#there was a tag on ao3 for this what was it
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James tightening his grip on Regulus hip around Barty ever so slightly when they start playing flirting. James staring across the quidditch pitch knowing that everyone is staring at Regulus in his uniform the way only he should get to stare at him. James at a party, yanking regulus up and away from a group of Ravenclaws only to push him up against the wall and make out with him as rough as possible while he leaves hickeys.
"jealous regulus this" "possessive regulus that" GIVE ME JEALOUS AND POSSESSIVE JAMES PLEASE
#same tags#regulus black#james potter#jegulus#harry potter#jegulus ao3#marauders#regulus would always have this tiny smirk on his face#he knows what hes doing#and he enjoys doing it#possessive reg is great#until you realize that james would be just as bad
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Ships 🚢
Flash, Superman, Green Lantern (Hal Jordan), and Captain Marvel get invited to a little show. Marvel didn’t really want to go but GL and Flash convinced him with the promise of food after. Supes came because he thought it would be a great team bonding activity (he wants to hang out with his friends). By the way, the order they’re listed is how they’re sitting from left to right. Now, if any of them are being honest, none of them had a single clue what they were going to be doing on the show. They didn’t realize this until the host gave them tablets opened on Ao3 and told them they would be looking at their ships with other heroes.
Flash: “Why do I have so many with Marvel?” *scrolling through their tag on the tablet*
Marvel: “I think it’s because we both have lightning bolts.”
Flash: “Cap, that does not make it better.” *still sounds a little horrified*
GL: “I thought you had a girlfriend?”
Flash: “I have a wife!”
or
GL: “Why do you have so many with Spooky?” *leaning over to look at Clark’s tablet*
Marvel: *floats over to see*
Flash: *also leaned over to look at Clark’s tablet* “Bondage kink as a tag is insane.”
Supes: “WHAT. WHERE DO YOU SEE THAT??” *frantically scanning the tags of a story*
Flash: “That one.” *points to a different story*
Supes: “Oh my god.” *covers mouth, reading all the heinous tags on that post* “Oh my god.”
Flash, GL, and Marvel: *exchanging glances of concern*
or
Marvel: *scrolling his tag with GL* “Why do I have so many with Lantern?” *pauses to hold back a laugh* “Is this because of that time I had to carry you down when your ring lost charge?”
GL: *also scrolling their tag* “It better not be because of that.”
Marvel: “Or wait, do you think it’s because- wait can I tell them that?”
GL: “Tell them what?”
Marvel: *leans over to whisper in Hal’s ear*
GL: *mortified face* “Absolutely not.”
Supes: *thousand yard stare because he can hear them*
I’ll let you guys decide what he whispered to Hal. Please, pretty please tell me your suspicions. I love reading comments and a lot of you are really funny!
Marvel: “Wow. There’s a lot of Mary and Junior…” *sounds agitated*
Flash: “They aren’t dating?” *is joking*
He gave him the most judgmental side eye. It was almost as good as this.
I was inspired by this when I saw a fic that had a Clark and Billy ship tag. After being momentarily baffled and disgusted, I got the idea for this. I honestly didn’t think those were actual fics for some reason. I just thought y’all maybe saw it on deviantart in like 2013 and still talk about how disgusting it is.
#billy batson#shazam#dc captain marvel#captain marvel dc#fawcett city#fawcett#fawcett comics#superman#clark kent#the flash#barry allen#green lantern#hal jordan
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Fic Rec Friday
Hi friends 💕 I figured we could all use a little positivity so I thought I would do what I've been meaning to do for a while now - share some of my favorite bucktommy fics ✨
I've had so much fun exploring this ship with y'all and hope that we don't lose this community - keep writing and keep supporting each other!
Please feel free to share your own favorites or tag anyone you think might appreciate this - trying to spread some positivity ❤️
Sick with it by @ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel (Mellow_Yellow on ao3) | E
I've read this fic maybe three times now and it is INCREDIBLE I might just need to read it again soon. They capture Buck and Tommy at a different time in their lives absolutely perfectly. SO GOOD.
You Can Always Find Me Where the Skies are Blue by @inawickedlittletown (emquin on ao3) | M
ONE OF MY FAVORITE SOULMATE AU'S!!!! OF ANY SHIP!!!! Do yourself a favor and go read it
It feels like I'm fallin' in love by actually_allie | E
Friends with benefits to lovers. Grey's Anatomy references. Absolute perfection.
Everytime I Try To Fly (I Fall) by @typicalopposite | M
ANGST. PAIN. DEVASTATION. But so so so beautiful and so worth it in the end.
King of the Lost Boys by @trialbywombaat (summerunderthesea on ao3) | M
The royalty/magic au this fandom desperately needed 😍 if you are in need of Knight!Buck and Prince!Tommy then do I have a fic for you 😌
you may find yourself (in another part of the world) by indigostoheli | E
HISTORIC AU. BUCKTOMMY SAILING THE SEAS. THAT'S ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW. IT'S SO GOOD.
put your hands in mine by @saybiwithme (fatedbuck on ao3) | M
So soft and gentle 💕 everything I needed after last night.
Tagging some mutuals @monsterrae1 @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @bidisasterevankinard
@saybiwithme @rogerzsteven @prettyboybuckley @bekkachaos @eddiebabygirldiaz
@trialbywombaat @sirensandstories @loucifersbitch
#bucktommy#bucktommy fic rec#fandom positivity#911 on abc#911 abc#911 abc fic#fic rec#fic rec friday
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Tink
Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator
A/N: This is so many days late but I promise that it is worth it. I hope you enjoy a broken heart.
Summary: You leave a Halloween party to go see Joel but it turns into a horror show when conversation between you takes a poor turn.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)
Tags: +18 smut, secret relationship, dad’s best friend, possessiveness, daddy kink, lots of pet names, alcohol consumption, dirty and dark Tinkerbell roleplay, dirty talk, ass smacks!!!, clit stim, fingering, squirting, doggy style, overstim, tears, rough sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, angst, fighting, no happy ending.
Word count: 9.9k
Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60461590
Tink
You’re readjusting the straps on your pale gold stilettos as Joel slips into your childhood bedroom. He has gone unnoticed by the rest of the people in the house like he always does, having mastered the art of sneaking around since the beginning of your little fling. This is even as he has gotten far bolder over the summer, especially over the last month when you told him you loved him. It fills him with a carefreeness that he hasn’t felt in years, a feeling unlocked from his teenage days that he was so sure his body had forgotten by now. However, it doesn’t mean that he is careful not to disturb the noise downstairs as he clicks the door shut.
You’re standing in front of the full-body mirror just opposite the door, bent over as you undo your shoe strap to tighten it slightly. Joel feels like a damn dog as he lets his eyes skim up your beautiful legs, letting his gaze wander over the body he has come to know so well before it eventually settles on your strutting ass.
You are wearing a Tinkerbell costume, its green satin fabric hugging your curves like it has been specially tailored to your body. You have chosen a version of the fae that he doesn’t quite remember from the movie he used to watch with Sarah; the neckline dips way low, the straps are tucked away into the top to expose your chest and shoulders, and the hemline of the skirt barely reaches your mid-thigh which he is sure that a twirl will reveal your underwear to the world, something that makes his jaw tighten when you should be for his eyes only. And then there are the wings; pale, translucent and with tiny flecks of gold in them. You may be demanding attention from people other than him but despite being sexy and driving him wild, you mostly look cute. It makes him smile affectionately as he takes a moment to gather himself instead of being completely overtaken by the need to possess.
You are lost in your own world, clearly not expecting anyone to come in, so it takes you by surprise when he pads across the room to lay his hands on your hips without announcing his presence. He swallows hard as he sees the two of you in the mirror, imitating something far more explicit than what he is actually doing.
His touch startles you, eliciting a small gasp from you as you feel him caress on top of the fabric of your dress. He curls his fingers into it, fighting the urge to lift it and see what kind of panties you’re wearing underneath.
“You frightened me,” you say but there’s no accusation in your tone. Instead, he can hear that you’re happy to see him and his hands stay on your body, only going up to your waist, as you straighten, “Where does Dad think you are this time?”
“Restroom,” he answers simply and lets his palms move to lay on your tummy. He leans his head over your shoulder, looking at you in the mirror with a soft smile. When he speaks, it is with paternity lacing his voice, “Ya goin’ out like that?”
“He might think you have bladder issues soon, old man. You can’t just barge in each time you want some sugar,” you tease him, eyes sparkling in competition with the glitter on your blush-covered cheeks. Joel leans in to kiss your neck. He nibbles along your pulse point, inhaling deeply to breathe you in as he reaches where you’ve applied your sweet perfume.
“You smell so good, little fae,” he says instead of acknowledging your jab at his age, the tip of his nose skimming along the delicate column of your throat. Shamelessly, he grabs the hem of your dress and lifts it just enough to start something between the two of you that he cannot finish, “What’ve you got under here?”
“Joel,” you say with fake outrage and tut disapprovingly. The both of you know that he’ll fuck you at some point tonight. Still, you make a statement out of grabbing his much bigger hands and removing them from your dress. You stretch his arms out in front of you both to keep him out of reach but he is so much stronger than you, manhandling you easily until he catches you in an embrace from behind. Being caged against his broad chest makes you giggle so goddamn heavenly, his body responding with interest in getting you on your back.
“You didn’t answer my question, Princess,” he whispers into your ear, letting his breath tickle your skin until you shiver.
“About?” You light up the room when you smile innocently at him in the mirror and God, if it doesn’t make his heart nearly leap out of his chest. Your eyes are wide, your grin mischievous.
“If you’re goin’ out like that,” he tightens his arms around you, focusing on the softness of your palms in his rough ones. He isn’t letting you go before you give him an answer.
“I am,” you lean back into his chest, turning your head away from the mirror to glance up at him through your lashes. You are in the mood to dare tease even further, “Don’t you like it?”
