with a pickaxe, heaving swings and sweat dripping from his brow. He fills a wheelbarrow with jagged, gleaming pieces of you and carts them away to be cut and polished and sold. Then—in the settling dust, in the silence—the viola player comes to the empty space where you once were and kneels, collects specks of you until his palm is full of them, and stores your infinitesimal, shimmering echoes in the pockets of his trousers. Don’t worry, Petra, he is saying. I’ll put you back together. I won’t let you be lost.

You jolt awake as his hand is skimming over your hip. Then, still lying behind you, he grips you roughly and yanks you against him, shoving the hem of your nightgown up to your waist as he opens his robe, his large hands hurried and impatient.

“Yes,” you whisper into your pillows, a soft pliant surrender as golden sunlight streams in through gaps in the curtains. It’s been so long; it’s been ages down in the subterranean darkness. You are starving for this, even if you fear him, even if you hate him, even if Daemon does not try to satisfy you anymore. When you were first married he left you exhausted and breathless just to prove he could, to draw the stark blood-red line between his skill and yours. Now he withholds pleasure—something you find nearly impossible to give to yourself, perhaps five times in as many years—and takes you like this: unceremoniously, unpredictably, with rareness like a jewel’s. Yet still this taste of being desired is intoxicating, cigarette smoke in your lungs, sparkling champagne gulped until your face burns.

Daemon is panting, effort and urgency. You can feel him trying to push his way inside you; and then, when he is not yet hard enough, stroking himself with one hand, grinding himself against your warmth, your wetness, slick mineral hunger.

You moan pitifully: “Daemon, please…”

“Quiet,” he says, and when you look back at him his eyes are closed like he’s trying to imagine you are somebody else.

He is the only man who’s ever had me, and now I repulse him. What can that mean except that I am unworthy, incapable, broken?

Abruptly, Daemon shoves you away by your hips and exhales in a huff, rising from the bed.

You roll towards him and ask without venom, desperate to know: “Daemon…what am I doing wrong?”

“It’s not anything you’re doing,” he says as he ties his robe shut. His eyes are flinty, his words severe. “It’s just you.” Then he stalks out of the bedroom and you are alone.

You push yourself up on your palms and stare at your reflection in the oval-shaped mirror against the wall. Your hair is wild and your eyes forlorn. Your engagement ring, black opal from Australia, glistens on your left hand. There’s a mark on your throat—a gift from the point of Daemon’s dagger—that you’ll need to conceal. You are ashamed of yourself; you turn away.

It’s the morning of April 13th, and Titanic is 1,000 miles from Ireland.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are reclined in one of the pink-painted teak chairs on the Boat Deck and reading a copy of Henry VI, Part 3, which you borrowed from the ship’s small library. You’ve been thinking about the play ever since the viola player quoted it yesterday, here where he was not supposed to be loitering, making his oil paintings and spying on you. You are trying not to glance over at the lifeboats by the railing. You wish you didn’t know that there are far too few to hold all the passengers in the event of a cataclysm. The temperature of the water of the North Atlantic Ocean is below freezing.

“I heard you quarreled last night,” a voice says.

You look up to see Rhaenyra standing in the daylight, blue sky, white clouds, a chilly wind she guards against with a maroon shawl draped across her shoulders. Rhaenyra is dressed like a blood drop: deep gory red, gorgeous but horrible. Strings of rubies dangle from her ears. Strands of her long blonde hair—gradually turning from lemon quartz to a darker, sandier hue—have escaped from her pins and blow in the salt-lashed air.

Daemon told her? Daemon confided in her?

It is just one more humiliation, Daemon unburdening himself to his niece instead of his wife. And whatever version of events Rhaenyra heard, you’re sure it didn’t include him holding a blade to your throat. Reflexively, you touch your fingertips to the thin slice of a wound, covered by several layers of powder foundation and a choker necklace made of diamonds, pearls, and white gold. Your gown is an anemic cream color to match. “Oh?” is all you can think to say at first, inane, pathetic.

Rhaenyra sits down on the deckchair beside you and clasps her hands together, kneading them restlessly. “I believe you could have a contented marriage,” she says. “If only you would allow Daemon the freedom he requires.”

You close your book and scrutinize her with a hard glare. You have not asked for advice; you cannot trust anything she tells you. Rhaenyra will defend Daemon eternally, unflinchingly. They share more than blood. They share a defiance that scalds and singes. You are no dragon, you have never yearned for treasure, prominence, adventure, exceptionalism. You wanted to stay exactly where you belonged. “What sort of freedom?”

“The freedom to make his own way in the world,” Rhaenyra says. “To not be constrained by archaic traditions, or arbitrary bounds of morality, or overcaution, or…or…”

“The freedom to force me to leave my homeland? The freedom to take my child away from me?”

Rhaenyra is stunned. “He’s right here on the ship.”

“And your sons are back in England with the 9th Duke of Beaufort, yet I assure you that you are closer to them now than I’ve ever been to Draco.”

She cannot understand your vitriol. You have cracked the rose-colored spectacles she’s been gazing at the world through. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I have not sought your counsel.”

“Then I’m trying to help Daemon,” Rhaenyra says, flustered, struggling to remain composed. “He is not a young man anymore, and he doesn’t need discord in his own home on top of a transcontinental move and a demanding new position at Tiffany’s.” Her voice goes tender. “I know he does not wish to torment you. Daemon can be headstrong and proud, but he’s not a cruel man. And he’s been so kind while I’ve been mourning Sir Harwin Strong…”

“Kind,” you repeat dully. It is not a word many people associate with Daemon Targaryen.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra insists, as if daring you to contradict her. “Tremendously kind.”

And you notice something strange: one of the rings she is twisting on her fingers is a black opal, huge, rimmed by diamonds. It’s not a stone you can recall ever seeing her wearing before. Your eyes return to her face. Perhaps you have taken the wrong course of action. Perhaps you can appeal to her mercy, one parent to another. “Our quarrel was on the subject of my son. I wish to be a true mother to him.”

Rhaenyra rises to her feet, as if suddenly bored of this conversation. God, she’s so much like Daemon. “Then you will get further by being friends than enemies.” She inclines her head slightly, a dismissive little curtsy, then swishes off in her bloody dress. You watch her go, then open your white handbag to take out a cigarette and your holder. Then you remember you don’t have any way to light it and sigh in defeat, staring morosely at the unplentiful lifeboats.

Can I have one person who’s on my side? Just one?

As if you’ve called for him aloud, the viola player appears. He has added a black wool hat to his stolen regalia, pulled down low over his face. He glances after Rhaenyra as she disappears down the staircase that leads to the Promenade Deck—watchful, anxious—and then turns back to you.

The viola player says, his hands in the pockets of his coat: “You look like you could use a break from your part of the ship.”

You try to resist him, battling a playful half-smile that pulls at the edges of your lips, strings running beneath your skin like the rigging of a ship. “Where else would I go? To fraternize with the third-class degenerates?”

“Oh, we have all manner of degenerates for you to enjoy,” he replies, grinning. He props one shoe up on your deckchair. “The Greeks, the Italians, the Irish. I’m partial to the Irish myself.”

“Good for cheap, expendable labor? Good for dying beneath the railroad tracks?”

“Good for painting,” he says instead. He takes a small aluminum lighter from his coat pocket, flicks it to life, and holds it out to you. As you steady the lighter with one hand, you can feel that there is an engraving on the side of it. You cannot see what it is; as soon as your cigarette begins to smolder, the viola player snaps the lid shut and returns the lighter to his pocket.

You take a drag, peering up at him, thoughtful. “Are you extending an invitation of some sort?”

“I am,” he says, pleased that you’ve asked. “Think you can find your way to the Third-Class Dining Saloon? It’s all the way down on F-Deck. Every night after dinner there’s dancing and card games and…uh…” He gestures vaguely, flirtatiously. “Camaraderie for the lonesome.”

You chuckle. “I see. And do you have an Irish girl down there to entertain you?”

“Not yet. But I’m trying.”

You consider him as you smoke. The viola player waits, though he glances around uneasily, as if afraid his disguise will be seen through like a pane of unfogged glass. “F-Deck, you said?”

He nods. “In the middle of the ship, in between the two main staircases. Right next to the Turkish Baths.”

“Oh, good. I can ask Laenor for directions.”

“I can wait somewhere for you, if you want, and take you down there myself. But…” But people might see us.

“No, it’s better if I go alone,” you say. “When does the most wicked of the debauchery begin? 9 p.m.?”

��9 is sinful,” the viola player agrees. “10 is irredeemably villainous. And by 11 we’ve always begun the orgy, we’re very punctual, you could set your watch by it.”

You laugh, loud and freely, your cigarette holder tucked between your index and middle fingers. “Perhaps I’ll make an appearance this evening, Picasso.”

“I hope so. I’ll be looking for you.” Then he steps down off your pink deckchair and saunters off, soon out of sight, his black coat and hat vanishing into crowds of first-class men—heirs and tycoons and aristocrats and politicians—dressed the same way.

You try to return to your Shakespeare play (now Margaret of Anjou is declaring war on the Yorkists) but it’s no use; the viola player with all his knowing, crooked grins has filled your skull like water pouring into a sinking ship, and for a moment you have forgotten about Daemon, and Dagmar, and Rhaenyra, and this is a feeling one could get addicted to, a warm softness that polishes away barbed edges, a numb haze like too much cider or champagne.

The wind is getting stronger, and you haven’t brought a coat or a shawl. You wander back towards your staterooms—impatient for dinner, and for what will come afterwards—and on your way, down on the Promenade Deck, you find Dagmar sitting on a chair with Draco, bundled up in more than enough layers as his short white-blonde hair blows around chaotically. Dagmar is reading a book to him: Scandinavian, of course, The Ugly Duckling. She has a different voice that she uses for each character; her ancient face becomes bright and animated, as if she is draining the life from them like a vampire. Draco giggles as she reads, and you stop to watch them, standing alone on the deck and shivering in your ivory-pale dress.

Draco spots you, blinks a few times, then smiles and waves with his little hand. You can feel yourself smiling back. “Hi, Mam.”

“Hi,” you say, stepping closer. Dagmar’s blue eyes go frigid and sharp like ice. Her fingers that grip the book are knobby, gnarled, bestial. “Are you enjoying your story?”

“Yeah! The duck is so ugly everyone makes fun of him.” Draco is beaming as he announces this. You are unsure of how to respond.

“Well…maybe things will get better for him. Could I…” You point timidly at the book. “Could I finish the story, do you think? Could I read to you?”

Draco turns to Dagmar. “Can she?” he asks, and he sounds almost…hopeful.

“She doesn’t know how to do the voices,” Dagmar says curtly.

Draco frowns at you. “Do you know how to do the voices, Mam?”

“No,” you confess quietly. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. But I could try to learn.”

“Maybe next time,” Dagmar says. She flips a page and resumes reading aloud. Then Draco is swept back up into the story, and you are forgotten, and you wait there for a while to see if he’ll notice you again before giving up and retreating back to your staterooms, a kicked dog, an unopened letter.

In the sitting room, Fern is bustling around straightening up and dusting. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” she says when you walk in, peering over one shoulder. “You look cold. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes please, whenever you have a moment.” You drop down onto the sofa, distracted and low. Your gaze drifts to the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace, dusk-colored gemstones glinting in its eye sockets. Why can’t I make Daemon love me? Why did he give Rhaenyra a black opal ring?

You can hear Fern heating water for tea. Abruptly and vividly, you remember how she wept when Rush dragged you away from Draco and Daemon summoned you to your bedroom to be punished.

“That must have frightened you last night,” you say, still looking at the dead tiger’s head. “I’m sorry you had to witness it.”

An uncomfortable pause. “It’s no trouble at all, ma’am.”

“I bet you wish you were somewhere else. Just like I do.”

“No, ma’am,” Fern says, startled. “Please don’t send me away. Not ever.”

You turn to look at her. She stares back wide-eyed from where she is pouring steaming water into bone china teacups patterned with blue flowers. “You want to work for Daemon? Despite everything?”

“Lord Targaryen is the best boss I’ve ever had,” Fern answers, and she appears to be genuine.

“Is he really?”

“He pays me what he said he would. Doesn’t yell too much. Doesn’t try to touch me. And besides…” Fern is smiling a little now as she brings you your tea. “I spend more time with you than anyone else.”

You are heartbroken for her—where must she have been for Daemon to be a sanctuary?—then move over to make room for her on the sofa. “Pour yourself a cup too, and sit down with me.”

“Oh no, ma’am, I couldn’t possibly. It wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m your boss when Daemon is gone. And I want someone to keep me company.”

“Well, alright,” Fern agrees bashfully, trying not to show how delighted she is. “I suppose five or ten minutes won’t hurt.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At dinner—sweet ham and fatty ribs of beef, green peas and mashed potatoes—Laenor is joined once again by his new Parisian friend Hugo. You ask Laenor the way to the Turkish Baths in case you decide to visit them tomorrow, and he heartily recommends the facilities, sharing a puckish simper with Hugo. You think of Rhaenyra’s three boys and their dark hair, and their pug-like noses, and the whispers that forever swirl around them in the shape of Harwin Strong, and despite all of this Rhaenyra will suffer no consequences: beloved by her father, emboldened by her uncle, cherished by her sons, enabled by a husband who does not crave her attention anyway. She has broken the rules, and you have done everything right, and yet Rhaenyra is the one glowing tonight as she laughs along to Daemon’s stories, her new black opal ring flashing on her hand, and you are all but forgotten as you drink too many glasses of champagne.

Your guests tonight are Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress Léontine Aubart, a French singer to entertain him while his wife is at home in New York City with their three daughters. Ben’s father made his fortune in mining and smelting, and so like Daemon he understands that one can rule the earth by pillaging what lies beneath it.

You swim up into the conversation from under a warm, numbing sea of amber champagne. Now Daemon is quoting English novelist George Eliot: “These gems have life in them: their colors speak, say what words fail of.”

“Hear hear!” Ben Guggenheim agrees, holding his drink aloft, not champagne but brandy. “Daemon, how old is your son now?”

“He’s four,” your husband replies with obvious fondness, and Rhaenyra seems to bristle. “And a complete terror, a tiny blonde Napoleon, he’ll take over the world someday…”

Beneath the table, you twist your own black opal ring on your wedding finger. You think of the night Daemon asked you to marry him—in the garden of Lough Cutra Castle, bats flapping in the twilight and long-eared owls hooting, not down on one knee but standing taller than you were, his green eyes glinting like the Connemara marble in your father’s quarry—and you wish you could go back and say no.

“Dagmar is a splendid governess, we are so fortunate to have her,” Daemon is telling his audience, and he always seems to have one. “She looked after me and Viserys when we were boys…I was her favorite, of course.” There is a dutiful chorus of chuckles. “She can be bit prickly with adults, but she is entirely devoted to children. She treats Draco like her own. I always wondered about her own family when I was young…I was petrified that one day she would take me aside and tell me that she had to go away and be with her own children now. Surely she had a life of her own out there somewhere. As it turns out, she had a drove of sons with her husband, four or five of them, and then the whole household was wiped out by scarlet fever. Everyone except Dagmar.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” Ben’s French mistress sighs, pressing a hand to her chest that glitters with a massive necklace of bruise-colored Tanzanite, worth a fortune. “But what a blessing for her to have found purpose again with the Targaryens, a lifeboat for her, I’m certain…”

A lifeboat indeed, you think dizzily. Dagmar climbs in and I am tossed out, sinking down into the cold, crushing, miles-deep darkness.

Ben Guggenheim is saying: “I spoke to Captain Smith today as I was taking the air on the Promenade Deck, and he informed me that the last of the boilers have been lit and we are full steam ahead towards New York Harbor. We might even arrive a day early! On the 16th instead of the 17th! Think of the headlines.”

This alarms you. One day less with the viola player? And you realize all at once how attached you’ve grown to him, and perhaps you are learning what it feels like to have a lifeboat too.

As Daemon’s party exits the First-Class Dining Saloon, chatting away carelessly, you tell your husband that you’ve been invited to the Reading and Writing Room to socialize with the other well-bred women of Titanic, and that you probably won’t return to your staterooms before midnight.

“Yes, yes, that’s fine, dear,” Daemon says, barely listening as he escorts Rhaenyra up the Grand Staircase. You linger for a while in the reception area—exchanging bland gossip with the Countess of Rothes and Madeleine Astor, so childlike and yet older than you were when you married Daemon—and then depart, not up the steps towards the Reading and Writing Room on A-Deck but down into the depths of the ship and through the Turkish Baths, closed for the evening and unattended.