“You know I do. Too much actually,” he murmurs back at you as he takes in your costume once more in the mirror. He notices that you bite your lip as he ogles you, tilting back and forth on your feet while you let him eat you with his eyes. When he finds that you aren’t looking at yourself but rather still batting your eyes up at him, he reaches up to cup your jaw. He turns your face to the mirror, “I’d like it much more behind these walls.”
“I’m not staying here,” you say. Joel lets out an annoyed sigh and shakes his head as if to argue but his head isn’t in it. He feels somewhat secure when your voice sounds a little out of breath, “Besides, you know I’ll always come back home to you. No one makes me feel like you do.”
“You better, sweetheart,” he can almost imagine you shrinking down and flying around in his close proximity just to tease him. He finally moves you around in his arms until you are face-to-face with him and then, still holding you by your chin, he leans in to capture your mouth in a kiss that’s slower and deeper than usual. He brushes your soft tongue with his own, kissing you like he is claiming you and hopefully reminding you of what awaits back home.
When he pulls back, you’ve gone dumb. There’s a vacancy in your eyes, a dazed look that tells you just how ready you are to melt into him and forget about everything else. Joel would love to keep you home but he’ll settle for the satisfaction he feels from looking at you blink rapidly, “Still with us, little fae?”
“Barely,” you admit with an embarrassed smile.
“Go have fun,” he encourages with a little smirk and, albeit reluctantly, lets you go but not before giving your ass a playful smack and causing you to yelp quietly, “Before I change my mind.”
“Bye, Daddy,” you whisper to taunt him as you leave out the door, and Joel has to stay behind for several minutes to get his aching cock to flag down. It doesn’t take long since he is an expert now, has learned to join the party downstairs without any trace of what he has been doing to his best friend’s daughter.
—
The party has been going on for a few hours now, with costumes ranging from elaborate to barely there. The crowd of people crammed into the tiny house is buzzing with exciting fun, resulting in happy bursts of laughter bouncing off the walls along with the music, both of which get louder as drinks are consumed. Yet no matter how many times your friends cause you to throw your head back to laugh along and no matter the three drinks you already have in your system, your mind plays tricks on you and continuously goes back to Joel. The way he had kissed you goodbye earlier still feels imprinted on your lips, haunting you like a ghost and causing your skin to buzz, your thighs to press together. Nothing seems to get you out of this trance, not even the lingering eyes caused by the dangerous hemline of your Tinkerbell costume. The attention feels good, sure, but it is nothing compared to the way Joel makes you feel when he looks at you.
You take a sip from your fourth drink. You’re supposed to be out having fun, dancing and drinking, but you can think of nothing else than leaving this place and going to his, only so you can slip back into that familiar embrace where you belong, only so you can feel his calloused hands grab your hips as he drags you down onto his—
“Who is he?” You look up to find your best friend staring at you with a knowing smirk. Hannah awaits an answer, quite a few more drinks in than you. She is dressed as a Poison Ivy, complete with green painted skin (which has been smudged off on every surface she’s touched) and her red hair decorated with plastic leaves she has cut off from a fake plant.
“What are you talking about?” You ask innocently but you betray yourself by not being able to maintain eye contact with her. Your cheeks are warm but if she asks, you’ll say it is due to the alcohol.
“You’re staring off again,” she notes and her eyes grow more devious. She points the straw from her drink at you and tiny splashes of homemade daiquiri fly in your direction, “I didn’t fly home and go to this party with you to not hear about who you are having sex with.”
“Who says I am having sex?” You ask with comical indifference which accidentally reveals you in your lie. You rub off a spot of red liquid from your arm, “I’m not.”
“Please,” she dismisses your statement by waving a hand and moving closer to you on the couch. She talks loudly over the music, “You’re either getting continuously laid by some great secret boyfriend or I need to take notice of your skincare routine since you’re practically glowing.”
“Hey, keep it down. I don’t need anyone but you to know,” you shush her with a finger pressed to your lips. There’s no way you’re telling her that your secret boyfriend is Joel Miller… but right now, with alcohol in your bloodstream, it is tempting to let someone else in on the secret that’s been eating at you since June. Perhaps even to brag a little bit.
“You’re acting like seeing a guy is some forbidden romance,” Hannah sighs dramatically but when you smile and shrug, she narrows her eyes just a second before they go wide, “Wait, it is?”
“It’s a secret… because he’s a lot older,” you lean in to make the conversation more private, taking Hannah’s drink out of her hand in case the excitement that looms underneath her surface will make her spill the red liquid onto you.
Her eyes are nearly bulging out of her skull, “Like how much older are we talking? Silver fox?”
“Old enough to remember dial-up internet and hate my music?” You test the waters and watch her process your words, not sure if her reaction is going to be one of shock or enthusiasm. However, with the amount of questionable things Hannah has gotten herself into over the years, you are more certain that it’ll be the latter. One can never know though. After all, right now you are keeping out the earth-shaking detail that the guy you give your nights to is your father’s very best friend.
A satisfied smile spreads on her face, slowly because she’s intoxicated, “So you’re telling me that you - the girl with a history of pissant boyfriends - have a mature, well-seasoned man in your grasp?”
You giggle, happiness bubbling up at Hannah’s silly wording but your heartbeat thrums underneath your ribs because how Joel makes you feel is nowhere near previous flirtations; it’s intense, it’s all-consuming, and has you tossing and turning whenever. You can feel your cheeks ache from smiling. With a groan, you lean forward to bump your forehead against her shoulder.
You earn an embrace in return, squeezed by the arm around your shoulder, “Or maybe he has you in his grasp?”
“I think it’s serious, Hannah, I love him,” you whisper in the crook of her neck just loud enough for her to hear you over the noise around you. There’s a gentle vulnerability in being nearly four drinks in and confessing your love - even if it’s words tumbling out of your mouth - for a boy to your person, the one who came through and gave you her approval without hesitation despite the scandal.
Hannah pulls back a little, excitement on her face instead of shock. She has always had a tendency to live vicariously through you whenever something exciting happens, and it comes across when she urges you away, “Then what are you doing sitting here with me?”
“Uhh, spending time with my best friend?” You straighten and raise a brow, stifling a grin.
She rolls her eyes playfully, “We’ve known each other since middle school. I’m sure I can survive a night without you if it means you getting with your mystery man. He’s apparently the love of your life judging by the amount of smiling you’ve done since we started talking about him. Who is it anyway?”
From her tone, you can hear she tries to sound nonchalant about the question at the end. However, the relief of talking to her about your affair with someone off-limits makes you a little too bold, too nonchalant yourself.
“I am seriously putting my life on the line here, so you have to promise not to tell anyone,” you stress, leaning in as far as you can while still looking at her. Your heart races in your chest, your eyes locked onto her widened ones.
“Of course, of course! Cross my heart and all that,” Hannah sits up a little, almost imitating the way a cat’s ears perk up, “Spill!”
“Joel Miller,” you confess to your sins but much to your surprise, you don’t burst into flames and there is no sound of a record scratch before everyone looks at you in horror. In fact, it feels surprisingly easy and light to tell her.
Hannah processes the name for a moment before her eyes widen just the tiniest bit more, “Wait what?! Joel Miller as in your dad’s buddy?!”
“Keep it down,” you hiss and shush, “I think someone upstairs didn’t hear you.”
“Sorry,” she is flustered, lowering her voice theatrically, “But this is huge. I mean… Does your dad know?”
You furrow your brow, “Of course, he doesn’t. He’d murder Joel if he found out. Lifetime imprisonment because of manslaughter style.”
Hannah nods in understanding. However, she still seems deep in thought, “But how does that even happen? You’re like… seriously off-limits, aren’t you? That’s bro-code even for boomers.”
“I don’t know,” you murmur as you recall, your voice taking on a dreamy note, “Just kinda happened. I was having a really difficult time at college and he just— he told me all the right things, then one thing led to another… He makes me feel things that I didn’t even know I needed. I know it’s wrong but—“
“Wrong? You’re a grown woman,” Hannah tuts, “Go see him. What’s the worst thing that could happen? That you probably end up having mind-blowing sex with an experienced man?”
“You’re really sure it’s okay?” You ask but you are already getting out of your seat next to her. You start absentmindedly fixing your clothes to make sure you look like something out of Joel’s deepest fantasy, straightening out a squashed fairy wing and curling your hair around a finger to make it bounce into place.
“Jesus, look at you,” she laughs at the way you fuss, “It would be classified as torture if I didn’t let you go, so go! See your silver fox, but just text me when you’re there.”
“I will, thank you, Hannah,” you beam.
You leave her with giddiness and make excuses to your other friends about a ‘family thing’ when they appear bummed out that you are heading home. The air outside in Texas is still hot in October but you can’t feel warm without Joel’s arms around you.
You're so sure that your heart says his name as it beats in your chest when you leave for him.
Joel, Joel, Joel.
—
You stand by his front door not half an hour later, having checked that your parents’ car is not parked in his driveway. The house is quiet except for the soft glow of the floor lamp in his living room and the TV’s light flickering through the curtains. You take it as evidence that he is still awake.
Just before you knock, you shoot Hannah a text, telling her that you’re here with five exclamation points and she types a barely coherent message back at you. She also wishes you good luck which you know you won’t need because the man opening his front door is so whipped for you.
Joel says your name in surprise, quickly checking to see if anyone is watching as you twirl on his doorstep in your little green dress. The booze in your blood is making you more courageous than normal even if you aren’t anywhere near plastered. You step inside his house without permission but he doesn’t seem bothered as you saunter into his living room, your heels clicking as you step over the doorstep. He has turned off the TV, almost as if he knew that it was you behind his front door and therefore there would be no more time for lounging.
“How much has Tink had to drink tonight?” He asks when closing the door. You don’t give him much time to do anything else as you enter his personal space again, caging him hungrily against the door to kiss him with all the heat in your body.
“Not nearly enough for you to stop touching her, Peter,” you let him know as you take a quick breath, too excited for what he can give you if he allows himself remember to inhale through your nose. You rush back into making out with him but he holds you just out of reach, fingers digging into your shoulders.
“Peter? I don’t think so, Tink,” he grumbles, large hands sliding down the length of your arms until he can rest them on your hips. His touch makes your cunt clench, desire stirring even further inside of you as you make a mess in your panties.
“But…” You press your thighs together without any shame.
Joel holds your waist firmly but then goes further down to cup the tops of your thighs underneath the satin skirt. His hands squeeze obscenely, denting your jiggling skin while his eyes have gone dark to indicate his lust. His fingers are calloused and warm as they graze upon where your panties hug your ass, “Peter ain’t never had the guts to get his hands on Tinkerbell like this. Lemme show ya what a man does to his own, personal little fae.”
He then drags your body against himself to let you feel every inch of him, the outline of his already hardening cock underneath his usual jeans. There’s no way he fucked you silly just a few days ago because your pussy reacts like it’s been craving him for days.
“This is what good fairies get stuffed with. If they can handle the stretch,” he chuckles darkly. You moan longingly, brows furrowing to make you look slightly dumb as you suddenly become aware of how empty you feel, how much you need him to fill you out and stretch you to the brim. You had marched over here to be alluring to the point of control over him but he touches you and your mind blanks. He won’t fuck you here, told you last time that he prefers his bed so he can take his time.
“Bedroom. Now, please,” you whine pathetically and reluctantly take a step back. He nods, allowing you to lead him upstairs. You take his hand before it falls to his side from your hip, dragging him through the house and earning a smack to your ass with the hand you aren’t holding. You yelp a little, gush a little more.
By the time you reach his bed, your head is spinning with how horny you are and your belly is swirling with heat. You drop down onto it, bouncing slightly on the mattress and he stands between your legs with delicious authority.
“Lay back and let Daddy take care of his baby,” he commands but his voice is somehow both soft, harsh, and dirty. He watches you lower yourself onto your back, the glittering wings of your costume spread out beneath you and fluttering slightly as you wiggle your hips when tugging up your dress.
Joel smiles with pride. He lays a warm hand on your knee, slowly gliding it up until his palm rests against your core, and touches you carefully through the fabric.
“You gotta tell me somethin’,” he whispers with his eyes focused on yours, not needing to see what he is doing because he knows your body so well. He feels how damp your underwear has become, the sensation pulling a low moan from the back of his throat. You nod, words embarrassingly failing you when you are so overcome by your body’s need to have him where you need him the most. However, he is expertly avoiding your clit for now, clearly wanting to get his sentence out before your attention is lost.
“A little birdie told me that when a man keeps his fae excited and happy, she produces a little extra magic down there, sparklin’ so prettily for him,” he tightens his grip between your legs when your hips start moving on their own accord. He holds you down, rubbing you closer to properly now but it’s still not enough to build anything to a crescendo. However, there’s an urgency to the way he touches you, a mix of frustration and relief now that you’re back here with him,
“Only for those who know how to bring it out of her,” you finally manage a coherent sentence, a teasing one even, but your breath stutters through it. Your clit pulses in time with your heartbeat by now and as if he has heard your prayers, his thumb finally presses down on the hard little nub before going in mind-altering circles.
“Then I just gotta make sure I show ya that I am the only one who can make enough magic spill from you to light up this whole damn house,” he growls, using his fingers expertly until you are on the brink of coming, “And every bit of that magic, honey? It’s mine. I ain’t stoppin’ until you’re glowing, little fae.”
You come so hard that your mind blocks out all other senses for a split second, your pussy going off into spasms that have you arching your back like you might actually float off the bed. You whimper at the oversensitivity that he teases out of you with featherlight touches.
He pushes your pelvis down when it lifts itself up and snaps without anger in his voice. Instead, his voice is laced with lust, an octave deeper and threatening, “No moving away or I’ll pluck your pretty little wings off.”
The threat makes you moan, eyes widening as you stare at his face like a trapped animal. You can see how much Joel’s eyes darken at your reaction, unable to understand how he hasn’t ripped your panties yet to screw your brains out.
“Wouldn’t want that, would ya? Unable to fly away?” He smirks deviously and draws back to undo your golden stilettos, his hand that isn’t working the lock holding your calf firmly. He presses kisses to your ankle too and is so delicate with your shoes even as he drops them onto the floor.
“No,” you whimper and shake your head. You can’t bear telling him the truth which is that you want nothing more than being a wingless little fae, completely at his mercy. You imagine being tied to the bed with nothing to keep him from using you how he pleases and your chest feels alight.
Teasingly, you slide your foot up along his arm until you can rest it comfortably on his shoulder. He allows it and turns his head to kiss just below your ankle in response.
“Then be a good girl and stay right where Daddy put you,” he rasps, letting his strong hands glide up the length of your legs. He squeezes your thighs gently as he passes over them, a part of your body that he would categorize as his favorite if you asked him to choose. When he inches his fingertips up under your skirt, the anticipation in the air nearly makes your body want to crawl away because what you will get from him will be too much. You shiver when he starts tugging your panties down, the white lace impossibly damp right at where your pussy has sat.
When he drags them all the way off, lifting the leg on his shoulder briefly, his eyes settle right between your thighs. You clench involuntarily at being watched, slick dripping onto his bed sheets as you pulse for his gaze. He lets out a low groan, his hands gripping your hips as he stares without shame, taking in every inch of you as you are laid bare for him. The sight of the heat he’ll slide into has his jaw tightening, his breathing growing irregular. When he is satisfied with his inspection, his eyes lift and he gives you a look that could melt you right into the bed.
“Look at this little pussy. It’s glistenin’ f’me, the magic’s pouring from it,” he says while he slides his fingers through your folds with slow and tantalizing strokes, the leftovers of your last orgasm still lingering as he taps your clit and causes you to squeak.
“Yeah? Does it look pretty for you?” You ask deliriously and catch your bottom lip between your teeth to whine, lifting your hips up despite the rules and basically presenting your cunt like a gift.
“So goddamn pretty, little fae. Do you want me to touch it properly this time? Inside to make those wings flutter?“ Joel’s threat is apparently less serious now that he’s got a glimpse between your legs. He turns his wrist so he can hook his fingers upward, rubbing your cunt teasingly around where you want him to sink into. He enters you to the first knuckle, applying the slightest pressure inside of you, only to draw back and make you lose your mind.
“You’re teasing me,” you state the obvious, breathless and squirming underneath his ministrations. You push your hips to meet his hand, “Please, Daddy, I need it so badly. Don’t you wanna slip inside and feel how tight I am?”
“Then spread those legs for me,” he orders you in a gruff voice, clearly affected by your words. He reaches with his free hand to lift your leg off his shoulder and plants your foot firmly on the bed. You mirror it with your other leg until you can let both of them fall out to the sides.
“You want me to get a towel, baby? We haven’t done that in a while,” he smirks at you knowingly, a certain glint in his eye as he asks. You know exactly what he is referring to and he chuckles when you answer by nodding eagerly with wide eyes, looking like a kid in a candy store being offered their favorite sweet.
“That’s my girl, so eager to feel good,” he praises with a warm smile and rises from his position. He peels off his t-shirt, throwing it in your face - a fairly new habit of his - so you can drown in his smell before exiting the room to head for the bathroom, stepping out of his jeans on the way there. You curl your fingers into the fabric, bringing it to your nose to inhale deeply. Joel’s shirt smells of cotton and faded aftershave, mixed with something unmistakably him; a hint of sweat from being in the Texas sun, his wood-scented deodorant that still lingers. It’s enough to make you even wetter.
He comes back a moment later, towel in hand. He watches you clutching his shirt, having smeared the golden glitter on your face onto it, your pretty eyes nearly rolling back and your hips wiggling to no avail.
“Ain’t you worked up, sweetheart? I’ve barely gotten started with you. Are all faes so greedy between their legs?” He taunts as he slides the towel beneath your hips, flattening it out neatly while you hold your breath in his proximity. He yanks the shirt out of your grip and stares down at you. Your costume is so messy by now, the green dress sitting around your hips to obscenely make you look like a thing used for shoving one’s dick in, and the translucent wings are slightly crumpled by your impatient wiggling around, your cunt’s search for pleasure.
“Please, Daddy, need you to make me come,” you whimper and earn a look of pity. Joel moves to kneel on the floor by the bed, leaning over the edge of the bed until his upper body is between your thighs. He doesn’t hesitate to slip his ring- and middle finger into you, rewarding your desperation by curling his digits upward just in the right way.
“Oh,” you let out a slow, breathy moan when he finds the right spot inside you in just a few seconds, the one that has a direct line to your clit. Joel smiles at his immediate success, watching you with the pride of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing in his quest to undo you.
“Right there, huh? God, you’re so sensitive, baby,” he murmurs lowly, his tone affectionate and aroused. He pushes his fingers deeper into you until his index finger and pinky brush your ass and then makes a come-hither motion inside of you. You can feel a lump form in your throat, the flesh of your ass and thighs jiggling from the effort he puts into fucking you with his thick digits.
“You’re so good at that, mmm… Daddy,” you only just manage to say before you choke on a whine as he creates electricity within you, your voice breaking and trembling with desperation. You are well aware of how pathetic you sound, how needy, but you don’t care because you can feel the tension building with each stroke inside of you. With his thumb, he reaches out and swirls it around your clit, and you know he can feel how hard it has gotten in its aroused state; a little bump underneath the tip of his finger. It is so sensitive now too, making you wetter with each little push against it.
You throw your head back and draw in a desperate breath, wanting so badly to swear at the sensation of him fucking you open like he has been thinking about it all day. Yet it doesn’t feel worth it to break the rules of using foul language, resulting in having him halt his doings. Instead, you trap your bottom lip between your teeth and reach for your chest to relieve some of the tension in your body.
You cup your breasts through your dress, squeezing them to add another dimension to the way Joel is touching you. He swears below you at the way you clench around his fingers when you catch your nipples between two fingers, tugging to intensify the sensation between your thighs.