You hear the Third-Class Dining Saloon long before you find the entrance and step inside, lively music and raucous laughter that echoes down white corridors. Through the doorway you find low ceilings, exposed support beams, and tables and chairs that have been pushed against the walls to make room for dancing. Men are toasting pints and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, women are giggling at their jokes and thieving sips of the men’s dark frothy Guinness. Standing on top of one of the tables is a quartet of strings and a man singing, not dressed in fussy black suits but in corduroy trousers and plain half-unbuttoned shirts, the air hot and painted with yellow-gold artificial light. The viola player is with them. He sees you and smiles, but he doesn’t set down his viola. He has to finish the song, of course. They are performing Whiskey In The Jar.

“I went into my chamber for to take a slumber

I dreamt of golden jewels and sure it was no wonder

For Jenny took my charges and filled them up with water

And sent for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter…”

You find a seat in a corner of the room and wait for the viola player to join you. You purposefully wore something rather plain to dinner—a pale pink gown, matching wool coat, and morganite jewelry—but still you are overdressed. The third-class passengers sitting nearby gape and ogle at you. You wave shyly as you shrug off your coat and hang it over the back of your chair. They bring you a pint of Guinness and, when you take it out of your rose-colored handbag, a burly middle-aged man lights your cigarette with a match. You fiddle with your cigarette holder for a moment, then put it away and smoke like the women here do: bare fingers, no niceties.

The viola player has abandoned his fellow musicians and plops down into the chair across from you, laying his instrument on the table. He grins, boyish and sly, like he has won a bet. You puff on your cigarette and act like you are here by pure coincidence. Oh, festivities down on F-Deck? Well of course everyone knows about that. Thought I’d swing by for a half hour or so, had nothing better to do.

“How are you?” the viola player asks, still smiling.

“Impatiently waiting for the orgy to start.”

He laughs and leans across the table, settling in. “Have you picked out a conquest yet?”

“Maybe one.” You exhale smoke and he watches you, intrigued, perhaps a little nervous to say the wrong thing. “How long have you been running from your family?”

“Five years.”

“That’s the same amount of time I’ve been married.”

“I know, I remember,” he says. “Enormous wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. Royalty were invited.”

You furrow your brow at him. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs, evasive. “I must have read about it in a newspaper or something.”

“And this is what you do now,” you say, drawing a circle of smoke in the air with your cigarette, meaning the Third-Class Dining Saloon, meaning the sort of people he’s chosen to spend his life with. “You make pennies by playing viola and selling your oil paintings.”

“Doesn’t take much to live on.”

“No?”

“Not the way I live. As long as I have something to eat and a bed to collapse into at night, I’m content.”

“You never get lonely?”

“Well I didn’t say the bed was empty.”

It was a joke, but you don’t laugh. You remember how Daemon pushed you away this morning, how ashamed he has made you of your lust, animal yearning smothered and ignored, an able body gone to waste.

The viola player realizes he’s made a mistake. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, are you…are you alright…?”

“What line of work is your family in?” you say instead.

“Uh…” He hesitates. “Land ownership.”

This is interesting. “Really? Do they have titles?”

“Um, no, nothing like that.” He shakes his head, his eyes darting around the room. “What about the distinguished Lord Targaryen?” the viola player asks, contempt in his voice. “There must be hereditary defects run amok in his lineage.”

“His older brother is a duke, as you know.” You put out your cigarette in a plain porcelain ash tray and take a slurp of your Guinness. It joins the champagne in your bloodstream, sloshing around until your thoughts are blurry and harmless. “But Viserys is…” You try to decide on the right words. “Daemon thinks he’s weak and indecisive. Maybe he’s right, I’m not sure, I’ve only met Viserys a few times.”

“Viserys stays in England,” the viola player says, sounding more like a statement than a question.

“Yes, with Rhaenyra and her family. They’re very close.”

“And what of Viserys’ other children?”

You cackle. “What other children?” Another joke; this time it’s the viola player who isn’t amused. “After many, many years of neglect in cold dreary England, Alicent Hightower removed herself to Manhattan and lives there in opulence with her father Otto, her loyal bodyguard Sir Criston Cole, and her four Targaryen-blonde offspring, the eldest of whom is poised to inherit the Dukedom of Beaufort, much to his uncle’s displeasure.”

“Aegon,” the viola player says softly.

“Daemon hates him.” Your voice is hushed like a conspiracy. “Idle, useless, cowardly, effortlessly receiving fame and riches that Daemon believes he has rightfully earned.”

“Hm.” The viola player is smiling faintly.

“So now Daemon will gust into New York City like a storm, and capture the fascination of the elites there, and—with his orderly, intact family and jewel-mining dynasty built by his own hands—he will humiliate Viserys in the most brutal way possible. He will prove that he was the more worthy brother, that he should have been born first.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think that he shouldn’t have been born at all.”

You both laugh, sad and cynical. He looks down at your hands where they rest on the table, perhaps at your black opal wedding ring. Then he motions to the room at large. “How does it compare to your usual dining accommodations?”

“Far less caviar and duchesses,” you say. “What do the third-class cabins look like?”

The viola player raises an eyebrow. “Are you asking to see my room?”

That’s not how you meant it; but now that he is teasing you with flushed cheeks and one of his crooked, toothy smiles, you aren’t sure you want to decline. No, no. You definitely don’t want to.

“It’s unoccupied at the moment.” The viola player nods to a group of men dancing on the other side of the rowdy dining saloon. “My roommates are presently trying to convince those lovely Russian girls to get pregnant with their bastard children.”

“What a tempting prospect! Who could resist?”

He waits for you to say more. You stall, fiddling with your rings, gazing nervously down at them. “Hey. Petra.”

You look up at the viola player. “Yeah?”

“Don’t fear. That is not my design. There are no bastard children in your immediate future.”

You chuckle and then stand, smoothing out the skirt of your gown with your fingertips and putting on your pink wool coat. “Alright, show me your cabin. As my only poor friend, it is your obligation to enlighten me.”

“Gladly,” he agrees; and as the two of you are weaving through the crowd of dancing passengers—Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish—the viola player takes your hand so you are not separated, and it feels so natural you don’t even think to resist him.

It is a long walk to the third-class cabins, located deep in the stern of the ship. You must pass through hallways reserved for other passengers, first-class, second-class, more worthy breeds of people. The viola player drops your hand as soon as he sees stewards flitting about with armfuls of linens and cups of tea, casting you puzzled looks.

“Ma’am?” some of them ask you. “Do you require any assistance? Can I escort you somewhere?”

But no, no, you politely demur, and follow after the man in green corduroy trousers and a half-unbuttoned white shirt, handknit green vest, messy blonde hair, no coat, no hat, a viola and its horsehair bow in his grasp. At last you reach stark corridors in which no stewards are darting around to ensure the passengers are comfortable, and he opens a door to reveal a tiny space, smaller than your bedroom: white-painted pine wood and pink linoleum floors, two bunkbeds, a single sink with a mirror mounted above it. You can hear the reverberation of the ship’s engines and feel their tremors through the walls.

This is awful. This is unendurable.

“Impressive, huh?” the viola player asks, perhaps a bit anxiously. He hopes he hasn’t horrified you.

“It would be just fine for rats. Humans, I’m not so sure.” You sit down on one of the bottom bunks to test the mattress. “What on earth is this full of? Straw?”

“Yes ma’am.” He’s standing by the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, not displeased but not relaxed either.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You can come over. I won’t scream and have you arrested or anything.”

He laughs. “What a relief.” He walks over to the bed—very slowly, as if expecting you to change your mind and tell him to stop—then sits down beside you as you peer around the cabin. His portfolio and easel are lying underneath the opposite bunk. On the paper clipped to the easel you can see a new painting: a woman too beautiful to be you smoking on the Boat Deck, wearing the same choker necklace of pearls, diamonds, and white gold that was clasped around your throat this afternoon. In the bottom right corner is the name he’s given you: Petra.

You turn to the viola player, bewildered. “Why do you keep painting me?”

He does not answer; instead, he tilts your head to the side to inspect the shadow of a gash on the side of your neck, a shallow gift from Daemon’s dagger, obscured by layers of powder but not erased. His murky blue eyes are haunted, his voice desperate. “I want to help you.”

“You can’t.”

He is watching you, his fingertips still resting weightlessly on the curve of your jaw. You imagine him painting your skin until all of you is covered: brushstrokes down your throat and over the bumps of your collarbones, lines tracing your spine and swirls on your belly, dabbing gingerly at the inside of your thigh.

“I wish you could,” you whisper; and then he kisses you, the roughness of his short beard, the softness of his lips, and you hope he doesn’t mind the bite of alcohol you’ve tainted yourself with to dull all the blades that have ever cut you: disappointment, terror, pain, despair. Now the ship is punctured and the water is rushing in, not freezing and a bottomless inky blue but warm, golden, effervescent like champagne in a crystalline flute, and Daemon has never touched you this way, gentle but burning, wanting you, needing you. Your palms are on his chest; your muscles and tendons and ligaments are opening for him; you are imagining being known by him, this stranger who sees you, this unremarkable man who is somehow so exceptional, who has dug you up from the gloomy depths of the earth and given you a once-in-a-millennium glimpse of the sun.

And then, with sudden torturous clarity: Daemon unable to get hard for you, Daemon shoving you away.

“No,” you gasp, breaking the kiss and shrinking from the viola player. Your voice is so quiet, so weak. “You won’t like me.”

He shakes his head. You’ve hurt him worse than dagger, you’ve aimed for the heart. “Who were you before all of this?”

Seventeen, in the garden with my books, drinking tea with my parents, daydreaming of legends and love. “I don’t even remember.”

“You can’t stay with him. It’s killing you.”

“You don’t understand,” you whimper, thinking of Draco.

“Look, I have to tell you something.”

You rise from the bed, headed for the door. “I can’t stay, I’m sorry—”

He leaps up and grabs your hand, not to bruise you or to scare you but to beg you to listen. He bursts out: “I’m a Targaryen.”

You stare blankly at him. “You play viola.”

“Yes,” he says. “And I’m also a Targaryen.”

“That’s not possible—”

“I’m Aegon,” he insists, pounding on his own chest. “I left my family in New York but I’m one of them, Alicent is my mother, Helaena is my sister, Aemond and Daeron are my brothers, I’m a Targaryen and I know what it’s like to run away and I can help you.”

“No, you can’t be—”

And then he rips his lighter from the pocket of his green corduroy pants and he presses it into your palm and you see what is etched into the side: the three-headed dragon, the crest of the Targaryens. You abruptly remember what Daemon said to him back in Galway: You look a bit familiar, boy. Have we met before? You study his hair and realize it is almost the same shade as Rhaenyra’s.

“You have to stay away from me,” you say, petrified, clutching his lighter. “Daemon hates you. He’ll kill you.”

“I’m not leaving you with him.”

“Aegon, I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

“When we dock in New York, I can help you escape.”

“No,” you sob, a miserable choked wail. “I can’t abandon Draco, and Daemon would never stop hunting me if I took him away.”

“Maybe you can’t save Draco, but you can still save yourself,” Aegon pleads, his eyes huge and glistening. “Maybe he’s a lost cause.”

“He’s four years old!” You tear your hand out of Aegon’s grasp and yank open the cabin door. He goes after you.

“Wait—”

“Do not follow me,” you command him, low and seething as you stand together in the doorway. “You endanger us both.”

“Let me help you,” he says; and they are the last words you hear before you vanish into the maze of hallways, running up the Grand Staircase, ignoring the stewards who offer you assistance, fleeing from the man who makes you want things you didn’t believe were possible.

Aegon, you think, still in disbelief, still clasping his lighter in your palm with such force your hand aches. His name is Aegon Targaryen.

You fly into your staterooms, through the sitting room, towards your bedroom where you can be alone with your longing and your horror, your tears and your treason. You don’t see anyone else. You don’t hear anything over your own ragged breathing and strangled sobs. You are at your bedroom door. Your fingers close around the knob.

The door leading out to the private promenade deck opens and Rush appears with a half-finished cigar in hand, looking shocked to see you. “No!” he shouts, but it’s too late, you’ve already opened the bedroom door. The blood that crashes into your face is scalding and a deep gory red like rubies. The bile rising in your throat is green like Connemara marble.

There on the same bed where this morning he shoved you away from him—revulsion, coldness, impotence you could not cure—Daemon is twisted up with Rhaenyra, passionate helpless moans, deep savage thrusts, her long citrine hair spilling over the sheets and his eyes turning murderous when they catch on you.

[magicaldestinyharmony]

In Life and in Death

male!knight x female!count's daughter!reader part 1

CW: mentions of murder, blood and corpses

A/N: check the end for a full one

[Part 2]

Death. Death is when your lungs stop inflating with oxygen, when your heart slowly comes to a stop and when your vision slowly fades to black. Some people find death scary and a creepy affair. Others welcome death and embrace it, leaving the world with a smile on their face. Some fall in between or have no opinion at all. However, two people have different opinions. If you ask the fifth daughter of Count Balcom, she'll tell you that it's an annoying event and that she wished it would end. If you ask Lucca Puhlavan, a commoner referred to as the Divine Warrior, he'll tell you that he hates it because it takes his loved ones away.

These two souls have similar perceptions of death. This is a story about a woman who is tired of dying and just wants to live and about a man who has sworn to get revenge on the people who robbed him of a peaceful life with his family.

Let the story begin.

You harshly grip the window sill, turning the tips of your fingers white. You shudder at the scene below you. Corpses line the front lawn and blood flows everywhere. You hear screams, yells and pleas for mercy from the occupants of the once-glamorous mansion outside your room. You shake your head at the sight and turn around. Determined, you make your way to the drawers against the wall of your moonlit room. You unlock one and grab the blue stone glimmering in the faint light. It's called the Returner's Stone. You hold it up to admire it. It's a pretty gem. It's round in shape and sparkles with a beautiful blue light. Once consumed, it allows the consumer to travel back in time. It can only be used once. Thud, thud. You freeze at the sound of footsteps sounding in front of your room. So he came. You think. You don't turn around. Even when the chilling creek of the door being opened echoes through the room, even when you hear the tip of a sword drag across the wooden floor even when the shadow of a man falls on you, “Are you the fifth daughter of Count Balcom?” he asks.

You know the question is rhetorical yet you still turn around and answer, “No. I think you have the wrong person.”

The man in front of you scoffs and you take the time to look him over. His navy blue clothes are soaked with blood. His sword hangs from his right hand dripping with the crimson liquid. His black cape falls over his shoulders. His silver hair catches the moonlight making it seem to shine. You pore into the depths of his grey eyes. You shiver at his gaze. It's cold yet empty. You're reminded of the 15-year-old boy your father brought 10 years ago. You were told he was killed. Murdered in one of the hunts, your father liked to organize. You're not sure how he's alive right now. You stop before you can sink more into your thoughts. Stop it! This isn't the time for these thoughts! “Spare me!” You suddenly blurt out.

Lucca (You think that's the name that was mentioned in the newspapers) immediately responds, “No.”

You grimace. There was no hesitation in his voice. You grip the Returner's Stone tighter and ask, “If-if I saved you and prevented that ‘incident’ would you spare me?”

The tall figure in front of you lets his head fall back and laughs, “No. The only way I would spare you is if you drain all of the Balcom blood from your body. Only then would you be spared.”

You flinch at his creepy laugh and cold gaze. Suddenly, Lucca raises his sword, obviously meaning to strike you down. Adrenaline kicks and you shove the sparkling blue Returner's Stone in your mouth and swallow. You suck in a breath at the sudden pain in your chest. Lucca falters and hesitates. Yet before he could swing his sword and complete his revenge you fall to the floor in agony, clutching your chest. The last thing you remember is the black boots of your would-be murderer filling your fading vision.

A/N: this is heavily (and I mean heavily) inspired by the manhwa Even if the Villain’s Daughter Regresses. It’s a good read but the ml is kind of annoying. When I was writing this it kinda felt awkward to switch from 3rd person to 2nd person. Should I keep it in 2nd person or switch to 3rd? Also, should I keep it as an ‘x reader’ or make an oc? What do you guys think? Let me know by dropping a comment!

[sugurusbabygirl]

how they eat you out

cw: somnophilia (Satoru), degradation (Toji)

Choso:

He aims to please. Will lay between your legs until you're a crying begging mess. He doesn't believe in using his fingers when eating you out. No, no, he knows how to use that tongue. And he makes sure you know that. He's a chronic people pleaser, putting your pleasure first....every single time. He'll guide you through your second orgasm, holding your thighs open with a vice grip. All the while he's still fully clothed and painfully hard. But he doesn't care. Your cries and moans are like a symphony to his ears, and he never wants it to end.

"God, you're so beautiful like this." "Think you can do another one for me, baby? C'mon, yes you can. Mmm, there's a good girl."

Kento:

Oh boy. After a long hard day of work, Kento wants nothing more than to take care of his girl. You'd want to treat him, having dinner ready for him when he gets home, but he has an entirely different meal in mind. With no more than a grunted greeting, he'd be tossing you up onto the counter and down on his knees before the front door even closes. Strong hands shoving your panties aside, gripping your thighs to translate his fiery passion to you.