“You are so sexy like that, Tink,” Joel murmurs softly in praise. He leans down to kiss your belly, kiss your inner thigh, and all the way up to your knee too. He keeps the relentless rhythm of his fingers but then also rests his free hand on your stomach just below your belly button, knowing that this is how he made you squirt the first time. He pushes down on your belly to add that final touch, and it is almost too much, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
Your legs start to tremble in Joel’s peripheral vision, in need of being held down by Joel’s strong arm so he doesn’t lose his grip on the intense orgasm he has built up inside of you. Your eyes start to roll back and a high-pitched whimper escapes you as he has you teetering on the edge.
“That’s it, sweetheart. You are so goddamn close, ain’t you? Glowin’ f’me so prettily. Come on, come for Daddy, baby. He put in so much work,” he talks you over the edge in the next moment, holding your cunt in an iron grip as you suddenly clamp down on his digits and start shuddering violently. He keeps his fingers inside of you, pressing them firmly against your g-spot while simultaneously rubbing your clit in taught little circles. It makes you gush all over his hand, soaking the towel beneath you as wave after wave comes crashing.
You have been vocal throughout the whole thing, sure, but it is nothing compared to your cries right now as relieving pleasure wracks through your lower body and makes you sob.
“God, you make Daddy so hard,” you hear Joel say but there’s a fog wrapped around your mind like a woolen blanket. When you feel yourself gushing again, it’s so intense that tears are spilling down your cheeks and the fabric of your dress clings to your sweat-slicked body. You feel slightly claustrophobic in the moment but you have no control of your body, so you let Joel’s soothing words guide you through an orgasm that’ll be worth bragging about to Hannah.
When it finally ebbs out, Joel eases his fingers out and makes you mewl. He wipes his hand on the towel and then soothingly strokes along your thighs as you try to relish in your post-orgasmic bliss.
However, you start tugging on your dress instead, desperately trying to escape its confines while you pant in the aftermath. You are still so fucked out that it doesn’t come off during your attempt, your hands shaking and a whine making Joel gently chuckle.
“Stop, stop, lemme help you,” he says with a hint of amusement in his voice, taking your wrists in his hands to stop your desperate effort. You let out a soft plea for him, pouting for show as you follow orders and he guides you to sit, slow as he moves you in case your head is still woozy. He reaches behind you and up under the fairy wings to undo the zipper of the green dress, pausing for a moment before deciding to tug the fabric downward instead of up over your head. The garment slips down until it sits around your waist. He pushes you down onto your back again so he can ease it past your hips and off your legs.
He stands there for a moment more before tugging his underwear down his legs, quickly kicking them to the side, and then he just stares. You feel cherished by him when he touches you but it’s different when he just looks; you feel sexy underneath his gaze. You know you’re a sight to behold when he swallows thickly, a disheveled little naked fae with her wings bent from how well she’s been fucked.
Finally, he crawls on top of you. He presses close to you, pulling your leg over his waist as he catches your mouth in a long, drawn-out kiss that perfectly displays the affection and hunger within him. You kiss him back, sighing softly into his mouth and reaching up to run your hands over his broad shoulders, eventually settling them on the back of his head. You thread your fingers through his hair and tug him back to your mouth each time he needs a breath, whispering to him during the mere seconds you are without each other.
“Need you, baby,” you pant softly, lips sensitive from kissing so feverishly until your body feels ready for more without the risk of combusting on the sheets. Joel’s cock is hard against your thigh, and he can’t stop murmuring half sentences as he crashes his crotch into your hip with a low moan while telling you just how good it will feel to be inside you.
“Yeah? This little pussy needs to get fucked?” He cups your face and dives into your mouth anew.
“Yeah,” you moan breathily with a nod, brushing your tongues together in the new filthy kiss, “Need you to make me your little fucktoy, Daddy. That’s all I’m good for.”
“That’s right, Tink,” he growls, his eyes having darkened at your obscene words. With a hint of reluctance, he pulls away from you so he can flip you onto your stomach. With a firm grip on your hips, he helps you up onto your hands and knees.
It’s a struggle to hold yourself up but you stiffen, quickly finding your bearings, as Joel raises his hand a little in the air before giving you a firm smack on your ass. The sting makes you gasp, your fingers clutching the sheets below you. He soothes the pain, speaking as someone put together even if his ragged breathing gives him away, “Who do ya belong to, little fae?”
“Y-you,” you stammer, your voice wavering but still holding a tinge of eagerness. He smacks you again, this time harder so the sound bounces off the walls.
“And who am I?” He demands, not satisfied with your simple answer.
“Daddy,” you plead with a feeble cry, clenching around nothing and feeling a bead of slick drip from your clit.
“That’s right,” he gruffs. Even though it is unnecessary with how soaked you are from your arousal and Joel’s impressive generosity tonight, he still spits into his hand and coats his thick length in it. He aligns with your dripping slit and breaches you with the tip of his cock.
A whimper tumbles from your mouth and he shushes you gently. He is so big inside of you that everything hurts just enough to make you whine feebly but at the same time, he feels just right inside you as he slips in right to the hilt. There’s a looming yet exciting danger of him being in complete control in this position but he is so careful with you as he starts fucking you. Well, as careful as a man can be when he gets to be balls-deep in Tinkerbell.
You groan at the feeling of him having his way with you. He has reached the point where he has little patience left from putting his own needs aside for too long, longing to use you to spill into. You are overstimulated by the two highs he has already pulled from you. It intensifies the sensation of him effortlessly slipping in and out of your slick cunt, so much so that you don’t last long in this position and end up with your face in the mattress.
“Ah–... ah,” you squeak each time he bottoms out, mercilessly letting you feel the depth of each stroke and keeping you panting under his weight, almost dizzy with how hard he is inside your soft heat.
“You like that?” He presses you down further into the mattress by planting his hand firmly on the back of your neck as a clear, dominant gesture that holds you in place for him to drive into you even harder.
"Yes, yes, thank you, Daddy," you manage to gasp out, your words muffled by the bedding as your body shudders under the force of his thrusts. Each of your words stutters along with your breathing, each movement of his harsh rhythm makes his hips crash into your ass.
Joel's grip on the back of your neck tightens just a little, his breaths coming out in shallow pants while a growl leaves him, “Just fuckin’ take it, baby. You can do it.”
“You feel so fu—“ you catch yourself in your delirious state of mind, yet again not about to be punished for breaking the rule of swearing. That’s only allowed by the real grownups, so you swallow around a little gasp and pretend like it almost didn't happen, “You feel so good, Daddy.”
Suddenly, he rakes his hand down your spine, through the sweat that is beading there and grabs your hips. He drags you onto your hands and knees, your tits bouncing as he knocks all wind out of you when he begins thrusting again.
You make a noise in the very back of your throat, a sudden surge of pleasure through your body at the new angle making you realize how close you are again. You are sweating, you are crying with actual tears spilling down your cheeks, your heart nearly beating out of your chest, and God, you just need a little help getting there.
“Harder,” you plead pathetically, craving his cock right against the spot inside of you that he might as well label as his own, “Please, I can take it, Daddy.”
It is the truth; you’re practically molded into a sheath for his cock only from how many times he has fucked you since the beginning of the summer. However, at the same time, it feels like you can barely take anymore he has to give, so stuffed that you think you’re about to lose control.
“Shh,” he soothes your sobs, voice softening in beautiful contrast to his relentless pace, “Daddy’s got ya. Daddy’s happy to give you - shit, baby - to give you whatcha need.”
“Ah!” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to concentrate on the pleasure right around the corner. It makes you able to hear how the bed is squeaking, how the headboard is continuously slamming against the wall.
“Fuck, I can feel you squeezin’ me. You gonna come on it?” You hear him behind you and in response, you nod frantically when no intelligible words come out. He splays a hand on your back and gives you his all to get you there, “God, I love to see you act like a cockdrunk little fae.”
“Mhm!” Your cries turn to high-pitched keens as your orgasm catches up with you and hits you like a bolt of lightning. You are done for, trembling through the strong pulses between your legs as you come hard enough to wipe your mind. Behind you, Joel groans as your walls try to trap his cock in a grip that has him faltering just for a moment. However, he quickly regains his momentum so he can fuck you through each overwhelming wave.
“Well done, baby. Good girl comin’ on my cock,” he praises through gritted teeth and you can imagine the slightly angry face he has on as he feels his own climax speed towards him, “Daddy’s gonna fill you up right now.”
“Really?” You ask dreamily with your eyes closed in the middle of your afterglow, a dazed smile on your face. Bliss is not the right word, too much mind-numbing and brain-quietening exhaustion following it. Behind you, Joel is still pounding into your squelching cunt but you can do nothing more than giggle happily in between sweet moans whenever he hits something just right.
The giggles cause you to tighten around his girth, squeezing him just enough for him to swear loudly at the exquisite feeling your body wrapped around him. He lets go because he can’t hold back anymore, coming inside of your pussy with controlled, hard thrusts that wipe the little smile off your face because air gets knocked out of you.
“Yes, please gimme your come, Daddy, please give it to me,” you urge him and furrow your brows, practically drooling down onto the sheets as he abuses your pussy in his blissful state. He is so deep inside of you as he spurts, coating your velvety walls in his thick and generous load. It feels so fucking good. Nothing like anything a good little fairy would ever do. You even start thanking him, panting as you say the words over and over again.
“Christ, baby,” he moans behind you, “So goddamn dirty for Daddy.”
You whimper when he leaves you empty a moment later, causing you to collapse onto your front with your hands resting underneath your cheek and your fingers curling into the sheets. You want to bite into the bed, your head swimming with how good and fucked out you feel.
Joel moves to lie down next to you, his body halfway on its side so he can kiss your sweat-glistening shoulder. He moves upwards when you shiver at the first touch of his lips, dragging his mouth up to your warm cheek. He plants a kiss right by the corner of your mouth, and you absentmindedly reach out to stroke along his jaw.
“That was so good,” you say with a tiny moan.
“You are so perfect,” he praises lovingly. He moves to lie down on top of your limp body, crushing you so heavenly with his weight as his chest sticks to your back. The wings of your costume crumble, flattening from being squashed. His arms envelop you and a large hand brushes a bit of loose hair away from your neck. He dips down to kiss just below the base of your skull and you find yourself automatically stretching your neck for even more. He showers you in kisses, lips trailing up and down your throat until you feel a burning need to breathe him in further, to be even closer.
You whine like a child, wiggling underneath the weight of him until he shifts to lie beside you again. He drags you close to his warm chest, planting a broad palm on your back and you respond by scooting forward to climb even further into his arms. Frustration bubbles up in your chest because it doesn’t feel like he is close enough, not even when you whimper and bury your face in the crook of his warm neck. He chuckles affectionately above you, cradling you like you are the most precious thing he owns, and rests his lips on your disheveled hair.
“Joel…” You whisper and try to tug at him even more, your arms going under his so you can be flush against him and mold together with his much stronger embrace. You grab at his shoulders, had no idea that there could be such a loud and powerful yearning in your chest for someone you already have.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, clearly knowing the answer. You feel his hand move gently along your naked back, trying to soothe you as you continuously try to shift yourself even closer in his arms though you’re already as close as you can get.
“It’s not close enough,” you complain feebly and shift once more, a bit of embarrassment flowing through you at how needy you come off. It’s rare that you feel like this but the conversation you had with Hannah earlier has your head in a lovesick spin. The need for Joel is unmatched by anything you have ever felt because this state of mind isn’t fuelled by desire anymore - you have already gotten that out of your system - but rather an all-consuming need for love.
Joel shushes you gently when you whine once more and squeezes you tightly to relieve your discontent, coaxing your impatient and restless body to calm down. He talks gently and says your name, his voice reverberating through his chest, “Look at me.”
You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and he smiles one of the smiles that he only reserves for you. He whispers, “I love you.”
And then he reaches up slowly to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. He dips down to kiss you softly on the lips, grounding you further and making your mind go quiet. It’s not rushed, not as passionate as the kisses you’ve shared just moments before but it’s sweeter than honey.
As you let your guard down fully with a mind completely blank, a sentence slips from your mouth without a second thought. It’s not something you planned to say but you have no control over your actions when he kisses you like that.
“Guess what?” You giggle, lost in his eyes.
“What, babydoll?” He smiles down at you.
“I told Hannah about us,” you confess, another wave of giddiness washing over you at the excitement.
However, it quickly passes over you as Joel’s face shifts to an expression of something concerned, tingeing on angry but mostly just unpleasant. Immediately, his jaw tightens, “You did what?”
Your face drops along with your stomach. You try to find the words to calm him but when you open your mouth there are no words that fit. His stare is so intense, laced with frustration and paranoia that makes your throat start tingling with tears.
“Joel—“ you croak when he pulls back a little, the distance between you feeling unnaturally cold.
“Do you have any idea what could possibly happen if she lets this slip?” He doesn’t look at you, rolling onto his back to rest the back of his thumbs against his forehead, “You should have talked to me about this first.”
“Joel, she would never— I trust her!“ You insist but you mostly just hear yourself sounding like a child. You want to defend your choice even further but he is already interrupting you with a dangerous chuckle.
“That’s not the damn point, honey. People talk, people slip up. You think we’re goin’ to be in the shadows for much longer now?” He sits up, hands on his bent knees.
“You’re acting insane,” you say bitterly and sit up as well, anger bubbling up in your own chest at his condescending tone and suddenly, you find yourself fighting his lecture. You bite back, “It’s not that big a deal. It’s not fun for me to hide all the time because you’re scared.”
“No, don’t you dare twist this ‘round on me when you are out there runnin' your mouth,” he growls, making you flinch when his voice is louder than you have ever heard it before, “I - opposed to you - am tryna protect what we have.”
You can hear your pulse in your ears, “You know what? Stop pretending like this is for my own good when it feels like you are just protecting yourself. Actually, maybe you should ask yourself if this is what you really want.”
Joel scoffs, suddenly hauntingly calm in his tone once more and you miss the warm tinge that his voice always has when he speaks to you, “Maybe I am some kind of fool for thinkin’ we could ever work. Maybe if we were closer in age, it’d be easier. Maybe if I didn’t have a past with your family, and I hadn’t known you since you were a kid then this wouldn’t feel so goddamn wrong.”
The words hit like a punch. Your anger mingles with hurt. It doesn’t feel fair to attack your age like he is because you cannot change it, and that’s the worst part of it. In a feeble attempt to defend yourself, you go for the killing blow.
“You think you’re the fool here? I let myself fall in love with you,” you falter with a tremble in your voice but then get a hold of yourself, pulling your knees to your chest, “I laughed at your jokes and I let you fuck me because I thought you weren’t going to run the second things got hard. Well congratulations; you got to play self-righteous to make yourself feel better. You are the biggest fucking coward, Miller.”
The second you see the glimpse of hurt in his eye, you regret every syllable yet your stupid pride makes you hold onto the image that you meant every one. You realize your wording, that you have talked about him as if you and him are in the past, and you flex the muscles in your throat to stop yourself from bursting into tears even if your face burns.
“I’ll make it real easy for ya then, sweetheart,” he says coolly, and suddenly, his weight is gone from the mattress and your heart is screaming for him to stay. You watch him move to pick up his clothes and dress quickly, not bothering to fix the way his shirt sits askew on his torso because the determination on his face tells you that he is desperate to leave.
You clutch around your knees when he bolts from the room, listen to the sound of his feet on the stairs as he descends them, and then finally flinch when the front door slams hard enough to make the whole house rattle. You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding, the air leaving you shakily.
A single tear rolls down your face, followed by another but you swallow down the grief that comes with how final this interaction seems. Something about it tells you that you won’t see him for a while now, and not just because you are going back to school soon.
With shame, you slowly rise off the bed. Your body is sore, sensitive, and aching between your thighs, and you are still covered in evidence from having sex with him. Feeling him on you despite his absence is usually a thing you relish in but in this moment, it just feels like a cruel reminder of what you might not get to have in the future.
You sit down on the toilet to pee, your knees falling inwards and your body sagging from the exhaustion of what you have just been through. The heartache is so raw, sitting tightly in your throat as a lump that you can barely swallow around while you do your business and afterward mechanically take a shower and clean yourself up in front of the sink.
When you reenter the bedroom, it feels like you are an intruder and this is your crime scene. You scan the room for your things but cruelly, your eyes fall on one of Joel’s shirts hanging on the back of the chair at the desk. It is already worn, hasn’t been thrown in the laundry basket yet. Ideally, you shouldn’t walk home in the skimpy outfit you arrived in and so, you’re tempted to put it on - if not only to let his familiar scent envelop you - but you cannot risk it. The last thing you need is to walk into your parents’ house wearing his clothes, walk in with the smell of him lingering on you.
So instead, you slip back into your Tinkerbell costume in the emptiness of Joel’s bedroom, not even the ghost of him lingering, trying not to think about how excited you had been about dressing up for him just a few hours ago.
—
Your father is in the living room when you quietly enter the house again. You try to sneak past him, hoping that the low hum of the TV will distract him from your footsteps, but as you move past the doorway, he catches you off guard.
“You’re home early?” He says but it is a question as well as a statement. He reaches for the remote to turn down the volume but when he sees your face, he furrows his brows and turns off the television altogether.
You force a little smile, “Yeah, just wasn’t feeling it.”
He doesn’t seem convinced, pushing himself to stand in the soft glow of the reading light, “C’mere for a second.”
Reluctantly, you make your way to stand in front of him, your heels clicking on the floorboards. Your shoulders sag as you stop in front of his tall frame, and he studies you for a moment before nudging you with the warmth of his voice, “Did something happen tonight, honey?”
“No,” you say shakily, avoiding his gaze as your throat feels tight, “No, it was a great party but I was just too tired.”
“Hey, look at me,” he says softly, reaching out to lay his hands on your shoulders. His palms are warm and you’re cold from walking home with a barely dried-off body and no jacket since you bolted out the door. You stare into his eyes, lip trembling as he continues, “I can see you’re not okay. Did something happen?”
You wish that you could say that it is nothing because the reality of it is cruel, ten thousand miles between what he thinks he understands and the truth that you must keep painfully lodged in your chest, taking up too much space for your heart. However, the dam breaks at the gentleness he shows you, the love burning beneath his concern, and suddenly, a sob breaks free.
Without a word, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close with his hand rubbing your back. You know you don’t deserve his reassurance as he coos in your ear, has no clue how complicated things are.
You shake in his embrace, your tears wetting the shoulder of his soft shirt. He kisses your hair affectionately, squeezing you while his protective words rumble in his chest, “Listen to me. I need you to tell me if someone hurt you, okay? I won’t be mad. I just wanna help.”
“It’s not like that,” you reassure him and in response, you can feel him relax a little bit as he holds you, sighing in relief. You sniffle, resting your cheek against his chest, “I just got close to someone and it got complicated. He said some things that— I mean, I did too but it really hurt, Dad.”
“You’re allowed to make mistakes, to care for people who maybe don’t deserve it but don’t let anyone make you feel small,” he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, pauses for a moment before continuing, “If this person don’t treat you right… maybe it’s time to reconsider how much space they take up in your life.”
“Yeah… maybe you’re right, thanks, Dad,” you reply with enough conviction that he gives you a smile, proud to have gotten through to you. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the person you are talking about is the only person that you cannot avoid either, the only person who can break both of your hearts.
.
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Sir, you see, the catch is:
I don’t collect those.
Imagine you got turned into a mech and teleported to the middle of the Quintesson attack on Cybertron. But the catch is - all the characters whose Transformers toys/figures you own are in your squad and they are on your side.