"Fuck....m'sorry, darling. Just-mm-need you." "Been thinking 'bout you all day, darling. Maybe I'll call in sick tomorrow, hm? Spend all day with you. How does that sound? Ah, ah, use your words."

Megumi:

He wants it to be perfect. Every. Goddamn. Time. He'll look up at you with those alluring eyes, tongue nestled between your folds, and have the audacity to ask if he's doing okay. Won't add any fingers unless you explicitly ask him to. You just sound so sexy when you're desperate, who can blame him? Lord help you if you ask him to stop, because unless you say the safe word, he won't do any such thing.

"Want me to what? Sorry, couldn't hear you, baby. Gotta speak up." "Another finger? But you're already shaking. You really think you can handle it?" "You sound beautiful. That's it, say my name again."

Satoru:

He's literally obsessed with you. The way your back arches when he flicks his tongue over your clit. How you whisper-scream his name as he slides his fingers through your wet folds. The gentle tug you give his hair, getting tighter as you get closer and closer to the edge. But he's especially obsessed with having you first thing in the morning, before your eyes even open.

"Shit, y/n. So wet f'me even when you're sleeping? Dirty girl." "Hm? Oh, awake already? Mm, don't worry, baby. Just relax."

Suguru:

He's ready to pounce at a moment's notice. If you do so much as swing your hips a little too much as you walk by him, he's tying up his hair and you know you're in trouble. He doesn't even want full on sex all the time, just some time between your legs and he's good for another couple hours. Like a starved man, he'll twist and slide his tongue in ways that have you breathless in a matter of seconds. He'll spew obscenities until you're shaking and crying, then go back to whatever he was doing like nothing happened.

"So fucking sweet, love." "Thought you could prance around in that new skirt and I wouldn't wanna tear it off you?" "God, you're gonna be the death of me." "Need this pussy like fucking oxygen."

Sukuna:

Obviously uses it to get himself off, I mean, come on. Loves to make a night out of it. Ties you up, spread eagle to the corners of the mattress. Blindfolds you, gags you with your own soaking panties. You know the safe word, so he doesn't dare stop. Not after the first orgasm....or the second....or the third. Plowing you through wave after wave of endless ecstasy. Begging doesn't work. Crying for sure doesn't work. Everything seems to spur him on.....

"Such a needy baby, asking for more when I've already given you three." "Oh, you want me to stop? I just don't think that's true, princess. Look at how wet you still are. Go ahead, taste yourself on my fingers. Suck."

Toji:

Mean, mean MEAN. But so very loving at the same time. Knows that his insults only get you off faster. He loves nothing more than to have you sprawled out on the couch, naked, just because he asked you. Your fingers gripping his hair like your life depended on it, pushing him deeper into your needy, pulsing cunt. There's not a feeling quite like it in the whole world.

"All this just for me? Oh, darling you're spoiling me." "Such a good fucking slut, hm? Love it when I hold you down like this, don't you?" "Good sluts get three fingers. You wanna be a good slut, right, darling?"

Yuji:

Baby boy just wants you to be happy. Studied you like a final exam the first couple times, learned what you liked and what you really liked. He loves the way your eyes roll back when he rubs circles over your hardened nipples. How your legs start to shake right before you cum. How speechless he can make you after just a few gentle licks.

"Yeah? That feel good, baby?" "God, I love you like this." "No, no, please don't pull away. Let me give you another one, please?"

masterlist <3

[xxchumanixx]

A little risqué

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: Bucky has an idea whilst on Sam's ship. But you've got to be quiet...

Warnings/Tags: smut, mdni!, oral (fem! receiving), a hell lot of teasing (Bucky is the king of teasing, we all know that), swearing, slight praise kink

Word count: tba

Authors note: Seriously, when did I get this filthy? I don't even know where this all comes from. Anyway, I hope you'll like this. Oh, and I've tried to incorporate his thoughts / point of view a little more, too. I hate what a tease he can be. But, then again, I made him one.

Enjoy!

His eyes were on you the whole time as you peeked around the corner of the ship's wall, watching you as he had you in between his body and the wall. A smirk formed on his face, and a thought went through his mind, so he leaned forward, almost pressing his body against yours, his metal hand grabbing your hip.

"So, doll… the coast clear?"

You nodded. "Yes, they're still partying."

Sam's party was still in full swing. You were currently standing on his boat with Bucky, having had a chat about what recently happened with the Flagsmashers.

Bucky chuckled and smirked, his metal hand roaming around your hip as he got an idea. He started to slowly back you up against the wall, his eyes darkened with lust as he leaned down and whispered in your ear.

"Wonder if we have time for something real quick without getting caught… What do you think, doll? You up for a small bit of risqué right here?

Your eyes widened. "What? Are you kidding? What about a little privacy?" you asked, though your body already heated up at the suggestion.

You were such a slut for that man.

He smirked and chuckled, one of his metal fingers slowly trailing up your leg. His eyes darkened even more as he looked into your eyes, seeing how they darkened with lust when he came up with the idea.

"Oh, we’ll definitely have plenty of fun later when we have some time alone… For now, I think a little bit of danger and thrill is more fun, doll. Just keep quiet, okay?"

You nodded, biting your lip.

What else were you supposed to do when he had you in such an iron grip with just a smile of his? You were putty in his hands, and he knew it.

He smirked and started trailing kisses across your jawline and down your neck, his hand still slowly roaming around your body.

When he got to your ear, he spoke again, his voice a low sultry whisper. "Turn around for me, doll."

You swallowed, turning around.

How could you not, when your body was already aflame?

He wrapped his arms around you, gently pinning you against the wall, his breath hot against your ear and neck.

"God, you’re so damn sexy, doll…"

He started leaving marks on your neck, his hands roaming up and down your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You shivered, mind already mushy.

He smirked when he felt you shiver under his touch, his hands finding their way under your shirt. Groaning at how damn good you felt against him, he mumbled against your skin.

"Mmhh… so damn beautiful, and all mine… no one else can have you but me."

His hands started roaming up your body, his metal ones coming up to gently grab your chin, his lips trailing down your neck, starting to slowly kneel down as he went lower and lower.

You inhaled shakily, licking your lip.

Why did he always have such an effect on you?

Bucky smirked against your skin as he slowly knelt down behind you. One of his hands started slowly wandering under the hem of your skirt, his other grabbing your hip as he started mouthing at the back of your thighs.

You swallowed, hands bracing against the metal of the ship's wall, heart racing.

Somehow, you were grateful for choosing a skirt earlier.

Gently biting at the back of your thighs, he loved how you reacted to his tongue and his teeth on your skin. He heard the way your breath hitched, and he took note of it, a smirk forming on his face.

"Gonna have to stay real quiet, doll… we don’t want anyone to hear us unless you want an audience." he mused.

You nodded, biting your lip.

A challenge already doomed to fail.

He smirked and chuckled quietly, leaving a few more bite marks on the back of your thighs, his metal hand coming up to slowly run up the back of your leg as well.

"Such a good girl… so damn quiet for me." he praised.

You shivered at his words, eyes fluttering closed.

God damn him and his internal lexicon of your body.

Bucky smirked as he watched you shiver at his words, loving how you reacted to him. He continued to leave bites and marks on your skin as his hands roamed your body.

"Mmm…. you’re so damn sweet, doll. I love how you taste against my tongue, love how you shiver at my touch." he hummed, starting to make his way back up your leg, his hands slowly pushing up your skirt, lips trailing up the back of your thigh.

"So good for me, you know that, doll? So damn good, and only for me."

"Only for you, Bucky." you breathed out, swallowing.

He groaned at the sound of his name coming from your lips, his hands gripping a little rougher onto your hips as his mouth trailed up from your thighs to your hip, gently biting at the skin there.

"Damn right, you are, doll. You’re all mine. No one else’s but mine. Say it again, doll."

"I'm yours." you said again. "All yours."

A cocky smirk grew on his face as he continued to leave marks and kisses on your hips and thighs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties.

"Damn right you are. All mine… and you’re going to scream it later when I have you all to myself."

Words promising heaven.

You shivered again, breath faltering in anticipation.

He was such a fucking tease.

He chuckled as he felt you shiver and your breath falter, slowly pulling your panties down, his hands slowly trailing back up your body as he did.

"God, doll, I love how you react to me. So beautiful, so perfect. So damn mine... All mine."

He started trailing kisses up your thighs again as his hands roamed your body. "Damn you taste so sweet, doll. I’m addicted to you, can never get enough of you."

You grit your teeth, wishing he'd use his mouth in other ways than talking and praising non-stop.

Your body trembled involuntarily, and you bit your lip.

You were slowly getting impatient, and he knew it.

Bucky smirked as he saw your body trembling, almost feeling how much you were aching for him.

"Damn you look so pretty right now. All mine, all for me, and I love how beautiful you look when you ache for me. I love it when you shiver and bite your lip like that."

Slowly starting to trail his metal fingers up your thighs, he inched closer to where you wanted him most, but his finger just teased your skin slowly.

"Look at you... so perfect, all worked up and needy for me. I love seeing you like this, doll, all desperate for me. Don't worry, I’m gonna give you what you want so badly. Just a little longer... Say my name, doll."

He would obtain a gold medal for teasing, that was sure.

You gasped, swallowing. "Bucky," you breathed out, almost a whine. "Please."

He chuckled, hearing you call out his name, your voice a desperate whine that almost sent him over the edge of control.

He loved how needy and desperate you sounded for him right now.

"God... you’re so damn perfect when you whine my name for me like that, doll. So damn beautiful. I love it so much."

You were one step away from stomping on the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. Your core ached, dripping with your juices.

He smirked as he got even closer to where you wanted him, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered, voice a low, sultry tone.

"You want it, doll? You want me to give you what you’re aching for? Say please one more time, I love it when you beg for me like that."

You would shove the please up his ass if he wasn't going to give you what you craved soon.

But you nodded, equal parts desire and rage rushing through your veins. "Yes, Bucky, please!" you whined. "Please..."

Bucky groaned in satisfaction from your whining and begging. "God damn you’re beautiful when you beg like that, doll... so damn perfect. It’s like music to my ears. Begging for me just how I like it."

You squirmed, leaning your forehead against the ship's wall in frustration. "Please, Bucky!" you begged, almost sobbing. "Please don't tease me!"

He chuckled at your plea for him, his head almost spinning from how damn hot you sounded when you begged and whined for him.

Bucky could feel himself throb seeing and hearing how desperate for him you were, so he finally decided to give you what you wanted, his voice low and sultry as he got impossibly closer to you.

"Alright, doll, since you’ve been so damn good for me and patient, I’m finally gonna give you what you ache for."

He gently wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as his head got close to where you wanted him, his breath even hotter against your skin.

"But you have to be quiet, doll, otherwise everyone is gonna hear you. I know how loud you can get."

You nodded desperately. "I will be quiet, Bucky, I promise."

Hearing the desperation in your voice, he smirked, knowing you were so damn eager to get what you wanted.

He got even closer, so close that his nose brushed your skin, but he paused for a brief moment. He couldn’t help but tease you one last time before he gave you what you ached for so much.

"Please, doll, beg one more time. I love it when you beg for me." he asked sweetly.

He was so close, so damn close, he could practically taste you already, but he wanted to make you beg one more time for him.

You grit your teeth in frustration. "Please, Bucky!"

He growled, your desperate plea finally snapping his control, he couldn’t tease you any longer. He was just as desperate for you as you were for him, maybe even more so, and he finally gave in to your pleas, finally giving you what you were aching for so badly.

"You’ve been so damn good for me, so damn perfect in every way. I’m gonna give you what you want, doll."

Finally closing the distance, he allowed himself to taste you, his tongue licking a rough stripe up your folds, groaning loudly at how you tasted, so damn addicted to you.

He buried his head further in between your thighs, holding them apart with his hands as he started to devour you.

You yelped but bit your lip, desperate to not let any more sounds escape.

Bucky smirked against your skin, he knew how much trouble you’d be in if someone heard the noises you were trying to hold back.

He loved every second of it.

Bucky didn’t let up his pace, using his tongue and lips and teeth for you, the sounds of his groans and your quiet whimpering filling the air all around the two of you.

All he could think of was how good you tasted against his tongue, how you were all his, and how damn perfect you were.

Your breathing fastened, eyes screwed shut as you tried not to move too much.

Hearing how your breathing had gotten faster and heavier, he knew you were holding back so much right now, trying so damn hard to stay quiet, how you were trying not to move.

He was an ass, and he knew it as his metal fingers began drawing circles on your clit, making it even harder for you to keep quiet as he tongue-fucked you.

You whimpered quietly, gasping for air.

It was almost too much.

He groaned at how flustered and worked up you were, the sound sending vibrations straight up your core.

"We gotta be quiet, doll." he warned. "Can’t have anyone hearing us. How close are you, doll?"

You bit your lip. "Close, Bucky." you breathed out, eyes hazy and head swimming. "Please don't stop!"

You couldn't believe you were actually doing this on Sam's ship.

Bucky chuckled, hearing you breathe out how close you were. He knew you were hanging on by a thread right now, and he loved it.

"You can’t come yet, doll..." he breathed against you. "I’m gonna make you wait a little longer, but not too much longer, doll, promise."

You swallowed, shivering.

It was getting harder to hold on with each passing moment.

Bucky smirked at your reaction, his stubble lightly scratching your soft skin. He loved how you couldn’t take any more, how you were so damn desperate for that sweet release, but he wanted to take his time a little longer, to tease you just a bit more.

After all, he was the king of teasing.

He continued his pace, not going any faster or slower, enjoying seeing you squirming and struggling, your body aching for release, but he wouldn’t give it to you just yet.

"Oh, doll, you’re so damn perfect like this. So damn beautiful and desperate for me. I want you to be just a little more patient for me. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded, biting back a moan. "Yes, Bucky."

He smiled and chuckled, loving that you nodded and just did what he said, being so damn good for him like that.

"Such a damn good girl for me..." he mused.

His tongue started moving faster against your pussy, his hands holding your thighs in place as he ate you up, alternating between kitten licks and fucking you with his tongue.

"I’m gonna let you come for me, pretty girl, and I want you to say my name when you do, understood?"

You nodded, whimpering. "Yes, Bucky, please!"

He started to lap at you even faster, wanting you to come for him, see, and feel you burst on his tongue.

His fingers started to match the pace of his tongue, sending sparks of pleasure through you.

Your breathing fastened, and your legs trembled as you stumbled towards the edge in high-speed.

He felt your legs trembling around his head, how your breathing had started to get louder, knowing how close you were right now.

"God damn, you’re so close, doll, I can feel it." he groaned. "Say my name, doll, I want to hear how good I make you feel."

"Bucky!" you breathed out, trying to be quiet, and not shout his name instead. "Fuck, please don't stop!"

He groaned loudly against you, holding your trembling legs in place, forcing you into an earth-shattering orgasm.

"You gonna come for me, doll? Right freaking now?"

You nodded, sweat forming on your skin, limbs tingling. "Yes, Bucky, fuck yes!"

"Cum for me, doll."

You gasped, eyes squeezed shut as a wave of pure bliss exploded inside of you, tumbling over the edge with his name on your lips, over and over again.

He smiled and groaned as he heard you come, hearing how you said his name like that and how damn good he made you feel, how you couldn't keep yourself quiet anymore.

He was a madman, only for you.

"God damn, doll, I love you." he mumbled into you, lapping and drinking every bit of your juices up.

You trembled, momentarily blinded by the pleasure.

Bucky smirked, seeing how you trembled and how overwhelmed you were with pleasure. He slowly let up, pressing kisses to your thighs as he let you calm down.

"God damn, doll, I'm so damn lucky to have you." he whispered in-between kisses, sighing in content.

You tried to regain your bearings, leaning against the ship in exhaustion. "Now they will definitely have questions." you breathed out. "We were gone for like hours or something."

Chuckling, Bucky stood and wrapped his arms around you, holding you gently against his chest. He knew you were right, they were gonna be wondering where the hell the two of you had been off to.

But he couldn't care less.

"Yeah, you're probably right, doll." he said. "But it was well worth it. Though they can all go screw themselves, they don't need to know what we were up to."

You chuckled, deeply satisfied. "Yeah, you're right."

He hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Can't wait to have you all for myself later."

You smirked, rolling your eyes. "But no teasing, Bucky."

He chuckled. "I can't promise that, doll. You know me."

"Bucky." you playfully warned him. He had teased you enough already.

"Just a little bit?"

"No!"

Tag List:

@sapphirebarnes @skywalker0809 @freyathehuntress @queenslandlover-93 @judig92 @ava

[onlinesuzie]

☆ hamzah vs. watching love island ☆

words: 2.3k

summary: Hamzah has always found Love Island embarrassing an unrealistic but on a warm summers evening spent pouring drinks and binging the show with Martin and Mandy, Hamzah’s disdain for Love Island changes when he has the opportunity to ‘pull you for a chat’.

notes: GUYS I LOVE LOVE ISLAND SO BAD and martin and mandy mentioning it on ooc inspired me to write this!!