If you have two Megatrons or like three Ratchets you can have all of them. Can't wait to see if someone's squad is just them and their 200 Bumblebees
#transformers#Transformers all Media types#yes I know that’s an Ao3 tag but idk what to tag this with#quintessons#invasion#scenario
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Hello! I enjoy your fics featuring the LaDs men, especially Rafayel. Would you consider writing another with feral Rafayel? Everything is with the full consent of both parties, Rafayel is just urgently needy and difficult to satisfy. It could be another Ebb and Flow Day, where he desperately wants to feel and taste the MC. No matter your decision, thank you for opening asks and reading this. Please continue to write what you enjoy.
Hi!! Sorry I haven't been able to get back to you more quickly! I've had this idea in the works now and thought this might be a good fit for a feral Rafayel. Hope it satisfies~ If it doesn't, I have a few more fics planned for him 🤭
Missing You Pt. 2: Rafayel Comes Home
Pairing: Rafayel x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, pwp, creampie, p in v sex, established relationship Word Count: 1783 Read Part One here. Rafayel's been away for three weeks on a tour, and he's finally come home. But he's missed you terribly. ao3 link here.
Your bedroom feels lonely.
Too lonely.
Especially with Rafayel still gone on his tour.
You sigh, rubbing lotion on your arms, the last step of your bedtime routine. You eye the dildo molded into the shape of Rafayel’s dick sitting on your nightstand. The one he gifted you almost two weeks ago. You debate whether you want it to lull you to sleep like it did last night, an almost nightly occurrence. You feel your cheeks color because of how dependent you’ve been on Little Rafayel since it arrived, but you miss your boyfriend terribly, and well… having this replica almost makes it feel like he’s with you… almost.
A pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, and you jump, your heart pounding in your chest. It’s late at night, and you’re home alone. A burglar? A murderer? A rapist? Your brain assumes the worst…
Your Hunter training kicks in, and you sink your elbow into the intruder’s stomach feeling pleased when they groan in pain, but then freeze because you recognize the sound of the intruder’s voice and the scent of their cologne.
His cologne.
“Rafayel?!”
“Geez, now I remember why I made you my bodyguard,” Rafayel wheezes.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in,” you apologize, feeling terrible for how hard you hit him, but… “What were you thinking, sneaking up on me?”
“Hi, cutie,” he mumbles into your hair, simply holding you tighter against him. “Wanted to surprise you.”
You shake your head and sigh. After being apart for almost three weeks, you can’t stay mad at him. You’re just glad he’s returned. “When’d you get back?”
“Just now. Came straight here.”
You melt into his embrace. You’ve missed this so much. His warmth. His hugs. “Welcome back,” you murmur.
Rafayel nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. “God, I missed you.” He breathes you in deeply, almost as if he’s attempting to commit the smell of you to his memory.
He exhales just as deeply as he breathed in, and the long, puff of air hitting your neck tickles, feeling unnaturally hot on your skin. But when Rafayel presses his soft lips in a trail of feather-light kisses down your neck, it burns even hotter in their wake.
“I missed you so… so much,” he hoarsely whispers.
His greedy hands roam your body with a needy urgency, mapping every ridge and crevice. They grab at your clothes, your flesh… your breasts. He kneads them under his palm, squeezing and massaging them together, sultry, breathy moans fluttering from his parted lips.
“Wait, Raf, I want to look at you. I haven’t seen you in three weeks,” you protest, pulling at his arms so you can turn around and face him, but Rafayel locks his arms, pulling you in so tight you’re suffocatingly snug against him.
“Let me just… just taste you for a bit….”
The sounds Rafayel’s making are downright erotic. Even without the sensation of his mouth on your neck and his hands on your breasts and your stomach, the noises coming out of his mouth alone are flooding your body with an unbearable, feverish heat.
“I missed your body so much.” Rafayel pants heavily, expelling low, throbbing groans that tingle down your spine into your own throbbing desire. “I missed this. I missed you.”
Your breath hitches when he pinches your nipple and aggressively thrusts his hand between your legs, rubbing his open palm back and forth against your clothed sex. Both his arms are entwined around your chest and between the apex of your legs effectively trapping you against his heaving chest.
“Raf, I missed you too, but–”
He interrupts you by grazing his teeth along the contour of your shoulder. The friction of his hands and his teeth on your body are overwhelming, and you can’t help, but tremble, your knees growing weak from the buzz of electricity coursing through your veins.
He slips the hand that’s been rubbing you under your nightshirt and into the waistband of your underwear, brushing his pointer past your clit and sliding in between your folds. He shivers when they feel how wet you are for him.
“Baby, you’re driving me crazy,” he croaks. “Been dreaming about this for weeks.”
Rafayel grinds the firm erection in his pants against your lower back, placing a sloppy kiss on your neck. He circles his slick finger around your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves in a series of short strokes of varying pressure. Light, firm, long, hard. All while his rock hard length drags up and down the small of your back.
You breathlessly whimper, each stroke of his sinful finger shooting a dazzling spark deep through your center.
“Raf…” you rasp, reeling when a particularly firm pass causes your vision to flash white.
“Gotta… gotta feel you… gotta…” Rafayel babbles, and it’s obvious how much pain he’s in from the strain in his nonsensical rambling. “Wanna be… inside… be inside… fuck… gotta…”
He lets out an agitated, strangled cry, and before your dazed mind can process what he’s doing, he’s pushed you up against the wall, caging you in, hiking your nightshirt up around your waist, tugging your underwear down mid-thigh, fumbling to pull his own bottoms down with a single hand. Just enough to grant him access.
You brace yourself on the wall with your palms.
Rafayel plunges in, letting out the most delicious guttural groan as he stretches you open with the entirety of his length.
“Fuck, Raf,” you keen, unable to bite back the throaty moans tumbling from your mouth.
“Still think Little Rafayel is bigger than me?” he snickers.
You feel yourself clench around his shaft stuffing you past the point of being full, and you realize you were wrong. So very wrong. Rafayel didn’t embellish Little Rafayel at all. If anything, Little Rafayel is an underestimation of him.
“I was– was wrong,” you whimper. “You’re so much– so much bigger.”
You can’t see Rafayel’s face, but you just know he’s smirking in an infuriating ‘I-Told-You-So’ manner. “Need to punish you for thinking… thinking so little of me.”
He snaps his hips against you hard, and you cry out as his bulbous head slams into your cervix, pain and pleasure spreading through your flushed, quivering body. You feel Rafayel shudder, and he stumbles a step forward so you’re flush against the wall and he’s flush against you, driving deeper into you.
You arch your back, your head falling back to rest on his shoulder, and Rafayel nestles his cheek in your hair. He moves his hips in shallow undulations, so shallow his tip drags on your cervix with no reprieve.
“Three weeks,” he husks achingly in your ear. “Three weeks without feeling your sweet, little cunt.” His shaky breaths wisp against your earlobe. “Did your sweet, little cunt miss me?”
Your heart thrums from the longing pulsing in his voice, the same longing you yourself have felt over the agonizing weeks he was gone. “I slept with Little Rafayel every night–” Rafayel makes an adorable, indignant noise, so adorable your heart beats faster and you smile, “–but it’s just not the same. It can’t replace you. It can’t replace falling asleep in your arms.”
“God, I love you,” Rafayel slurs.
Your words must’ve unlocked something primal within him because he rocks his hips, thrusting with passionate need as if he’ll die if he can’t have you right this very second. There’s an agonizing frenzy to his lunging, a frenetic desperation to feel you, taste you, take you.
You push your hips back to meet him, and together, you roll your hips against one another, the yearning you both felt conveyed without words in the way your bodies seek out the other. Just as he desires to have all of you, you desire to have all of him, and your bodies meld together into one.
His ragged gasps feed the delirium swelling in your lower body, ebbing and flowing in waves. Crashing over you. Muddling all your senses.
“Raf…” you plead.
Rafayel understands what you’re asking immediately, and he drives into you with a new sense of urgency. “Baby, come… come for me,” he croons. “Missed your… your sweet voice… Wantcha to… to sing for me.”
His voice cracks on the last word he utters, severing the last shred of your composure. A final, roiling wave overtakes you, pulling you under, and you’re tumbling, caught in the throes of its turbulence. Spinning. Drowning. Unable to tell up from down.
You can’t breathe.
You can only helplessly call out his name.
Your body reacts beyond your control, and as you pulsate erratically around the entirety of Rafayel’s length, he breaks, spilling into you with uncontrolled ferocity. Painting you with weeks of pent-up frustration. Weeks of being away from you.
Your knees buckle, but Rafayel wraps you into his embrace, saving you from crumpling to the floor.
“Raf, I want to see you,” you whine, and Rafayel chuckles, relaxing his hold just enough for you to turn around.
But before you can even look at him, his lips are claiming yours in a deep, tender kiss threatening to turn your legs into jelly once more, and you’re melting in his arms again, your heart feeling as though it might burst.
He pulls away, resting his forehead against yours, grazing the tip of your nose with his.
You can finally gaze into his eyes, and you’re blown away by how he just looks at you, his deep violet eyes dark with desire, love, and lust. For you.
“I’m never leaving you for this long again,” he murmurs. “Almost killed me.”
He kisses you again, tracing your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, gently prodding at the crevice between your lips begging for entrance. You accede, parting your lips for him to slip in. In one swift movement without breaking the kiss, he picks you up, cradling you against his chest, and the next thing you know, you’re falling on your bed, Rafayel hovering over you.
“Three weeks, baby. Three weeks.” He slides his hand up your leg, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone. “Gotta make up for… three weeks.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, gently scratching the back of his head and running his hair through your fingers. “I’m off tomorrow,” you whisper.
Rafayel utters a heady groan, and he’s sweeping you up in another dizzying kiss stealing your breath away. “Never again…” he says in between kisses. “Too long…”
You wrap your legs around his waist pulling him flush against you.
You know it’s going to be a long night, but you don’t mind. Not even a little. Not at all.
#missaengg writes#rafayel smut#love and deepspace smut#lads smut#lnds smut#rafayel x you#rafayel x reader#lads rafayel#rafayel love and deepspace#love and deepspace rafayel#rafayel#love and deepspace#lads#lnds
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Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: Beginning & End
Summary: Taking a late drive to get your mind off a few things, you get more than you bargained for from a not-so-routine traffic stop.
AO3
A/N: Wasn't sure how to tag this since Agnes is technically an Agatha... variant? persona? Also I didn't tag the Agatha taglist since this isn't technically Agatha? tricky tricky... This is basically just pure smut with a sprinkle of plot.. enjoy xoxo (also let me know if you want more of Agnes?)
Words: 6.2k
Included: Established relationship, Jealousy, Smut; choking, spitting, bdsm, possession, semi-public sex, car sex, fingering, cunnilingus, daddy kink, roleplaying, power dynamics, dom/sub, teasing, begging
Tag List: @escapetodreamworld @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @multifandomfix
You sigh as you lean into the leather seat. The music is loud enough to hurt, but you don’t turn the volume down, glad of the noise even if you don’t feel like singing along. Trees fly by outside the window as you drive.
A sign passes in a flash but you catch the number; 45. Your speedometer reads 55.
Making sure you’re alone on the road, you push it to 57 just for kicks. Even as the dark scenes on either side pass in a blur, the road ahead is clear. The moon hangs low and bright above, reflecting off the filled-in parts of the pavement.
The song changes and you sigh again upon hearing the familiar tune. It only reminds you of your wife; who should be home and in bed with you, but ended up on night-shift instead after hassling a suspect a bit too hard, canceling your planned evening.
Which leads you to driving the backroads between Westview and Eastview, hoping the journey will tire you out enough that you can sleep. Instead it lands you in the position of blowing past a hidden cop.
Just your luck.
You groan as you turn the music down and pull off the road into a flat area of grass. With the lights, you can’t tell if it's a Westview or Eastview officer at first. You have pretty good chances of getting off with a warning if it's one of Agnes’ coworkers.
But it’s not one of the regular officers. It’s the Chief’s car. You hit your head against the steering wheel. He’s been riding Agnes’ ass for months and will likely give you a hefty ticket just to spite her.
While you’re hitting your head against the wheel, there’s a knock on your window. You roll it down without looking, “Look, Chief, I know the deal. You can just write me a ticket and I’ll pay it tomorrow.”
“Oh, will you now?”
You pause.
Looking up in disbelief, “Agnes?”
“That’s Detective O’Connor to you.” Her face doesn’t change from the stern facade, “You were driving pretty recklessly back there. Have you been drinking tonight, ma’am?”
Subtly as you can manage, you check your side mirror to see if anyone else sits in the police cruiser. It wouldn’t be unlike the Chief to put Agnes through some insane test. No shadows lurk in the other car.
You drag your eyes back to Agnes. She’s waiting, still just as stoic, but you see the mischief in her eyes. Well, if she wants to play, why not up the stakes?
Tilting your head and smiling, “Of course not, detective. I’ve been a good girl.”
A split-second pause tells you she wasn’t expecting that. She licks her lips before the act slips back into place. She scoffs.
“That’s what they all say. Wait here.” Her hand pats the open window before she’s heading back toward the cruiser.
You watch her walk away in the side mirror with a grin. Her confident gait stirs something in you, always has.
For a split second you consider throwing the car in drive and peeling out of here. You’re curious to see what Agnes would do. You hope she’d chase you all the way home; that way when you get there you could finally have a taste of what tonight was meant to be.
You want Agnes painfully. Between work deadlines on your end and long hours on hers, you’ve been too tired to do more than cuddle, or some heavy kissing on a better day. You miss the connection that comes from baring yourselves to one another. And the orgasms, too, of course.
Agnes is back at your window, breathalyzer in hand. You make a split second decision.
“Please, detective, I can’t afford another ticket, and my wife will be so mad.” You plead, using that innocent, wide-eyed expression you know turns her on, “Is there anything I can do to… pay it off, per se?”
To her credit, she doesn’t crack this time, “Are you soliciting an officer of the law, ma’am?”
“No, of course not! Unless that’s what you want.”
“Step out of the car.”
The commanding note in her voice goes straight between your thighs. You open the door and step out, watching her brows raise at only the long nightgown you’re wearing. There’s a chill in the air that makes you shiver. Her eyes are drawn to your chest before she shakes away whatever is going through her mind.
While you’re enjoying the game, you do hope she’ll let you get back in the car soon. The cold is unmanageable without more substantial clothing.
Agnes holds up the breathalyzer, “Open your mouth.”
You do so without thinking. A blush races up your face. Agnes can’t help but smirk.
It’s not the breathalyzer that finds itself between your lips, but two fingers that settle on your tongue and press. You jolt at the pressure. Tears come to your eyes as you gag, but the weight of her fingers doesn’t ebb. You fight against your gag reflex to curl your tongue around the digits.
Closing your lips around them, you swirl your tongue like one would around a piece of candy. Even through blurred vision you can see how Agnes’ eyes darken. She leans forward, staring at your lips.
Her fingers move deeper, pressing harder, fucking your throat. You swallow around them.
You find your mouth and throat empty as Agnes pulls out. Her hand grabs your face before you can close your mouth and holds it open, fingers wet against your cheek. She grins meanly.
“Stick out your tongue.”
The second you do, Agnes spits in your mouth. You whimper. It’s humiliating and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You leave your tongue in the position she demanded, obedient as ever.
Agnes laughs, “Swallow.”
Humiliation, in combination with your startling need for her touch, forces the tears to spill over and down your cheeks. The sight of them seems to please her. She’s always loved seeing you thoroughly debased; loves knowing only she can break you down like this.
Partners in the past did try. Yet they would hesitate, hold back, believing they knew the limits of your desire instead of trusting you. A few would panic when they saw tears in your eyes and pull out of the scene completely. You often found yourself pretending; toning down your desires to ‘acceptable’ levels and leaving yourself unsatisfied to avoid that worried look in your partner’s eyes.
But you’ve never had to pretend with Agnes. From that first time, she went as far as she wanted, knowing that you were an adult capable of safe-wording if it was too much; it wasn’t. You had been dripping and needy the entire time. You had cried while she sat back and watched you polish her boots with your tongue, and had nearly come undone from the act alone. It was everything you craved—Agnes was everything you craved; trusting, dominating, cruel when it suited, and the most loving partner you’ve ever known.
You had vowed then and there that you weren’t letting her get away. And how lucky for you that she put a ring on your finger; the ring that is so much more than a symbol of love; but a brand, too, just as you desire.
“I wonder what your wife would think of you offering yourself up to me,” Agnes muses, “but you’re so eager for it, I can’t help but wonder if she’s not satisfying you properly.”
“Only you can satisfy me, detective.” You flutter your lashes.
That draws a real laugh from her. Something inside you preens. You lean forward into Agnes’ space, angling your head for a kiss, but she pulls back.
“Be that as it may, soliciting an officer is a crime, as is reckless driving.” Her hands reach for her belt, where her handcuffs rest in one of the holsters, “I’m going to have to take you in.”
Though the idea of being cuffed and fucked however she pleases excites you, you’re not entirely pleased with how your original plan was ruined. Agnes knew where the line was during interrogations and she crossed it. Knowingly. It’s safe to say you’re a little pissed she acted out.
A mean-spirited voice in your head considers pushing Agnes away entirely, leaving her wet and turned on for the rest of the night shift while you go home and find solace in your favorite toy. The rational part of you knows that no toy can replace your wife, and it’s her you want. You’re just not going to make it easy for her.
You fall to your knees before she can work the cuffs off her belt. She jolts at the unexpected change. You slam against the ground pretty hard and wince, but don’t dare stop.
Your hands find her belt buckle. Deftly, you start to undo it, “Please, I can make you feel good. I’ll do anything.”
Agnes raises her brows. She doesn’t stop you from undoing her belt or slowly lowering the zipper of her pants. There’s a tenseness in her jaw as she thinks over the request. Intent on sealing the deal, you move your hands from the front of her pants; instead leaning forward to place a kiss where they’d just been.
Looking up through your lashes, you beg, “Please.”
“Well, since you’re so eager for it.”
Ignoring the screaming in your knees, you shoot to your feet, capturing Agnes’ lips in a hard kiss. You attack with lips and teeth and tongue. At the same time, you slip your hand inside her pants and past the waistband of her panties.
She groans against your lips when your fingers play in her wetness. Your fingers ghost over her clit and you grin into the kiss. Two hands settle on your hips and shove, your back hitting the side of your car; it hurts for a moment before you’re once again lost in the feel of your wife, how she’s using her position to grind against your hand, the obscene noises leaving her throat.
Your clit throbs with every roll of her hips. It’s intoxicating that she’s just taking what she wants, using you as a toy to achieve her own pleasure. But the desire between your own legs reminds you of the end goal.
Agnes’ hips pick up speed, her usual low groans evolving into panting, high-pitched whimpers. She’s so close. You consider letting her have what she wants.
Moments before she can fall over the edge you pull your hand from her pants. Hands settling on her chest, you shove her back. She jolts and stumbles. Her fucked-out expression from seconds earlier shifts to confusion, then anger.
“What the fuck?” Agnes snarls.
“You’ve been bad, detective.” Still leaning against the car, you cross your arms over your chest, “Or should I say Daddy.”
Agnes stands straighter. There’s steel in her spine now, jaw taught as darkness comes over her expression. Amusement alights inside your chest.
Her hands begin to unravel the belt from the loops of her pants, “I’m going to paint your backside blue.”
“I don’t think so.” Your voice is hard. “You see, I had a lovely evening planned for us. Dinner, a movie, clean sheets for us to spend all night ruining. And we didn’t get to enjoy any of it because someone couldn’t control her temper. So you, daddy, are going to fuck me until I decide I’m ready to forgive you.”
“It’s cute that you think you’re in control, baby.”
Agnes steps into your space, belt in her hands. You stop her with a hand on her chest before she can get close enough to do anything.
“I am in control.”
“Those with the upper hand don’t usually have to state the fact.”