♡

It was one of those lazy summer evenings at Mandy’s house, where the air was thick with warmth and your favourite part of the summer was about to begin. You, Mandy, and Martin had gathered in the living room, ready for your weekly tradition of binge watching that week’s episodes of Love Island. The show was a guilty pleasure for the three of you, a chance to unwind and indulge in the drama and romance unfolding on the screen.

You thought it was stupid but some part of you wanted that cheesy romance, the type where you just make out for no reason or just anything. It had been months since you had even kissed someone let alone all the borderline soft porn you laugh at with Mandy and Martin. But regardless of how much action you were getting, alcohol and snacks were scattered across the coffee table, and you were nestled comfortably on the couch next to your friends.

The night was in full swing, and the alcohol kept flowing. The more you drank, the funnier the islanders’ antics appeared. You, Mandy, and Martin were laughing loudly, making bets on who would be kicked off next, and sipping your drinks between comments.

As the opening credits rolled for the Wednesday’s episode, Hamzah wandered into the room, his expression one of mild disdain. “I still don’t understand how you guys can watch this shit,” he remarked, folding his arms and leaning against the doorway.

“Fuck,” you thought. Maybe it was the alcohol or the grossly horny scenes you’d been watching for the past few hours, but Hamzah looked incredible. He looked so good, with his biceps straining against the fabric of his loose shirt and his hair falling casually over his warm brown eyes.

Mandy rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, come on, Hamzah. It’s fun! Besides, you don’t have to watch it with us, you just like to complain.”

Martin grinned, tossing a piece of popcorn at Hamzah. “Yeah, man, just let us have our fun. You’re always free to join us if you want.”

Hamzah dodged the popcorn with a chuckle, shaking his head. He approached the three of you and leaned against the back of the couch, his arms looking impressively defined in the artificial blue light. You found it hard to focus on the show as you admired how good he looked. “I think I’ll pass,” he said, releasing his grip on the couch and gesturing toward the TV as he made eye contact with Martin. “This whole thing is just so… fake. Who behaves like that when they actually like someone?”

You couldn’t suppress a smile at Hamzah’s typical response. It was a long-standing joke among your group that he was the self-appointed critic of all things reality television. It made sense; the thought of Hamzah behaving like the guys on Love Island was a bit unsettling. You had never seen him with a girl before, and while Martin mentioned that Hamzah had dated in the past, none of those girls had ever made an appearance since you’d known him.

Mandy laughs at him, “You don’t even know what that’s like Hamzah, you don’t even know how to talk to women let alone have the opportunity to pull someone for a chat”

“I could, but whatever, it doesn’t matter cause this isn’t what dating is like” Hamzah criticised.

“Suit yourself,” you teased, glancing over at him. “But you’re missing out on some quality entertainment.”

Hamzah’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you could see how warm and inviting his eyes were, his thick eyelashes, the deep brown colour. He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it, shaking his head with a smile. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Enjoy your show.”

As he walked away, you felt this disappointment of him leaving. Over the months, you couldn’t deny how attracted you were to Hamzah, and maybe it was just the alcohol speaking but he looked gorgeous tonight, and every interaction with him seemed to intensify the emotions you tried so hard to keep in check.

The evening progressed with the usual mix of laughter and commentary, and the frequent refills of your drinks. Mandy and Martin were engrossed in the latest drama between the islanders, while you found your thoughts drifting back to Hamzah. You could hear him moving around in the kitchen, and the low hum of his voice as he hummed a tune. The alcohol in your system made you feel bolder, more aware of your surroundings, and undeniably drawn to Hamzah.

Eventually, a commercial break gave you an excuse to get up and stretch your legs. “I’m going to grab another drink,” you announced, making your way to the kitchen with slightly tipsy movements.

Hamzah looked up as you entered, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Taking a break from the love triangle drama?”

“Something like that,” you replied, leaning against the counter. “I needed a breather. And maybe some real conversation as you would say.”

He chuckled, passing you a glass of water. “I can definitely offer that. How are you holding up?”

“Good, just the usual work stuff,” you said, taking a sip. “And you? How’s everything going with the channel?”

“Busy as always,” he said, running a hand through his curls. “But I love it. Keeps me distracted.”

As you watched him, you couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he looked tonight. His dark curls framed his face perfectly, and his eyes sparkling with the dim lighting making your heart warm to him more. Was it the alcohol making you see him in this romantic light, or had you always felt this way?

There was a moment of comfortable silence, the kind that often fell between you two. It was in these moments that you felt closest to him, the quiet allowing for an unspoken connection to surface.

“You know,” you began, your voice dropping to a more playful tone, “you’re missing out on all the fun out there. Maybe you should join us and see what all the fuss is about.”

Hamzah looked a little taken aback by your forwardness, his cheeks coloring slightly. “I don’t know if I’d call it fun,” he said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “But I guess I could sit with you guys for a bit.”

You stepped closer to him, feeling emboldened by the drinks you’d had. “I think you’d enjoy it more than you think,” you said, your voice soft and teasing moving closer to Hamzah.

Hamzah’s eyes widened slightly, and he seemed at a loss for words. “Maybe… maybe I’ll give it a try,” he stammered, his usual confidence momentarily shaken by your proximity.

You smiled, taking another sip of your drink. “Good. It’s always more fun with you around, Hamzah.”

Before he could respond, the sound of Mandy calling your name from the living room broke the moment. “Come on, we’re missing the show!”

You gave Hamzah one last playful look before turning to leave. “Think about it,” you said over your shoulder as you made your way back to the couch.

As you settled back in with Mandy and Martin, you couldn’t help but glance back towards the kitchen, where Hamzah stood, looking a little dazed but undeniably intrigued. The night continued with the usual banter and laughter, but now, there was an unspoken tension between you and Hamzah.

The chatter of Mandy and Martin filled the living room as you huddled on the couch, eyes glued to the chaotic drama of Love Island. The alcohol coursing through your veins loosened your inhibitions and heightened your senses. Each moment spent watching the ridiculous antics on-screen only made you think of Hamzah, who had just slipped into the kitchen for a drink.

You couldn’t help but admire him from afar. The way his dark curls fell effortlessly around his face, the way his shirt clung to his frame just right—it was all mesmerizing. With every laugh that rang out from the room, you felt a flutter of excitement mixed with longing. It was as if the alcohol had amplified everything you felt for him, making him the most attractive person in the room.

Suddenly, Hamzah reappeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. “Hey, can you come here for a second?” His voice broke through your thoughts, and you found yourself looking into his warm, inviting eyes.

“Me?” you asked, slightly surprised but undeniably intrigued. “What’s up?”

“Just something I wanted to show you,” he said, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart raced at the invitation, and you quickly excused yourself from the couch, making your way to the kitchen. As you stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. It was just you and Hamzah, and the air was thick with unspoken tension.

“What did you want to show me?” you asked, leaning against the counter, feeling slightly tipsy but more confident by the alcohol.

Without answering, Hamzah closed the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hands found your waist as he pulled you closer, and before you could process what was happening, he leaned in and captured your lips with his. The kiss was sudden and electrifying, igniting a rush of warmth that spread through your body.

You melted against him, surprised at the intensity of his kiss and the urgency behind it. Hamzah’s lips moved against yours with a passionate hunger, his touch igniting every nerve in your body. As you responded, kissing him back, you felt your head spin, the world around you fading into nothingness. The kiss deepened, his hands roaming to the small of your back, pulling you even closer as if he never wanted to let go.

Your heart raced as you leaned into him, savoring the taste of his lips and the warmth radiating from his body. The moment felt electric, charged with all the unspoken feelings you had harbored for so long. Hamzah’s breath mingled with yours, creating a shared rhythm that left you breathless. You could feel the heat rising between you, the chemistry strong as you lost yourself in the kiss.

As the kiss continued, you tangled your fingers in his dark curls, deepening the connection, feeling every rush of adrenaline that came with it. Hamzah responded by pressing you against the counter, his body a reassuring weight against yours, grounding you in the midst of the overwhelming emotions swirling around you.

You pulled back for a moment, breathless, your foreheads resting together as you both gasped for air. The playful glint in his eyes now had a serious undertone, a depth of feeling that sent your heart racing all over again. “Wow,” he breathed, still trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did I,” you admitted, feeling a giddy rush of exhilaration wash over you.

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Really?” you asked, your heart soaring at his confession.

“Yeah,” he said, his gaze steady and sincere. “You’re beautiful, and I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while.”

Just then, the sound of Mandy calling from the living room broke the intimate atmosphere. “Hey! What’s taking so long in there?”

You exchanged a knowing look with Hamzah, both of you unable to suppress the smiles spreading across your faces.

“Guess we should get back before they wonder if we’re plotting something,” you said, reluctantly stepping away from him.

Hamzah nodded but lingered for a moment longer, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe we are,” he said teasingly, his voice low.

With one last shared smile, you turned and headed back into the living room, feeling the thrill of the kiss linger in the air. You settled back onto the couch next to Mandy and Martin, trying to focus on the screen while your heart raced with the memory of Hamzah’s lips on yours.

As he rejoined the group, Mandy immediately looked at him with a teasing grin. “What took you so long? Did you find the secret stash of snacks or something?”

Hamzah chuckled, glancing between you and your friends. “Just… got distracted,” he said, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Martin raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing something had shifted in the air. “Distracted, huh? Doing what, exactly?” he probed, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, you know, just talking,” Hamzah replied, his tone casual, but you could see a hint of nervousness in his demeanor.

Mandy smirked, nudging him playfully. “You two were in there long enough for a serious conversation. What happened!”

You felt your cheeks flush at the teasing, but Hamzah simply laughed it off, shrugging his shoulders. “Nothing major. Just catching up. “

As the teasing continued, you settled into the couch, the warmth of the moment still lingering between you and Hamzah. You could feel his presence beside you, the comfort of being near him made you blush. The electricity of your earlier kiss hung in the air, unspoken yet there.

In a bold move, you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. To your delight, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in closer. The warmth radiating from him made you feel safe and cherished, and you couldn’t help but smile.

Hamzah glanced down at you, his expression softening. “You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you replied, looking up at him. “I’m really good, actually.”

He smiled back, his eyes shining with warmth. “Good,” he said softly.

As the episode of Love Island continued, you found yourself stealing glances at Hamzah, who seemed engrossed in the show. Yet, every time your eyes met, a silent understanding passed between you, you are going back to his house tonight.

[windser]

it's not unusual for soshiro to come in late. you've both accepted that some operations can take all day, if not a few days given the scale. but over the near year of living together, the two of you had at least set up a reasonably efficient communication system.

give or take a few hours to last minute, your husband had always done a great job of letting you know that he was in route home. if it was early enough in the evening, the alert would come as a call to double check that you didn't need anything, or sometimes just to hear your voice. after hours notifications came as a courtesy text. the ping you set was always loud enough just to rouse you, but more often than not you wouldn't fully awake until the sun rose with soshiro's arms wrapped around you.

so it's reasonable for the the following series of events to occur when your husband arrives home just short of 5am, sans any divulgence. looking back to the exact moment, he would think about how he considered how unreasonable it would be to wake you at the near crack of dawn. this had been a short thought after he came to decision of not wanting to sleep in his office when he could curl around his partner instead. he'd attest that all to exhaustion on his part in assuming you would be too deep in sleep to notice, as you often were when he slipped in beside you.

what he didn't account for was the unexpected arragement of one of your projects left just shy of the living room entrance. there was a chance you would have warned him, if he had given you more notice. there was also a given that he'd be aware enough to avoid it. but that was all reserved for a more sensible vice-captain soshiro hoshina, not just the man, soshiro hoshina, who was one step from collapsing and missing his partner.

his sharp curse is loud as his shoulder knocking into the wall from his imbalance. when he unsteadily stumbled into the bedroom a moment later, he has a split second of controlling his instinct to retaliate when he came face to face with the glint of metal from one of his short swords, which was held tightly in your unpractised grip with every intention of swinging towards him.

"woah woah" he cried out, quick enough to snatch your wrist to halt the attack, vermilion eyes still filled with shock. his laugh is short and chocked full of disbelief. "almost got me there."

soshiro carefully unhedged the hilt of the sword from your grip as realization settled over your face. you took a step back, covering your mouth with your hand. when your fingers were gone a second later, you breathed out, “i didn't even think, i thought... you always let me know soshiro. and when you didn't." there is a crack in your voice as you take in a shaky breath. "which now i realize is dumb because who would break into the division base but you didn't let me know you were going to be home and you said ..."

he always said not to think in the moment, always go off instinct. and it was nothing but that drive that had you reaching for his spare sword stored just behind the headboard. you weren't nearly as proficient as your husband, but you knew well enough where to direct the pointy end. at least it would be said you didn't go down without a fight.

with your hair a disarray, soshiro could tell - even in the dimly lit space - that you were tired. your hands were shaking, your fingers thrumming against your hip, and you were muttering under your breath and breathing hard, cursing at him, moving your hands forward so you could push at his chest and rest your forehead against his sternum because you had been so fucking scared. 

soshiro lurched towards you. “shh, shh,” he hushed you gently, his heart thudding against yours. “''yer alight. i ‘m sorry, so sorry, baby, I should’ve - shhh.” 

"you’re home," you whispered against the side of his neck, squeezing your arms so tightly around his middle that he was afraid you would end up breaking yourself. "that’s all that matters, you’re, you’re home - " your voice trailed off and cracked at the end. 

"don’t worry," he soothed softly. his fingers scrunched into the hair at the nape of your neck. "c’mon, it’s alrigh' now, I’m home. let’s just sleep." 

soshiro was afraid to let go of you when he kicked the door shut with the side of his foot. without his fingers leaving your waist, he began guiding you towards the edge of the bed.

not even two minutes later, he was down to his boxers and was curling his arms around your waist, waiting for your heart to stop beating so heavily with your palms pressed anxiously to his face. 

"I’m home now," soshiro heard himself whispering into the dark, no longer afraid of stubbing his toe into unidentified objects in the clustered hallway, of swords swinging towards his face.

it was hard to be scared when he was home, when he had you wrapped up in his arms. 

[tadpolesonalgae]

Tag, You’re It — Part 3

Dark!feysand x reader

a/n: Should have never said the word love. Threw a toaster in the bathtub. I’m sick of all the games I have to play. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon; threesome fmf; facesitting; dumbification; light praise kink; minor use of shadows; spitting; light impact play

word count: 7,332

-Part 2-

The door dully swings open, but you don’t bother opening your eyes. 

It hasn’t even been a full day since they last took you from your cage. When they’d manipulated and mangled your mind, when they’d forced you to yield the few things you still had control over. The one place even they hadn’t tried to completely disrupt. 

From the pace of the footsteps, you know it’s the High Lord who’s come to visit, the memory of chains and whips rising to the surface. This will be the third day in a row you’ll be denied peace and privacy. 

You open puffy eyes wearily, noting the familiar glint of violet as he peers at you, a slight frown tucked in the edges of his mouth. Before today you might have been pleased with his displeasure. Not today. It’s just another expression to record. 

He crouches down to where you’re huddled in your corner, tucked away and wrapped beneath the one blanket you were given. His hand reaches forward, fingers dipping under your chin so he can look at you properly. Examining the goods, probably. Guessing whether you’re well enough for him to fuck. 

“Did you not sleep, little lynx?” He asks lowly, quietly. Observing you keenly. 

You give no reaction, the words passing into your mind without registering. Too tired to respond. Too empty to give.  

His brows narrow. “I thought you were going to be good?” He goads, angling your jaw to rise a little higher. “We came to an understanding, didn’t we?” 

Silence and a blank expression. 

Rhys frowns, then his hand is lightly gripping the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he leans forward, free hand bracing himself on the iron bars as he presses his mouth to your own. Tongue plying you open, he kisses you deeper, facing little resistance as your lips part beneath his own. Not so much as a whimper rising up to greet him. 

He nips at your lower lip, canines lightly dragging over the softness, but you give nothing. Something’s wrong here, he can sense it, already reaching out for his High Lady. 

Rhys? Purrs that voice that has heat warming his skin. 

Come in here, he requests lowly, pulling back to allow her the sight he’s seeing—the vacancy behind your eyes, the general lack of reaction, the absence of life. 

Is she okay? Feyre asks, all sexuality vanished, replaced by cool suspicion and slight wariness. A single note of concern. 

Rhys’ thumb strokes over your cheek, his pulse spiking as he bites back a pleased grin at your complaisance. She’s at her breaking point. 

His High Lady understands, swift on her feet as usual. They’ve discussed this moment, how it will occur and what they should do as it passes. How to push you over that breaking point without shattering you entirely, more along the lines of heating you until you’re soft and pliable—all for daemati hands to reshape and rehabilitate. You’ll be exactly as you were, only you’ll have always been theirs. No human man with his sweat and breath to contaminate your reactions to them. 

Blankly, you watch him. Even in your dazed and depressed state you recognise the glaze of his eyes, a small part of you shrivelling further knowing she’ll be along soon. Having to watch as she violates your trust again and again, never stopping and never learning. Never changing. 

“Will you stand for me, little lynx?” The High Lord asks lowly, pleasure enriching his sonorous drawl, deep and rolling, easy to listen to and adore. But you remain still, keeping to the small hollow you’ve carved for yourself in the depths of your mind, watching silently. 

Violet gleams, though he doesn’t seem to mind your disobedience, not as darkness releases the chains locking you, overwhelmingly strong arms pulling you up from the blood-red carpet of the cage, putting you effortlessly over his shoulder as he takes you to their bed, settling you down. You make no effort to move, and he gives you no instructions to follow, both listening as a set of footfalls approaches softly from the hall. 

The door swings open, clicking shut as blue-grey eyes brush over you instinctively with a flash of attentiveness you think you recognise before it’s locked beneath hard ice—the High Lady. Not your dear friend.  

“How is she?” The High Lady asks hungrily, gaze raking over your naked form in a way that almost has you tempted to shrink away. Almost. But remembering what they’ve done, the indignities they’ve forced down your throat…you don’t care. 

“She’s ready,” you hear the High Lord reply, and you move your gaze to the ceiling, studying the plain pattern—the wooden beam branching across the middle. 

Footsteps approach, but you don’t care as her fingers trace down your sternum, over your stomach. Not even as she grazes your breasts, or thumbs against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs…none of it matters anymore. You’re inside your own mind, and safe from them. Curled in a darkened corner, alone and abandoned. 

“She seems so unresponsive,” Feyre hums, amusement lacing her tone in a way that should set warning bells ringing, but you remain silent. Rhys’ arm slides around her waist, broad palm squeezing lightly as he idly examines the pliable look to your body. Relaxed and uncaring. The perfect subject for dark fantasies.

“Enjoy her,” Rhys drawls, glancing at his mate sidelong. “This is the first time she’ll let you have her without quarrel. If there’s something you’ve wanted to try…now’s the time.” Something shifts within her at those words, colour flushing her skin sinfully, teeth tugging at her lower lip. You watch as Feyre’s eyes glaze before a faint smile is appearing on Rhys’ mouth, pleased with whatever idea his mate has come up with. Something you doubt you’ll enjoy, if it’s piqued his interest so obviously. 

“As you wish,” Rhys says lowly, violet eyes flicking over you once more, before departing, leaving you alone with his High Lady. 

Blue-grey eyes turn to you, raking down over your bare form, soft and so touchable. So many things she would love to do to you, with the tip of her tongue, the ridges of her nails…the sharp sting of her teeth…

“It’s just us now, sweet girl,” Feyre murmurs, moving closer, allowing her fingers to trace the curve of your ankle at the edge of the bed, running over the bridge of your foot, watching how your toes curl away from her touch, unable to completely lock her out. “Just me and you, how it used to be. Do you remember those times as fondly as I do?” 

You refuse to reply, and she zips the ridge of her nail up the underside of your foot, making you recoil sharply from the sensation. Her lips curve at the small victory, and a seed of frustration is planted within your chest. Why can’t she just let you be? Why does she insist on bothering, and teasing, and torturing?

She hums, fine with your silence, mattress dipping as she settles, slowly making her way toward you. “I do, and we’ll have them again soon enough,” she admits, a flush on her cheeks, “you just have to go through a little more. A little more, then you can be my sweet girl again. Who I can attend and listen to, who I can laugh with like we used to. Don’t you want that?”

The High Lady pauses at your hips, thumb skimming over the top of your left thigh, eyes hungrily following, before dipping between your legs. But you keep still. Unresponsive. 

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” she muses, gently pushing your legs apart. Knowing how you detest it far more when they apply themselves to you than when they simply use you for their own ends. It’s so much worse when they touch you, putting their pleasure into your body without your permission, allowing their sickness to take root until it destroys you. 

Her tongue licks up your centre, and the pleasure sings dully in the recesses of your mind. She circles your clit with painful familiarity, before attaching her mouth to you, suckling eagerly, tongue swirling as she works pleasure into your thighs and cunt. 

Are you enjoying this, sweet girl? Feyre wonders. Come on, tell me how much you like it. How you love it when we touch, and kiss, and lick you here. As if to emphasise, she sucks on your clit harshly, teeth gently scraping before returning to soft and slow licks of her tongue. I know how good it feels, I know how to make it feel good for you, too. Just tell me. With words, or a moan, or the slightest shift of your body—tell me about your pleasure. 

You can feel your body heating in response to the stimulus. Warming around you as you tuck yourself deeper into the cool darkness, only wanting to escape. 

Feyre hums softly, pushing your legs so they’re bent at the knee, allowing her more access as she laps firmly over your sex, parting you slowly as she drags upward, tongue hardening as she flicks over your sensitive clit, feeling how muscles in your thighs react helplessly. She repeats the motion before dipping lower, nose brushing your clit as she kisses your entrance, lips gleaming as slick gathers in defence, only enticing her further. Promising the reward of your taste…your flavour…feeling your orgasm on her tongue. 

Or, you could tell me how you hate it, she goads, able to hear the wicked lilt to her honeyed voice. I know how you love to tell us you hate us. How you despise us, how we’re going to hell? Tell me now. Tell me why. Her tongue strokes over your clit, your breathing becoming shallower, but Feyre knows those are simply your body’s reactions—she wants yours.

The building heat dies away as her mouth detaches from you, slippery slick gleaming on her lips as she crawls higher, straddling your hips as she rids herself of her own clothing. “It seems a shame to waste pleasure on you if you won’t even react to it,” she muses, a flush colouring her cheeks, and you shrink away as you feel her wet sex against your bare skin as she spreads her thighs, keeping you pinned to the bed as she sits. “So I guess I’ll let you have your way, for now. I’ll use you instead.”

Feyre crawls higher, anticipating a gleam in your eyes, or at least a twitch of your hands. A shift of expression to reveal your thoughts, but nothing. Even when she prods at your mind, she gets no response. But Rhys has told her this an important part of rehabilitation, reshaping you into what they want. This numbness, it’s all part of their plan—it will work. 

It has to.

Her knees settle either side the top of your head, mattress dipping with her weight, so when she inevitably chooses to sit, she will settle atop your mouth, just as she likes. 

“Are you happy down there, sweet girl?” She asks, unable to help the way her fingers long to play with herself, sex heating now she has your eyes on her. Arousal swiftly liquefies, and she touches the pad of her finger to her clit, aching and sensitive, longing to be stimulated. “I’ll make sure to give you a good show, hm? Would you like that?” She laughs a little breathlessly—normally you’d be kicking and screaming; it’s nice in a way to have you so docile. Obedience will come soon after. 

Feyre spreads her thighs, and you still hate the way your mouth opens, tongue licking and lapping how they’ve trained you to do. Familiar with the punishment they’d inflict when you kicked off too hard. So you follow through with the motions out of habit, and you curl tighter into a ball, head ducked between your knees as you hold yourself together deep inside your mind.

Above you, Feyre moans roughly, thighs parting wider as she rubs her sex over you, liking how your lips catch on her clit, the way your nose pushes lightly at the sensitive bud. She sits fully, thighs parting as her fingers tangle in your hair, grinding closer, moving how she wants to, following every ache, chasing every spark of pleasure her body guides her with, picturing your mouth parted beneath her heat, tongue laying over your lower lip, allowing her to drag her clit across it. 

Rhys, she calls out mentally, where are you?

Already? Her mate muses, that didn’t take very long. 

I can’t wait any longer, Feyre replies breathlessly. She’s being so good Rhys. Come in here. Try her with me.

Show me, he sends back, even though she can feel his approach in her bones.

Feyre glances down, showing the way her fingers are carefully gripping your hair, almost tenderly, guiding you to where she wants, hips shifting over your mouth, liking how your tongue feels against her clit but aching for something deeper. Your scent filters through into his mind, those beginning notes of arousal starting to peek through your fear-tinted scent and his pace quickens ever so slightly before silently entering the room. Feyre doesn’t look up, keeping her eyes on yours so you won’t know about the other presence joining you. 

“You’re being so good,” Feyre murmurs, fingers pushing hair back from your face lightly, thumb stroking up between your brows as she winds her hips, feeling like if she put her mind to it she could come right then and there, watching as your lids flutter as you taste the flavour of her release. “Keep doing that,” she soothes, “keep behaving, and you’ll feel good in no time.” 

You’re so wrapped up in trying to internally shy away from her, so far from the surface of reality that you don’t notice as Rhys slinks in on cat-soft feet. It’s not even until he’s between your legs on the mattress, and his roughened hands slide over the tops of your thighs that the protection you’d been afford until now behind to slip away. Unlike Feyre, he holds no familiarity—he’s unpredictable and dangerous, prone to inflicting you with stinging pain while stuffing you to the brim with pleasure until they’re practically blending together. 

Muscles twitch in your thighs, fluttering in your lower stomach, but it’s the only reaction you give as he pushes your legs wider, bending them at the knee and gripping your hips to allow him control over your lower body. Positioning himself as he likes. 

The first noise of the night is wrung from your lips as Rhysand slides himself in, settling himself comfortably between your open legs until he’s flush with the soft skin of the backs of your thighs. Feyre’s fingers slide through your hair and you try to turn your head away from the sight, try to clamber and crawl back to the corner you had found for yourself, hidden away from their touches that sink so much deeper than bone deep. Her touch is like the raw scrape of cotton, coarse before it’s refined to softened fibres. You’re grateful you can still pick out the unpleasantness of her palms. They’re warm but calloused enough to catch, sweet abrasion lifting up from your skin into your mind as she leans back, reaching behind herself to swipe her thumb across one of your nipples. Is there a diverged universe where you would have enjoyed her heat and warmth? 

It’s been long enough, coping with their hands and warring with their tongues that it doesn’t take too much effort to switch your perspective, your mental opposition steadily eroded with every use. 

In this other world Feyre would have found you first. You would have connected, and grown together at a gentle incline. You would have lived together for a short period, while both of you were working but also husband hunting. You would spend evenings speaking about potential matches, but neither of you would ever manage to commit to someone else. 

The realisation would start slowly, on your end. Spilling a vase on your bed and so having to sleep in Feyre’s while she was away one night, smelling her in the sheets, feeling the imprint of her body dipped into the mattress and the shallowness of her pillow where she would rest her head. Borrowing a bonnet or a pair of gloves of hers when you were due for a luncheon but without anything to wear, and without any money to afford a new purchase, feeling the fit of her fingers over yours, seeing the colours she had chosen for herself. Eating together in the evenings, starting on separate armchairs then moving to sharing one sofa, until on one particularly cold evening you decide to huddle together and you’d feel the warm press of her side and maybe one of you would even lay your head on the other’s shoulder. 

Yes. It would have started slow, and you would have been given the time you needed to accept how intertwined you were with one another. 

Rhysand would have never taken her away from you, and you would have never met your husband. 

You could keep her, and you would privately share space until neither of you could remember whose comb was whose, or which bottle of perfume was yours and which was hers. There would never have been a divide, and you’d still be together. 

Something hot and wet splashes on your cheek, and she’s pulled you close enough to the surface of reality you can make out the slope of her bare shoulders and the heat behind her eyes. Her lashes blink shut but another droplet falls onto your cheek. 

She’s halted her movement, raised up on her knees as she stares down at you with gleaming blue-grey eyes. Her breathing stutters as male hands wrap around her waist, scar-flecked fingers gliding up to cup one of her breasts as he holds her by her hips, nosing up the length of her neck. Inhaling the scent of her wavering arousal through the silk of her long hair. You think you see sorrow in her glistening eyes, but you sink back below your surface, refusing to acknowledge or accept whatever she’s fleetingly considered offering. 

Feyre’s hold tightens on your hair, feeling as you slip away. Her fingers wrap themselves between the strands, nails dragging across your scalp as she tries to pry you open again in a way she hasn’t seen since she decided to take you. Possibly even longer. 

Sweetness, she tries, Sweet girl, come back to me. 

More tears drip down onto your cheek but they’re only surface level. Lacking the cruelty to sink any deeper than that. 

We can be gentle with you. I can be gentle with you again. But still she fails to reach you. Fails to breech the numbness that’s been slowly spreading through your mind since she decided against you. Decided that she couldn’t wait. Decided Rhysand would be her better option. After everything you went through together. 

Rhysand pulls away, his hand lifting from her breast to her jaw as he tilts her face toward him, frowning upon seeing her tear-stained cheeks. It won’t be long now, he whispers into her head. She’s practically there already. Just a little more and she’ll be ours. 

That word sets Feyre’s skin on fire. Does she want you to be theirs? Or does she want you to be hers? The thought seems too dangerous to consider now, especially with her mate so thoroughly wrapped around her. She tosses it away, burying it deep, deep down. Somewhere far from the light. Somewhere Rhysand won’t be able to find. Because she knows she doesn’t like how cruel they’re being. How she doesn’t yet fully trust him to handle you. He can have every part of herself, fall into his arms without any sense of his presence and trust he’ll be there, that he’ll catch her, but not this. 

Not you. 

You’re hers. 

Feyre’s hips begin to rock faintly, gliding the dripping slick of her cunt over your already sopping mouth, strands of arousal sticking the two of you together as her fingers soothe through your hair, gentling her touch to that lost intimacy. 

A small sound responds to her touch. So small she doesn’t even hear it, only feeling the faintest vibration beneath her, softer even than the beat of your heart. 

Her fingers stutter, pulse fumbling as she tries to search for the sign again, now running her thumb over the crest of your cheek. Your tongue tenses beneath her, and Feyre repeats the action, swiping slowly back and forth until a low light is reflecting in your eyes. 

Everything seems veiled in a thin blur, lights fuzzy and forms hazy. There’s a small warmth on your cheek, one that’s so achingly distant you force yourself to rise through the thick fog and into the torture of your senses, nerves feeding you the pressure of Rhys’ cock stuffed full inside you all the way to his base, able to feel the heavy weight of him even now. But the touch you’re seeking is coming from Feyre, looking at you in a way you’ve pleaded with her to give you, countless times. Screamed for that look until your voice was gone and torn. 

You can’t make out what’s happening but your body falls cold as she looks away from you, meeting the gaze of the male she bound herself to. An unknown amount of time passes like that, but then she’s carefully lifting up from your body, pulling away until she’s out of sight and the world loses its colour, returning to dull shades of grey and sepia. The only thing sharp and cruel enough to cut through your filter being the stark violet of the High Lord’s eyes and this time you react. It’s nothing significant, nothing that would have previously caught their attention, the movement so small, but your eyelids lower by a fraction of a degree, that listless numbness seeping back into your muscles. 

Rhysand’s arms band beneath the curve of your spine, palms splaying between your shoulder blades and cupping the back of your head as he pulls you upright. You shudder as he flicks the tip of his tongue over your lips, able to taste his mate there. But instead of deepening the kiss, his eyes seem to gleam with other intentions, and your pulse spikes as he pulls out of you only so he can turn you around. 

There, splayed out on the bed, reclining on her back, is Feyre. 

Not the High Lady. Not Rhysand’s mate. But Feyre. 

Her body looks soft and inviting in a way you’ve not found it since she took you, and though you know her mouth is forming to speak words, none of them reach your ears, sound dulled—one of your first senses to numb. She doesn’t need to say anything though—neither of them do. Nor do either of them even need to give the command for you to know where you’re going, with the way her legs are spread like that. 

But Rhys’ palm closes around your throat, fingers flexing menacingly as he brings his mouth to the smooth curve of your human ear. “Behave, tonight,” he whispers, in a voice like night and silk all heated by the intimate placement of a candle flame. “Then it will all be over.” 

You’re surprised when he releases you, but only because instead of being dragged back far enough that your face will slot nicely between Feyre’s open legs, her arms lift from the bed. Inviting. Rhys pushes you forward encouragingly, both of them waiting to see what you’ll do. When you remain immobile for too long the High Lord squeezes your throat roughly, making you cough before you’re lowering yourself shakily onto your hands and knees. 

Your arms tremble with more than just weakness and terror as your palms press into the mattress, lifting over her open legs instead of sliding beneath them, and part of you waits for Rhys’a bruising hands to grip you by the nape of your neck or jerk you back by your hair to return you to her cunt. But no pain is delivered, and you’re allowed to crawl further up, your body cradled between Feyre’s thighs.

Her fingertips dance over your shoulders and it’s enough force to have your arms melting, settling yourself to her chest, cheek laying between her breasts. 

Feyre’s skin is hot, body lush and perfectly curved to accommodate your own. Her arms skate across your shoulders, wrapping themselves across their width, tangling her fingers through your hair, running fingertips through the strands at the ends. 

You collapse entirely, the scrape of her nails scratching lethargically between your shoulder blades unlatching a final clasp as your mind spills throughout your skull. 

Rhysand’s palms press themselves into the back of your hips, darkness bringing your legs wider between Feyre’s. A shudder runs up your spine as Rhys kneels over you, able to feel the heavy weight of his cock between your thighs, his skin dragging against your own, pinning your legs into the mattress while Feyre remains freely beneath you. 

A whimper lifts through your throat as the High Lord spreads you apart and Feyre brushes her lips to the crown of your head. She lies to you over and over again, It’ll be okay; You’re almost there; Just let him settle in; You’ll feel good soon enough, you know you will. Awful, repulsive lies you don’t want to believe, and yet for some reason they feel closer to truth than ever.

Rhys keeps you spread apart as he presses his cock to your entrance, your hips squirming weakly but your legs are pinned, arms too heavy to argue, locked to Feyre’s chest while she pushes tenderness into your hair. More whimpers spill from your lips as he begins to inch his way in, rolling forward then back, rocking himself further and deeper until he’s once again stretching your limits. 

“Careful,” Feyre hisses when she feels you jolt against her stomach, the twitch in your fingertips. You can imagine how his violet eyes gleam with pleasure at your reaction, twinkling as he looks at his mate and bucks his hips softly, eliciting a moan from your mouth. Feyre almost coos at the noise, palms cradling your head as fingers continue to brush through your hair. “Feeling good now? Didn’t I tell you? You always end up liking it.” You try to squirm against her but they’ve sucked out all your fight, leaving you cold and dangerously empty. Space they plan on claiming. 

Once he’s all the way in Rhys slides his hands around your waist, darkness looping around your arms and beneath your shoulders to pull you upright. You whimper as cold flushes your bare font, and Feyre growls lowly, making to sit upright before her husband’s darkness ties her back down. 

“Rhys,” Feyre growls, “give her back.” 

Hot breath tickles the space behind your ear then teeth are nipping at your lobe. Hands invade across your body, breath gasping from your mouth as hot palms soothe the cold of your skin, cupping your breasts. “I’m letting her look,” Rhysand whispers, fingers moving higher to flex around your throat. “Letting her admire.” 

The aggression dulls in Feyre’s eyes, a pink colouring her cheeks as she shifts on the bed, opening her thighs a little wider—as if you’ll be awed by the offer and dive right in. 

“For someone who’s suffered so much of her life, you’ve been disgracefully ungrateful to my mate,” Rhysand murmurs beside your ear, soft enough you wonder if Feyre can hear him. You don’t like it when it’s only him touching you. Too dangerous. Too reckless. “Aren’t you thankful that she saved you?” 

Anger catches like wildfire and you twist your head to look at him but the moment his indomitable violet eyes lock with your own it’s snuffed out, ice skittering up your spine. Rhys smiles, as if he knows exactly how much terror he puts into you. “Aren’t you grateful Feyre came back for you?” 

“Rhys,” Feyre huffs, her hips circling with frustration as he keeps her hands pinned to the bed, unable to even touch herself. 

“Look at her,” Rhys whispers, close enough you think you feel the flutter of air from his lashes with each blink. Fingers squeeze your jaw but they’re without their usual bite as he directs your attention to his mate. “Isn’t she beautiful? Doesn’t she deserve to have whatever she wants?” Whoever she wants, too. 

You try to squirm away but his grip tightens in warning, his free arm banding across your hips as he presses himself deeper into your cunt. “Doesn’t she?” It’s clearly a warning—one of the gentlest you’ve ever received from him. The skin around your knuckles tightens, nails biting into your palms before turning slack, head hanging as you yield one faint dip of your head. All he wants is an answer, and you know if you keep the right one from him… The memory of pain still hasn’t faded from your skin. 

Rhysand turns you back to face him, tilting your chin so he gets to look down on you and not for the first time you wonder what he sees. Is there any way he’s oblivious to your disgust? But he lays his mouth atop your own gently this time and you force your body to remain calm, steering away the tension that seeks to thread itself through your muscles. 

You know you want us. Rhysand tells you. You know you want her. I know you’ve wanted her, too. You’re the only one refusing to acknowledge it. 

Because you’re lying. You think. 

Am I? 

Tension sears its way through your body as his hand slides down to cup your heat, fingers parting around the thick stretch of his cock. You come every time we touch you, drip down your thighs at the thought of her. You know it would be better to fall into us. 

You’re cruel, and manipulative, and barbaric, and-

Loving. 

An actual laugh croaks from your throat at that. In what kind of twisted world does anything they’ve done to you be considered loving? 

His tongue flicks across your lips then he’s plying you open, swiping along your teeth to taste the inside of your mouth. You’re disgusting, you think, but the thought only echoes through your empty mind. Instead you become aware of Feyre speaking, her voice so at odds to the cruelty of the High Lord. Your body aches to lay against her again, to rest yourself against her body, bare skin on bare skin. Even if it would change nothing, the desire is becoming too apparent to keep denying. 

You gasp when Rhys’ hot mouth opens over your throat, sucking marks into your flesh. His thumbs swipe across your nipples, grazing the sensitive peaks and you realise his darkness has retreated from Feyre. 

Stark heat flushes your cheeks as you spy the meandering path of her fingers as they trail over her stomach, slipping away between her legs as she runs her hungry eyes over you. You want to hide away from that ravenous hunger. Bury yourself in soft darkness that shields rather than contains. You squeak when her fingers instead lift to graze your cunt, their pads trailing over the bump of your clit. Rhysand groans softly beside your ear as you tighten around him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Feyre whispers, now sitting up from the bed, her hands lifting to wrap around your waist. “So perfect. So pretty.” She presses a light kiss to above your navel, affording a small lick to the bare skin that makes you shudder. It’s too warm in here. Something bubbling beneath your flesh. Her kisses lift higher, until her pink mouth rests between your breasts, and you’re looking down into her blue-grey eyes. 

Fingers push between your legs again, sliding up and down over your centre, rubbing over your clit while Rhys keeps himself flush to your back. Feyre brings her fingers back up, a pulse of arousal passing through your body as she pushes her fingers across her tongue, tasting you. A whimper escapes your sealed lips, hips shifting faintly and you’re unsure if it’s out of protest or desire. 

“…Feyre…”

Almost as soon as her name is out she’s moaning, fingers returning to your clit to rub and circle. That warmth begins to intensify, a tingling need centring between your legs. Your own hands half-heartedly land on her shoulders, as if trying to push her away but it’s useless even pretending to try. “I’m sorry for stealing you away so suddenly,” Feyre whispers, and you freeze. Staring at her. “But you seemed so isolated. I missed you. I missed being with you. Being beside you.” She kisses your sternum. “I hated not being able to be affectionate with you.” Another kiss. “You don’t understand what it was like.” Kiss. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” she whispers, “but you were never brave enough to follow after me.” 

“You walked away first,” you whisper, before hearing how much like a confession it sounds. But Feyre shakes her head. “You denied me,” she whispers, “you denied us.” 

“I don’t want both of you,” you cry with more force than you’ve felt in a while. “If I’ve ever felt anything it was only for you.” 

Rhysand’s teeth find light placement in your shoulder. Cruel creature, he seems to be saying.

Feyre’s brows curve upward, as if disappointed you don’t like a gift she’s been preparing to share. “You don’t like the feel of his cock?” She asks softly. Again, Rhys groans as you squeeze him. “You don’t like how he fucks you?” 

“Feyre, stop.” There are tears in your eyes. 

“You don’t like the way his hands feel? What about his fingers?” She licks slowly between your breasts. “What about his tongue?” 

“Feyre stop.” 

“What about mine?” She continues. “Do you like it when I touch you? Do you like feeling my hands wrap around your skin? How do my fingers feel inside of you?”

“Feyre…” You plead. 

“What about my mouth?” She whispers, resuming the idle circles of your clit. “You love my tongue, don’t you? I know you like it when you’ve got fingers inside of you and a mouth over your clit. You like tasting me too, don’t you?” 

“Feyre!” 

“What about when you’re on your back and I’m touching you like it’s only us?” 

“Yes.” You cry, eyes squeezing shut as tears finally fall down your cheeks. 

Feyre’s face lights up, and both her hands are cupping your cheeks. Not even a single thought in your head considers resistance as Rhys’ arms release you and you fall with Feyre back into the bed, falling into her arms, falling into her embrace. “Then stay,” she murmurs, stroking your skin, petting your hair. “You’ll learn to like him,” Feyre whispers, “you’ll get used to him. Learn to love it.” You try to shake your head but at last Rhys is moving his hips, grinding up against you so his cock rubs up against those spongey, tender spots. “Sweetness,” Feyre whispers as though she’s sad. “You will,” she promises, “just open yourself up to it. Open up to me again.” 

You want to shake your head. Want to demand that they stop. But of course you can’t. 

The High Lord bucks his hips and a moan spills from your mouth onto Feyre’s skin. You hate how good he feels. How biologically pleasing he is. How satisfied you are from just having the thick weight of his cock stuffing you full, the touch they have on your skin as if they really want you. 

They really do. They wanted you enough to take you. To cling onto you even through every protest and scream. 

Maybe they’ve finally done it. 

Maybe they’ve finally made their way inside.

The last drops of energy are sapped from your bones as Rhysand begins drawing his hips back and fucking you in earnest, Feyre’s legs bending at the knee to cradle your body with her own. It feels good like this. To have her arms banding around your body while Rhys carefully drags the pleasure from your flesh to the surface. “See?” Feyre whispers. “It feels good doesn’t it?” 

You want to shake your head. Want to deny her. Deny both of them. 

But you can’t. 

You’re only falling deeper. 

Moans reach your ears and you know they’re your own. Rhys has always been an expert on pleasure. Knowing where to press and where to push to have sopping wetness greeting him whenever he pleases. 

His hips buck sharply, pressing himself deep inside your cunt and you gasp as the solid heat of his chest presses down on your back, sandwiching you so intimately between them. Feyre pushes hair from your temple but you can hardly be bothered to seek him out. Rhys’ tongue licks up your throat, lips splitting in a grin when you squeeze him, your hips swirling faintly to feel him against your inner walls. 

“Like that?” He whispers. “After all this time, all your fussing and protests, all for you to hardly be able to speak from how good I’m making you feel, huh?” A moan that sounds too close to agreement escapes your mouth, and Feyre coos as your nonsensical noises. “What a good cunt you have,” Rhys purrs, rocking his hips to yours. “At least she’s always known what she wants, even if you’ve been too pretty and dumb to make up your mind.” 

He thinks you’re pretty? A fae thinks you’re pretty? 

Rhys’ chuckle is bone deep, dripping into your marrow and filling you with heated arousal that’s too thick and sticky for you to keep yourself together. 

“So pretty,” he breathes, wicked amusement clear in his voice. “Pretty, ditzy, and dumb.” 

Pretty.

The rest of your thinking is pushed away as Rhys pulls back, the pace deepening; hardening. Your eyes squeeze shut, body limp and pliable beneath his ministrations of pleasure. He’s slamming into you, using the thick length of his cock to push and press and rub and touch every place you could want, muscles flexing weakly in your legs in attempts to push your hips the slightest bit upward from the bed so he might find it easier. 

“You’re being so good,” Feyre praises, continuing to stroke your hair, gently petting as she holds you close. “You’re taking him so well. So perfectly.” 

Perfectly, she said. Your cunt aches from the praise. A relief from their cruelty. 

Rhys touches a spot inside of you and your spine curves, toes curling as embarrassing sounds release from your chest, mewling and whining for him to push against it again. “Rhys…” you plead, fingers trembling as his name teeters off the edge of your tongue. Your hips swirl, mouth opening to ask him again but then he finds it and your eyes roll. 

The High Lord’s fingers wrap around your throat, forcing your neck to crane far enough back until you can see him looming above you, so unfairly lean and tall, even to fae standards. His mouth twists into a half-cruel, half-amused smirk, cocking a brow. “More?” 

There might be drool spilling out the corner of your lips, “More…” His smirk widens, grip leaving your throat to land a light slap to your cheek before digging his fingers in. “Want my cock? Want it harder?” 

“Uh-huh…” It sounds stupid even to your own ears, and humiliating heat warms your features. Rhysand’s laugh is edged with condescending pity, delivering another small slap that has your eyes stinging, “Tell me. Say you want it.” 

You stare at him, unable to shake your head. You’re not doing this again, but his cock feels so good coupled with Feyre’s tender touches, fingers playing with your hair while she watches her mate enjoy you. Violet eyes gleam, then a stinging pain smacks against your cheek, fingers digging in to the hinge of your jaw as he spits into your mouth. Your toes curl, cunt squeezing his cock tight as something flutters about between your legs. 

“Say it,” the High Lord demands.

“I love it,” you whisper in a rushed breath. “I-…I want it. Please.” 

“And what do you want?” He goads, not yet allowing you to swallow. 

“You-…” You cut yourself off, gagging beneath his hold, tears stinging your eyes. “You,” you pant, fumbling out words you think he might like. “Both of you. Feyre. Rhys.” Pupils expand as he hears his name in your moan, colour warming his tan skin, “Good enough.” 

He releases your throat and you swallow, hauling air down into your lungs only for it to be shoved right back out again, cheek falling to Feyre’s chest as Rhys slams his cock into you, bucking his hips to a brutal pace that might have driven you up the bed if Feyre wasn’t keeping you in place. Your moans fluctuate in volume, growing louder whenever his cock hits that special spot you hadn’t known existed before them. 

You cry as the orgasm blazes through your body, every muscle strung taut as pleasure sets you on edge, pulsing through your body with the force of feverish heat. Your hips buck against his, pressing as tight as you can against him as even your lungs seize, rendered silent from the onslaught of searing pleasure. With a final sharp buck, Rhysand finds his tipping point, hot breath panting up the nape of your neck and you yelp as his two palms roughly pin you in place as he fucks out his orgasm, feeling more like his toy beneath the dominating grip. 

Hot cum spills into your cunt, spurting out in thick waves that fill you up, feeling the muscles flexing in his thighs every time he slams himself in and your vision turns hazy. Dark spots dance through your vision until all you can sense are tipping colours and a blaze of passion up your spine, liquid heat pooling in your belly. All the while Feyre’s pressing kisses into your hair and stroking the crown of your head, helping you through. 

You have no way of knowing how long it’s been when you next open your eyes. You’re in the same position as you were before except a little further up Feyre’s body, hips no longer cradled between her legs but now with your face resting at the junction of her shoulder and neck, breath fanning ticklishly across the intimate expanse of skin. 

When your breathing pattern shifts, Feyre tilts her head and you become aware of her arms wrapped around your body. One hand splayed across your lower back, and the other- 

Heat swarms your features, squirming faintly to feel more of her, spine curving. 

“Awake now?” Feyre asks, rosey lips pulling upwards in their corners. She leans forward, pushing a kiss to your forehead. “Rhys’s gone for the moment but he’ll back soon,” she assures, watching you carefully as she gauges your reaction. Your head lolls, lids feeling heavy, body still tingling from pleasure. “We didn’t want any dripping out while he was away,” Feyre murmurs, her heart beating faster upon hearing your moan when she curls her fingers inside of you, how you circle your hips downward, trying to push them deeper. 

In reward for your lethargic adoration, Feyre pushes her two fingers deeper, slowly pumping them in and out, her cunt tingling with need when she feels you squeeze her as if you’re also trying to keep all of him tucked up inside of you. 

Just a little longer and you’ll be theirs, forever. 

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

feysand taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza08

[a-pastel-edgelord]

The Traveler

major spoilers for kny/demon slayer ending reader beware

Sanemi Shinazugawa is as close to content as he can be but he's learning the hard way that there is more to life than what's in front of him. The possibilities, on this summer morning, are endless. The sun is only just rising and the haze of noise from insects is already in full swing. He's traveling, he can't feel comfortable settling in one spot, not after years of going from one town to the next. Sanemi will stop when he feels at home, and he's perfectly fine with never finding it. For now, he has no destination.

A scream tears the peaceful lull apart, and Sanemi is moving before he can blink. His hand travels to where his sword should be at his hip (he long since returned it to the Ubuyashiki family). His heart is in his mouth before his brain finally catches up. There are no demons. The thought brings security—another scream—but it does not comfort him.

He goes careening around a bend in the dirt road, spotting a house on a hill through the trees. A normal person probably wouldn't have heard the screams based on the distance from whence he arrived but that's not important. Sanemi hasn't been able to give up total concentration breathing constant yet and he's glad of it at this moment.

The retired Wind Hashira pauses in the clearing. Should he go around back? A person crashes through the sliding paper doors. It's a man, probably thrice his age, with a fresh black eye blooming on his face.

"You bitch! I'll throw you out on your backside!"

"Try it then, you old bastard!" Comes the shrieking reply, "If you put your hands on him again, I'll gouge your eyes out!"

The first time Sanemi claps eyes on you, you look like a wreck. Your lips are bleeding and there are bruises splattered all over your visible skin. Your summer yukata is torn in a couple places and a size too small like you outgrew it a year ago. Chest heaving in exertion, you bare your teeth and there's a throbbing vein in your neck.

Sanemi is so entranced that he almost misses movement behind you. It's a child—children who all resemble one another and are visibly young. They inch forward, still in the shade of the house, as if stepping into direct sunlight is dangerous.

You take two steps forward, the light of the sunrise throwing your face into sharp relief. Your back is straight, your chin is high, and your eyes are cold as they look down your nose.

It might seem nearly inconceivable that you must have been the one who tossed this man through the shōji doors. But Sanemi knows better. You step down off the veranda into the grass. You move with intent, your shadow falls across the face of your prey. "Get out of my house."

"You don't order me around!" The man spits and reaches out to grab the collar of your clothes.

A scarred hand snatched up his wrist, and Sanemi isn't surprised to find it's his hand (missing fingers and all). "Get lost, old man." The words themselves aren't threatening, and neither is his tone. However, his grip tightens enough to cut off blood flow. He's sure the older man can feel the creak of bones under pressure.

"Ah! G-get offa me!" The man wrenches his arm free, back peddling before stumbling away from the house. "I'll be back—don't go thinking you're safe, you wretches!"

Sanemi watches the man run down the hill and out of sight, unmoving. When he decides the old bastard is gone, he turns to you, and you're already looking at him.

Evaluating and cautious you approach. The previous moment's emotions are still coursing through your body. Sanemi sees the way your hands shake, but your face betrays nothing. "Who are you?"

Your words are rude, but Sanemi can't bring himself to stand on propriety. "M' just a traveler. I heard a commotion, so I happened by."

You blink and remember proper manners. "Would—would you like a hot meal? We don't have much in the way of interesting fare but..."

"Don't think you owe me. That man was already runnin' scared by the time I did anything."

"I—" You glance back at the house, and Sanemi follows your gaze. Four children of a variety of ages stand at the end of the veranda, the youngest looking a little worse for wear. Their eyes are bright and curious. One of them nods. "We, would like to offer our thanks. Please eat with us."

Sanemi Shinazugawa is sure there's a future where he leaves. Where he never shares food with you and your siblings. There's a version of him who doesn't get to see you smile when he fixes the door in exchange for a place to sleep the next night.

But this isn't that future. "Pardon the intrusion." He nods and follows you back to the house.

[buttdumplin]

The sweet, lovely poly 141 boys and their Spanish-speaking latine partner.

This was meant to be a quick little thing, but boy did this get away from me lmao. This is the fluffiest shit I've ever indulged in and I love it. Big thank you to @mikichko for inspiring and helping with this!!!

cw: poly 141, gn!reader, latine reader, mexican slang, hint of d/s dynamics in Johnny's word count: 2.1K

Price, god love the man, is the one who seems to stumble the most. It's almost comical, considering the fact that Spanish and Arabic are so similar due to their histories. But there's a big difference between the Spanish he's learned to recognize and what you throw at him on the daily. He truly thinks it's because of his age, window of acquisition and all that. John does not expect to be able to speak fluently with you, but he does at least want to understand you. What he really wants, though, is to make you feel more fully at home with him, and he is forever grateful that you feel comfortable and safe enough with them to embrace all parts of your identity.

"Hola, amor mío. How was your day?" you greet him from the couch, eyeing him from tip to toe and almost whistling at seeing him in uniform. "Sigues rechulo, mi güerito, so I assume all went well?"

John swings down to kiss you, gripping the back of your neck to prolongue the kiss, trying to soak in as much of the affection as he can while also disguising the fact that he still doesn't fully recognize what came after.

"Yours was good too, I trust?"

"Yeah, but my brother called. El güey still con sus pinches mamadas and asking for my help. Aguas, in case he shows up this week."

"I... will keep an eye out, dove."

"Call me si les arma pedo and I'm not around."

He just nods sagely and squishes up against you on the couch, letting your warmth seep into his tired bones.

Later that evening, he rounds up the boys while you're in the shower and pulls out a small notebook where he's written things out phonetically. John may not have all the knowledge he needs, but he sure as hell is good at getting it.

"'Güey,' that's the brother's nickname?"

"No, that's like 'man/guy.' But it's also an insult. But not always," Johnny supplies.

"Fuck me, okay. 'Rechulo' is... I got nothing for that one."

"The 're' is for heavy emphasis, 'chulo' is 'cute/handsome/pretty.' 'Re' can go on practically any adjective," Simon steps in.

"'Aguas' and 'pedo' CANNOT be what they are, right?"

Kyle takes his hand and chuckles, "No, sweetheart. The first is like a warning, the second a fight or scene or scandal. In this context."

John's shoulders finally relax and he lets out a heavy sigh, putting the final touches on his notes of the day.

"Thank you, boys, for your patience and your kindness. And your secrecy," John huffs a little laughter and gives them his sweetest smile, the one where you can see the dimples poking out through the beard.

They all reach over to gently caress him, taking turns kissing the parts of him they can reach.

"Thank you, John, for trying so hard."

~

Beautiful, wonderful Kyle, the delight of a man that he is, is the one giving it as good as he gets. He's the one crooning in your ear, showering you with the most decadent terms of endearment, knowing full well they make your knees much weaker in Spanish. He'll use the advantage every single chance he has, don't doubt that for a second. But truly, it's the soft seclusion of those moments that he cherishes most, when you're looking up at him with big bright eyes, knowing you fully trust him to take care of you.

You're grumbling away as you wash dishes after dinner when Kyle comes up behind you, arms making the way slowly around your waist, chin dropping onto your shoulder.

"Oh, tesoro mío, look at you working away, working so hard for us."

You refuse to look at him and give a fussy pout. He knows it's your least favorite of the house duties. So much so that you're always willing to do almost anything as long as you don't have to touch wet food.

"It looks like you've done enough, cariño. Come join us in bed."

"No. None of you wanted to trade with me so se aguantan," you try to wiggle and bump his head away from yours.

"Come on, cosa hermosa, we need you with us to settle for the night," he pulls your hands from the water, drying them and turning you towards him.

You immediately bury your face into his chest. Can't look him in the eye, he'll win you over the moment you do.

"So they send in the smooth talker, huh?"

Kyle laughs, clear and bright, and he wraps you back up in his arms, gently cradling your head until you give in and look up at him.

"Or," he says, making you both rock gently, "I'm trying to sneak in a little solo time."

Your body melts against his as the words sink in, big eyes blinking softly up at him, "Besito?"

"As many as you want, mi vida. Until you grow bored of me," and you're letting out a sweet sigh as those soft lips meet yours.

His hands move to bring your body closer to his, to milk this quiet moment for as much contact as possible, to sear it all into his memory.

"You two are awfully quiet out there," Simon calls from the bedroom and it makes you break apart with a little jump.

You hear frantic rustling that has to be Johnny, "Hold on, what happened to doing the dishes!"

A chuckle escapes the two of you, sparkling eyes meeting in the low light from the stove hood. The sound of John huffing to get comfortable floats in from the bedroom.

"Just a minute more, hermosura," he mutters against your hair. "Wanna stay here a bit longer."

"Really liking all those pet names, aren't you?"

Kyle laughs again and gives you a squeeze, "Mean every single one of them."

And you happily linger, not pointing out that you've noticed an endearing pattern of Kyle wrapping up nights in the kitchen with you in his arms and a faint love song echoing down the hall for you two to sway to.

~

Beloved, darling Simon, he hides his own understanding of the language. He understands it nearly perfectly, with just the tiniest margin of error, nothing too big to bring attention to it. Overall, he's able to catch almost everything you mumble. It's not to be sneaky or anything like that, Simon would never do anything to compromise your privacy. It's more that he doesn't quite see the need to verbalize it. To him it's nothing special, no need to make a spectacle. Instead, he lets it seep into his actions, ever the acts of service lover that he is.

You're spread out on the couch, on the phone with your mother, complaining, "Como chingan los del trabajo. Me pidieron un reporte para el viernes y ahora me reclaman que todavía no se los he dado y apenas es miércoles."

There was a tension in your shoulders when you came home from work, he didn't miss that. Caught you jolting to a stop mid-stretch. And as the call goes on longer, Simon picks up on more.

"No he tenido chance de lavar ropa, ni una putisima pijama... Traigo un pinche antojo de mole, pero es un chingo de trabajo y ahorita no le puedo dedicar el tiempo..."

He quietly moves to gather the boys as you continue ranting and pace around the room. You're too caught up in your call to see them forming a massive huddle and their nodding at Simon right as the break and throw their joined hands in the air.

By the time you're off the phone, it's dark out and you notice the house is quieter than usual. You move to look for the boys (they can't have left without telling you, right?) when Simon pops out from the hall, crooked smile you love so much adorning his face, and he simply takes your hand to pull you into the bathroom. A hot bath greets you, some honeyed bath bomb already dissolving in the water and your laptop set up on a bucket besides the bath, your comfort show already pulled up and ready to play. Simon then points to your softest pajamas washed and set out on the counter for you.

"And you'll help me with my lotion too?"

He kisses your forehead, "When do I not?"

"The boys?"

"Setting up dinner. Kyle and I are making your favorite."

You whip around to face him, eyes wide and excited, "With fresh tortillas?"

With a low, affirmative hum Simon pulls you in closer and just holds you. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to. But he lends you his strength, which is all he can really hope for. The steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his arms around you help release the tightness in your body. Letting out your own little hum, you give him a squeeze and he squeezes back harder, crushing you in the way he knows you find comforting. There's a soft devotion in his tenderness with you, an unshakable support in every single thing you do.

"So you gonna undress me too, or...?"

A peal of laughter escapes you as he playfully swats at your butt, "Undress yourself. I've got cooking to do."

A day without hearing your laughter is a day poorly spent to Simon.

He's almost to the door when you pull him back into you, hands tugging on his shirt to bring him down to your height. His own laughter rumbles in his chest as you cover his face in loud kisses, and he stays locked in place. He will for as long as you need him to, never mind his back. If it's gonna go out eventually, he'd rather it go out from his time spent like this.

~

Johnny, bless the boy, is desperate to hear it, to have you address him directly. You speak plenty around the house, on phone calls with friends, talking back at the tv (some shows have been put on temporary bans, or at the very least you're not supposed to watch them alone), at the lovely crooked cat yall adopted. You shower them with pet names with every breath you take. And he loves it all! Loves that you so willingly share so much of yourself with them. But Johnny boy is dying for something specific- "Love, why don't you call me papi?"

When he voices it, it's a complete surprise. Simon and Kyle both laugh so hard so suddenly that they find themselves choking on their own spit. Price himself is caught so off-guard that he fully looks up from the dinner he's prepping in the kitchen, raw chicken slipping out of his hands and plopping back into the flour bowl. You at first laugh it off lightly, thinking it was one of his cutesy jokes he makes to get a giggle out of everyone. That would have made the most sense, honestly. But when he looks away, big blue eyes shining with the softest hint of embarrassment, it sinks in.

You shift in your seat a fraction, "Johnny, I don't even call any of you that in English. You know it's not exactly the same thing, right?"

"I know but the little old lady from the corner shop calls me "papi" and so does the older man who brings the water and other people too and it's always so affectionate and so I thought..."

He spares a glance at you, hoping he hasn't completely overstepped.

"Where did this come from?"

"Ale let it slip last time we grabbed coffee and the joy on Rudy's face was so blinding that I thought maybe we should try it."

"Honey--"

"Please, just once."

"But I--"

"It doesn't have to be a title! It can be soft and casual, no expectations."

"You don't--"

"I promise I'll be good for it."

Oh.

Your gaze meets the other boys' and you all take a good look at your Johnny. At some point during his pleading he brought himself down to kneel in front of you. His broad shoulders are slumped forward in submission, his hands clenched together so tightly his fingertips are completely white. Price nods at you, the other two eagerly nodding along as well.

Leaning forward, you grab him by the jaw, gently bringing his head to rest against your thigh.

Running your fingers through his hair, you utter out a low, "Sweet little thing like you just wants to be good, don't you papi?"

Johnny's eyes glaze over slightly, a shy, dazed smile growing on his face. There's not an ounce of hesitation in him as he nuzzles his face into your thigh, just sweet elation. Pleased grumbles escape the others, making Johnny's smile grow bigger.

You make sure to add it into your regular circulation.

[candycandy00]

My Sweet Pet - A Togame x Reader Fanfic

Togame ends up with a pet hybrid cat girl he never wanted. 

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Hybrid AU. Togame is aged up (mid 20’s). Oral sex. First time sex. Reader has a prominent scar. Divider by @benkeibear! Any and all feedback is very appreciated!

Togame never wanted a hybrid pet. He’d seen the poor little things trailing along behind their owners, looking pitiful. He knew what they were used for, and just because they were literally created to be living sex toys, it didn’t make the situation feel any less gross. 

They were built a little smaller than normal adult human women, sporting cute ears and tails. He supposed he could see the appeal, but the idea of buying a woman just seemed wrong to him. 

Tonight as he’s walking home from the Ori, hands in the pockets of his Shishitoren jacket, he hears a small commotion coming from an alley. He stops and glances in the direction of the noise, blanching when he realizes the alley is right beside a hybrid Pet Shop. 

In the dim evening light, he sees a large man dragging a small woman with cat ears toward a van. She’s screaming, fighting with all her might to pull her little arm out of his grasp. Togame sighs. He knows how things work at these “shops”. He shouldn’t be shocked, and he shouldn’t get involved. But just then she looks up at him, and their eyes meet. 

“Please help me!” she cries, her pleading eyes full of tears. 

Fuck. How is he supposed to ignore this?

He walks over and grabs the man’s shoulder. “Hey. You’re hurting the lady. Could you ease up?”

The man turns to look at Togame, still tightly gripping the woman’s arm. He’s a big guy, a couple inches taller than even Togame’s considerable height, and bulky with a combination of fat and muscle. “Fuck off! This is none of your business!”

“Well, see, she asked for my help,” Togame says slowly with a casual tone. “That kinda makes it my business now.”

The man releases the woman so that he can focus on Togame. He draws back, raising his fist as he shouts, “I told you to fuck off!”

When the fist swings down, Togame catches it in midair, twists it while gripping the man’s forearm, and then uses it to throw the man to the ground. “And I told you to ease up,” he says, not even breaking a sweat. 

The woman with cat ears scurries over to Togame, hiding behind him as another man walks out of the shop and down the alley. 

“What the hell is going on?” the new arrival asks, looking from the man groaning on the ground to Togame. 

Togame feels the woman clutch his arm. Her hands are shaking. “I didn’t realize shops were so rough with hybrid women,” he says. 

The new man exhales. “We usually aren’t, but she’s a special case.”

Togame glances down at her. She looks up at him with those glistening, teary eyes. “Special how?” he asks, curious now. 

The man, who at least seems calmer and more reasonable than the one on the ground, gives the woman a pitying look. “We can’t sell her. She has an ugly scar on her body that makes her… undesirable.”

The woman seems to shrink at the words, looking at the ground as if in shame. 

The man goes on. “We tried to sell her, but no one wants her. I can’t keep feeding her forever, so I decided to put her down. That’s where we’re taking her.”

Togame feels disgust swirling in the pit of his stomach. They’re going to kill this woman because no one wants to fuck her? He never imagined things were this bad for hybrids. He looks down at her again, at her tear streaked face, her small, trembling hands clinging to his arm. 

Fuck. He never wanted a hybrid, never wanted anything to do with them. But he can’t just walk away from this. 

“How much is she?”

The man looks surprised. “You want her?”

Togame sighs again. “Just tell me the price.”

The man stares at the two of them, then shrugs. “If you’re willing to take her, you can have her for free. I’d have to pay to put her down anyway.”

“Guess I’ll take her then,” Togame says, looking down at his new pet again. 

She suddenly releases his arm and slips around in front of him, wrapping her arms around his torso in a soft but tight hug. 

Togame’s face turns pink. “Huh? What are you doing?”

Without answering, she breaks the hug, reaches down and takes hold of his hand, then pulls it to her mouth. He’s too confused to pull away before she opens her mouth and bites him. It’s not a hard bite, barely breaking the skin, but it does surprise him enough to make him jerk his hand out of her grasp. 

She looks up at him, a disappointed expression on her face. Togame looks from her to the shop owner. “Uh, is it normal for her to bite?”

The owner chuckles. “You don’t know anything about hybrids, do you? She just imprinted on you.”

Togame examines the faint teeth marks on his hand. “What does that mean?”

The owner shakes his head. “I don’t have time to explain everything. Look it up online.” Then he turns and walks back toward the entrance of the store.

Togame looks at his pet. “Are you gonna explain?”

She shakes her head, looking at the ground shyly, her face flushed with embarrassment. He hasn’t heard her speak since she asked for help. If not for that, he’d think she’s mute. Maybe hybrids just don’t talk much. 

“Guess I’ll just Google it,” he says, then he starts to walk out of the alley. “Come on, I’ll take you to my place for now.”

She follows after him, and for the first time he notices her tail, swishing excitedly behind her, the same color as her ears and hair. 

“I’m Togame, by the way. Togame Jo,” he tells her. She nods, but doesn’t offer her name. Does she even have one? Is he supposed to name her?

As they walk down the street, Togame pulls out his phone and begins reading about hybrids and what “imprinting” means. 

“Hybrids typically imprint on their owners within three to five days after being purchased,” one website says. “Once a hybrid imprints on someone, they feel an emotion much like intense romantic love for that person. They also feel extreme sexual arousal while in the presence of the human they imprinted upon.”

Togame stops reading and glances to the side, where the woman is walking next to him. She’s staring at him with glassy eyes, her lips parted, a blush on her cheeks. Holy shit, is she turned on right now? He feels his own face getting warm under her lusty gaze, not sure how to deal with this situation. 

Looking back at his phone, he continues silently reading about imprinting. 

“To complete the imprinting process, the human owner must bite the hybrid in return. Until then, the hybrid will feel uneasy and insecure. Some owners intentionally refuse to complete the process to keep their pet in this state, desperate to earn their owner’s love.”

That sounds cruel, but Togame isn’t sure he wants to complete the process. He tries looking up how to break the imprinting, but all the sources he finds suggest that is a very bad idea and would cause psychological harm to the hybrid. Ah well, he can decide a little later, after doing more research. 

There’s something else he reads about the care of hybrids: “Since they are genetically engineered to please their owners sexually, most hybrids use sexuality to communicate their feelings. Rejecting their advances will make them feel that you are rejecting their feelings.”

He shoves his phone into his pocket, wondering again how he’s going to navigate such a troublesome situation. 

**************************

You follow your first ever owner home, eager to find out where you’ll be living from now on. Just minutes ago, you were about to be killed. Even before that, you had resigned yourself to never being bought and spending the rest of your life in a tiny cage. Though the idea of being owned by a stranger, forced to do whatever he wants, was terrifying, a lifetime in the cage was even scarier. 

But now you can’t believe your luck. Not only were you finally bought, escaping death in the process, but your owner is kind! He saved you when he could have simply ignored you. On top of that, he’s incredibly handsome. 

You watch his tall figure walking beside you, a little bit further ahead. With his long legs, he could easily leave you behind without even noticing, but he’s considerate enough to keep pace with you. 

It’s no exaggeration to say you’ve never seen a human man so beautiful. You really didn’t even have to imprint on him to fall in love and be attracted to him, but the urge had been so strong in that moment, you couldn’t resist. You want nothing more than for him to complete the process. 

There’s just one thing worrying you. He hasn’t seen your scar. He was told about it, but that’s not the same as seeing it for himself. Maybe you can keep most of your clothes on, even when pleasing him, at least until he completes the imprinting. 

The two of you arrive at a tall building and climb stairs to reach the third floor. You haven’t been out in the city since you were a kitten, when they took groups of you out to learn about the outside world. But you remember buildings like these, called apartments. 

He stops in front of one of the doors, unlocks it, and steps in, motioning for you to follow. With a bit of excitement and a bit of anxiety, you go inside. 

The apartment is small, but cozy. He shows you around, giving you the very brief tour of the living room, tiny kitchen, bathroom, and single bedroom. 

“It’s not much,” he says. 

“It’s bigger than my cage,” you tell him. He looks surprised to hear your voice. You’ve always been quiet, not liking to talk much to people you don’t know. But this is your owner. You’re going to know each other intimately. 

The thought has you squeezing your thighs together. From the moment you bit him and began the imprint, you’ve felt a burning desire for him. It started out fairly weak, but has grown in intensity with each passing moment. Right now, you want to feel his big, strong hands on you, to have him climb on top of you. But you’re too shy to initiate anything. You’ve never had an owner before, so your knowledge of sex comes only from the videos they had you and the others watch. You didn’t realize arousal could be so powerful. 

You really hope he wants to enjoy his new pet tonight. 

When he shows you the bathroom, he awkwardly rubs the back of his head, messing up his wavy black hair. “You can take a shower if you want.”

Oh! Maybe he wants you to be nice and clean before he touches you. “Thanks,” you say, stepping over to the shower and looking at his bottles of shampoo and soap. 

“I’ll find something for you to wear while I wash your clothes,” he says before leaving the room. When he returns, he’s carrying a few towels and a folded shirt. “You can wear one of my tshirts for now. I know it’s too big but we’ll buy something for you tomorrow.”

You take the bundle of items into your arms, thanking him again. He shows you how the knobs work and then steps out, shutting the door behind him. 

After waiting a few seconds to make sure he’s not coming back in, you strip off your clothes and turn the hot water on. After climbing in, you realize the water isn’t hitting your head. You look up to see that the shower is angled too high, pointing at the wall. Oh. It’s because Togame is so tall, over a foot taller than you. 

You reach up to change the angle, but the sprayer is out of your reach. You try jumping, but you still can’t touch it. That’s when you notice the small plastic stool in the corner with soap sitting on it. You move the bottles, position the stool beneath the shower head, and carefully climb up.  

***************************

Togame is sitting in his small living room, drinking a bottle of soda as he flips through the channels on his tv. His mind is elsewhere though, still trying to figure out what he’s going to do with the woman in his shower. 

He needs to look online for the safest, kindest way to release a hybrid pet. Are there shelters for them? Places that take care of them? Above all, he doesn’t want her to end up handed over to some perverted asshole who would do unspeakable things to her. 

Of course he’s noticed that she’s attractive. He’s human after all, and she was biologically designed to be sexually appealing. He sighs again, turning the tv off. 

Just then he hears a shriek coming from the bathroom, followed by a crashing thump. He jumps up and runs to the bathroom door, banging on it as he calls out, “Are you okay?!”

When no answer comes, he flings the door open. If she’s fallen and hurt herself, she might be unconscious! He hurries to the shower and jerks the thin curtain back, only to find his new pet on her back on the floor of the shower, wet, stark naked, and sprawled out. She’s groaning and holding a hand to her head. 

He quickly averts his eyes. “Uh, are you hurt?”

She apparently notices him then, as she rolls over to her side, her back to him, and curls in on herself. “Don’t look!” she cries, her voice even more desperate than when she asked for his help. “Please don’t look!”

He tries not to, but he can’t help seeing the way she’s curled up, shaking under the water. He turns his back to her. “I’m not looking! I just heard you fall and was afraid you got hurt.”

“Don’t look, don’t look,” she’s muttering, then finally says, “Don’t look at my scar!”

Oh. The scar. He saw it of course. It was hard not to. A very large, prominent burn scar stretched from the front of her stomach to her right hip. 

He peels off his jacket and turns to face her, quickly draping the jacket over her trembling form. He could deny seeing it, but he feels like that would only let her anxiety about it build. He remembers what the shop owner told him, that no one had bought her because of the scar. That must have made her feel terrible 

“It’s okay,” he says as she looks up at him, her hands pulling the jacket tighter around herself. “I already saw it, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Her eyes widen. “No! It’s ugly! Please don’t take me back! I’ll keep it hidden!”

Togame squats down to her level, looking her in the eyes. “It’s not ugly. It just shows that something terrible happened to you and you were strong enough to survive it. That’s beautiful.”

Tears fill her eyes, and suddenly she hugs him again. He pats her head, not sure how else to react to his affectionate little pet. 

Eventually she disentangles herself, and he stands back up before helping her to her feet. “I’ll go back out until you’re finished,” he tells her, then goes back to the living room. 

When she emerges later, she’s wearing a white T-shirt of his that dwarfs her small frame. The collar is practically slipping off one shoulder, and it occurs to him that she had no underwear to change into, so there’s nothing beneath the baggy shirt. He tries to avoid thinking too much about it as he collects her dirty laundry and puts it in the small washer that stands outside the bathroom. 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” he asks as he walks back into the living room. She’s sitting on the floor, on a cushion, her plump, bare legs curved up beside her. 

“Not hungry,” she says. “A little thirsty.”

He walks over to the fridge. In this tiny apartment, the living room and kitchen are practically one room. “Do you like ramune? I have water too.”

“What’s ramune?”

He looks up sharply. “You’ve never tried ramune?”

She shakes her head. 

He pulls a strawberry flavored one from the fridge and opens it for her. “Here, try it,” he says, reaching her the frosty glass bottle. 

She takes it, examining it closely. She even sniffs it. “Why are there bubbles in it?”

Togame grins. “Just try it. Trust me, it’s good.”

She lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a small sip. Then quickly takes another. She looks up at him with shining eyes. “This is delicious!”

He laughs. “See? I told you so! I have other flavors you can try too.”

At that moment, she smiles for the first time, bright as the sun. Togame feels his heart skip a beat as she happily drinks the soda. 

Afterwards, they’re both sitting on the floor, drinks finished, her hair nearly dry, when she crawls closer to him. She’s blushing, her eyes slightly glazed as she says, “Thank you for saving me, Master.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Togame says, giving her an uneasy smile. “Just Jo is fine.”

“Jo,” she says, as if testing how the name feels on her tongue. “Jo,” she says again, almost a purr, making him turn slightly red. “Will you complete the imprinting? Please?” She’s so close now, she’s practically in his lap, on her hands and knees. The oversized collar of his shirt is draping down, and he can see her soft tits through the gap, making him hyper aware of how little there is between him and her naked body. 

He swallows. “Uh, I need to think about it.”

She looks up at him with those big, adoring eyes. “Don’t you like me?”

He wants to look away from her, but he can’t pry his eyes away. “It’s not about whether I like you or not. I just…”

His voice trails off as she leans forward, nuzzling his abdomen with her face, slowly moving down. “Can I try to please you, Jo?”

The way she says his name, with such reverence, is making him feel heated. Her face moves lower, now brushing over his crotch. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, using all the willpower he has. 

She looks up into his eyes. “But I want to! I want to please you more than anything!”

His heart is beating faster. “That’s just because you imprinted on me, right?”

She shakes her head, and her face grazes over his rapidly hardening cock. “I imprinted on you because I feel this way. Not the other way around. So please?”

Ah, fuck. How is he supposed to resist a sexy little hybrid nestled between his legs, begging to suck him off? He doesn’t want to take advantage of her, but if what he read online was true, rejecting her might actually hurt her psychologically. 

Fuck it. 

“If you really want to, go ahead,” he says. 

Her eyes light up. “Thank you!” she says, as if he gave her a present. Then her warm little hands are tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down to reveal his erection. She blinks. “It’s already hard. And it’s so big!”

Togame looks away awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says, wrapping her fingers around it as much as she can. “Like you.”

His face is getting hot. He’s never been called beautiful before, and it’s a strange feeling. Between his thighs, his pet extends her tongue and licks the tip of his cock. She lets her spit coat him as she keeps licking, running her tongue along his length for a few moments before taking half his cock into her hot mouth. Can she even fit any more than that? 

He can feel her throat, and then it seems to open up as she relaxes it and pushes him in deeper. Oh shit, he’s going down her tight little throat! She’s gagging around him, but keeping her composure, using her tongue to swirl around him. 

“Have you done this before?” he asks, remembering that he’s her first owner. 

She pulls away and looks up at him. “No, but they showed us videos so we would know what to do.”

As she takes him back down her throat, he groans and says, “You must have paid attention.”

Her mouth feels incredible, far better than any other blowjob he’s ever had. Then he remembers something else he read online, something he mostly skimmed over at the time. Hybrids’ entire bodies are designed to give maximum pleasure to their owners. Even their saliva has something in it to increase pleasure, and… their saliva also acts as a powerful aphrodisiac. 

Togame watches her suck his cock, his own arousal growing even stronger than he ever thought possible. Fuck, he’s gonna lose control here! 

He holds out as long as he can, even closing his eyes to block out the sight of her pretty face stuffed full of him. But that only emphasizes the wet, slurpy sounds she’s making, the little “mmm”’s of pleasure from her. But eventually, he can hold back no longer. He groans loudly as his hand flies to her hair, holding her head steady as he cums down her throat. 

She swallows it all gratefully, and when finished she pulls away for a moment before she begins to diligently clean his cock with her tongue. 

Togame stops her, taking hold of her arm, pulling her up and into his lap, so that she’s straddling him. His hands move to her hips, then slide up beneath the T-shirt. 

She grabs the hem of the shirt and pulls it down, looking panicked and shy. “M-my scar…”

“I told you, it’s beautiful,” he says, edging the shirt back up slowly. “Don’t hide something so special from me.”

She releases the shirt, letting him pull it up and over her head, leaving her totally bare in his lap. Whatever was in her saliva to get him turned on was strong stuff. He’s hard as a rock again already, and he feels an intense hunger for her like nothing he’s ever known before. 

He moves one hand down, slipping it between her plush, slightly spread thighs. She gasps as his fingers rub up and down her slit, feeling how wet and slick she is. She’s breathing hard and fast, her shaky hands on his shoulders. As he presses one finger in to stroke her tender, swollen clit, he says, “If I don’t fuck this wet little pussy, I’m gonna go crazy.”

************************

All your life, you were told your purpose is to please your future owners, whoever they might be. You were designed for it, were taught exactly what to do to bring pleasure to your human. At no point were you told anything about your own pleasure. It was irrelevant. 

So you had no idea your own body could feel so good. Jo’s fingers rubbing the little nub between your folds is sending shockwaves of pleasure through your whole body, making you release mewling cries, your eyes tearing up, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his neck. Your body is trembling, your needy pussy clenching around nothing. 

You want him. You wanted him even before you bit him. You never thought your own desires mattered, your own preferences in human men. But now you belong to a man who is everything you ever wanted. If only he would bite you back and complete the imprinting. 

His fingers move a little faster, a little harder, and your body jerks. You cum for the first time, clinging to him as you cry out. 

You barely have a moment to pant in his lap before he shifts on the floor, pressing you onto your back in front of him. You squeak in surprise as he hovers over you. He’s so tall, so much bigger than you.

With one hand he gently rubs over your scar, making you flinch. You still can’t believe he finds it beautiful, and having him touch it scares you. What if he decides it’s ugly after all? What if he doesn’t want you anymore? But he bends down and presses his lips to the scar, kissing it in several different places. You draw in a sharp breath, tears in your eyes again, overwhelmed by the love you already feel for this man. 

He smiles up at you, then he lifts your legs, placing them on his shoulders, folding you in half. 

You stare up into his lovely green eyes as he presses his cock into your dripping virgin pussy. He goes slowly, carefully, but you can see the strain on his face. He wants to shove in fast and hard, wants to fuck you wildly. He’s too kind for that, taking his time and making sure you’re not hurt. It’s your first time after all. You smile up at him, even as you feel the first stings of your hole stretching to accommodate him. 

“You can go faster,” you say, trying not to wince. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Really?” he asks, then going just a little faster after you nod. 

It hurts a little, but you want him to feel good, to enjoy your body however he sees fit as your beloved owner. Still, he remains careful, watching your expression, and your love for him only grows. 

He gives a few shallow thrusts, and when you moan in response, he goes deeper. 

“You feel so good,” he says, leaning down to kiss your lips. You clench tightly around him, excited by his affection. You want more of it, more kisses, more touches. You want his love. 

A small shudder rips through him. “Fuck, if you keep squeezing me like that, I won’t be able to hold back!”

You wrap your arms around his neck. “I don’t want you to hold back,” you tell him, locking him in your adoring gaze. “I want all of you!”

He grunts as he shoves in deeper, probably harder than he intended, but his self control is clearly slipping. He begins thrusting all the way in, with slow, languid, impossibly deep motions. You cry out, tightening your arms around his neck, and he kisses you again, one of his hands moving to stroke your hair soothingly. 

“Ahh… Jo!” you cry as his thrusts pick up speed. He’s holding you so tenderly as he begins to pound into you. “Jo… I love you! Please… please love me!”

His eyes widen as he looks down at you, his cheeks going pink. For a moment he just stares at your face while he fucks you, hitting a spot within you that has you moaning. Then, all at once, he bends down and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. It’s not a hard bite, just enough to draw a tiny drop of blood. 

Enough to complete the imprinting. 

Your eyes fly open, your body responding immediately. Starting the imprinting process makes you feel love and arousal for him, but when it’s completed, those feelings grow wildly in intensity. You cum on the spot, nearly sobbing as all these sensations overtake you. 

Jo holds you firmly in his embrace, waiting for you to ride out your high before he releases the bite. Then he locks eyes with you as he plunges in deeper than ever before, his body going rigid as he groans. You feel his hot cum shoot into you in thick spurts, and you know he’s now claimed you as his own. 

The two of you lie there on the floor for a while after, you curled up in his arms. You look up at him. “Thank you, Jo.”

“Hmm? What for this time?” he asks, a lazy smile on his face. 

“For making me yours.”

He laughs breezily. “More like you made me yours.”

You grin, your face pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. You’re finally content, knowing the two of you belong to each other.