You tilt your head, “If you don’t give me what I want, you’re not going to touch me for weeks. I’ll fuck myself and all you’ll be able to do is watch. And I’ll stuff all the pairs of panties I ruin into your bag, your pockets… everywhere you go, you’ll be reminded of just what you’re missing.”
The smug expression slowly slips from her face. She tries to push forward again, but you’re unyielding; clenching your fist in the fabric of her shirt until she feels the subtle bite of your nails. There’s fury and a small trace of fear in her eyes.
It’s rare that you have the upper hand. Usually Agnes is twelve steps ahead of everyone—you included. But this time she miscalculated, and she’s going to pay for it.
“Your choice, daddy.”
She scoffs. Shaking her head, a few pieces of her hair free themselves from her low ponytail. They lay in and over her face before she blows them out of the way carelessly. She hasn’t been taking care of it, you can tell; and briefly, you consider if you can get away with commandeering her into taking better care of herself.
You likely shouldn’t push your luck. Agnes is going to punish you enough for this stunt, you’re sure.
The belt is tossed onto the ground a few feet away in a silent show of surrender. Her eyes are dark, churning with a mixture of fury and arousal. A brief moment passes where you wonder if you’re taking this a bit too far, but you shove it down; Agnes is an adult just as you are and will tell you if you cross any hard lines.
“Is the heat on in the cruiser?” You ask.
She pauses, taken-aback, “Yeah, of course.”
“Good. You’re going to fuck me in it later. But first—”
You open the back door of your own car as wide as it can go, just so you can perch on the seat with your feet still outside. With a smile, you open your legs wide. You hadn’t considered this outcome when you left the house for your drive, so your panties are relatively plain, but it doesn’t matter since they’re soaked through.
Agnes takes a step forward and you hold up a finger. She pauses. You point at the ground.
Her face goes red, “Not fucking likely.”
And then she’s on you. She’s holding herself up with one hand on the seat, the other dragging your face to hers. Her body rests perfectly between your legs. With a low moan, you roll your hips against her front.
Her grip on your face is painful. Thank god her nails are clipped short.
Agnes pulls away from your mouth to bite and suck at your throat. You throw your head back, still grinding up against her, moaning with abandon. The friction is nice but it isn’t what you wanted.
“I want you to eat me out.” You force out.
“I don’t care what you want.” Agnes growls.
“Oh? Well, I guess I should be prepared to handle my own orgasms for a while, then.”
As you say that, you stop grinding, and lay fully against the seat, one of your arms snaking its way down your front and between your thighs. You’ve only circled a finger around your clit twice before her hand catches your wrist in a punishing grip.
“Try it and I’ll tie you to the bed everyday when I go to work.”
“I made my terms abundantly clear.”
“You know what you forgot though, brat?” Agnes taunts, lips right next to your ear, “You’re too greedy to settle for your hand or your little toys. It’s only a matter of time before you get bored and come crawling back to me.”
“Maybe I’ll just crawl to someone else. Agent Vidal has been hanging around.”
A hand closes around your throat and you whine. She squeezes, your vision going fuzzy around the edges. You roll your hips.
“I’ll lock you in the house if you even think about it.” Her voice is hard, promising, “You’re mine, baby.”
“Prove it.”
That’s the wrong thing to say.
Agnes pulls back completely. Her hands leave you, the pressure of her body is gone. You look up and she’s standing just far enough away that you can’t touch her. You growl.
The look on her face is one you’ve seen a dozen times; the very same one she wears when you’re about to endure something you don’t like. But you vow not to let her have the upper hand. Not this time. This time, you’re going to make her bend.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” She says.
The words are like a bucket of cold water over your head. You don’t spend long dwelling on the threat, there’s no time.
Agnes is halfway back to the police cruiser when you worm your hand into your panties and bury two fingers inside without preamble. Despite being the source of your own pleasure, you jolt, back bowing off the seat. The moan that leaves your lips is exaggerated; pornographic.
“Oh, yes!”
You hear her footsteps come to a stop. You don’t dare open your eyes, not yet. The pleasure you’re experiencing is real, even if it is half of what it could be with Agnes’ help, but you have to keep up the act—have to make her jealous of your own fingers.
Though she hates to admit it, Agnes is jealous in all aspects of life. There’s a bit of healthy competitiveness worked in there that you can admire. Yet some days… some days she comes home fighting mad, hair a mess and muscles clenched tight as she recounts the events that made her that way. And lately they’ve all had the same person involved—
Agent Rio Vidal.
A loaner agent from the FBI, here to figure out some of the more poignant details of a murder on the Westview-Eastview county line. She’s confident and cutting and painfully attractive. Somehow, she knows how to push every single one of Agnes’ buttons, in work and play.
You’ve only met her twice and each time Agnes was an animal afterward. The appreciative glances and suggestive words made you blush—and though you won’t admit it, turned you on a good bit—while Agnes could barely hold herself back from attacking the woman. So possessive. So jealous.
You can use that.
The door on the other car hasn’t opened and you know she’s watching with rapt attention. You put on a good show, rolling your hips into your one hand while pinching at your chest with the other. You could get off on her watching.
Another exaggerated, high-pitched moan, “Oh, Agent Vidal!”
Though the woman is attractive, you can’t imagine anyone but your wife. Agnes doesn’t need to know that.
Strong hands grab your calves and pull you half-way out of the car. You squeak, eyes snapping open. Agnes looms above you and oh fuck you’re in trouble.
“You little bitch.” She snarls, hand coming to wrap around your throat.
You try to moan but she doesn’t give you that much air. Another deft hand rips your own from your panties, even going so far as to rip the fabric off completely. There’s the ghost of her fingers above your center. You roll your hips.
The sensation of loss and blurry edges is usually a huge turn-on; maybe it’s the intense change from oxygen to no oxygen, but you’re struggling more than normal. You tap her wrist three times.
Agnes pulls away completely. Her hand is off your neck, the other gone from between your thighs. You take in large lungfuls of air and feel your heart-rate slow just a little. A little whine works its way from your throat, though it’s mainly a result of the throbbing between your legs that’s still driving you crazy.
Your wife’s hands hover over you, eyes concerned, “Honey?”
“I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.” You assure, sitting up and kissing one of her palms, “The quick change just… startled me. I’m okay.”
“Should I… Do you need me to take you home?”
“Oh no, Agnes O’Connor, you’re going to finish what you started.” Spreading your legs offers an obscene picture of just how soaked you are, made even more tantalizing by the ripped panties clinging to your thigh, “Unless you want me to find someone else who can finish the job.”
It’s like flipping a switch.
Overwhelming is a word that could be used to describe Agnes in bed—smothering, even. She has a way of overtaking every single one of your senses at once. Your skin is on fire with her touch, with the faint strands of hair tickling your face. The scent of burnt break-room coffee clings to her jacket. You even taste it when her tongue invades your mouth, moaning obscenely against your lips.
You like being smothered, though. You crave it; aching for anything that will let you turn your mind off and just feel.
Agnes pulls back. Her breath is hot against your lips, “You’re such a brat.”
“Only for you, daddy.” You murmur.
A shudder passes through her at the name. Her grip tightens on you, near bruising. You moan.
“Where do you want me?”
“With your mouth between my legs.”
“Fingers?”
“Yes, please.”
Agnes chuckles, “So you do remember your manners. Interesting.”
You roll your eyes. To your luck, Agnes doesn’t see—if she had, you would have been punished accordingly. Though you realize things are a bit off-balance with your threat hanging in the air; any other time, Agnes would have you bent anyway she pleased, taking all she wanted until you couldn’t handle any more.
Being in control is… odd. Not unwanted, but odd. You have to be more aware of yourself, confident in every command that leaves your lips. You’re glad that this is Agnes’ preferred role even if you’re enjoying the change.
Lips kiss the inside of your thighs and you shudder. When she sinks her teeth in, you squeal, jolting at the change. Your hand falls to the top of her head.
“Not what I meant!”
“Oh, then what did you mean?” She taunts.
“If you don’t make me come right now so help me—”
The heat of her mouth on you is enough to shut you up. Her tongue drags up your slit with agonizing slowness. She teases at your clit for only a moment before repeating the slow drag, making you whine, pressing her head closer.
You feel the rumble of her laughter and god help you the vibrations feel amazing. Yet when you try to move your hips for more, her hands keep them pressed firmly to the leather seat.
Another threat sits on your lips that never comes to pass. With the last slow lick, she fastens her lips around your clit and sucks, hard. It’s painful and wonderful and your back bows off the seat, hands scrambling for anything to clench into. The weeks have been long and you know you’re not going to last.
“I’m going to come.” You force out.
She laughs again. That, in combination with her attention focused solely on your clit, sends you straight over the edge. You feel wild, unhinged as your hips move without any guidance from your mind, chasing the waves of pleasure that make your every muscle go taut.
But when the pleasure subsides, Agnes doesn’t stop. She pushes two fingers inside and curls them in that way you like so much. You clench around them, though you ache, not ready for more so soon.
“I can’t—Please, I can’t.” You beg.
“One more, baby. You can give me that, can’t you?”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
And you do. Her fingers know every inch of you well, her mind cataloging every spot that makes you whine, every move she performs that sends you over the edge. She calls on that knowledge as the pads of her fingers rub against that spot inside you with abandon until you can’t breathe, shrieking and moaning loud enough that you worry someone will hear you miles away.
The pleasure tenses your body so tight that you worry the muscles will never relax again. It hurts in that delicious way only Agnes can bring out.
When you do relax, she’s licking gently at you, collecting the flavor on her tongue and savoring it like a fine wine. You twitch. The hand you have in her hair pushes as you attempt to slide further onto the seat, away from her mouth.
“No more,” you beg, “please.”
“Am I forgiven?”
You laugh, breathless, “Not quite.”
You tug her up wordlessly until the weight of her is draped over you. It’s nice, comforting to feel her close. Her warmth helps fight against the cold biting at your lower half. Sighing, you bury your face in her neck, your hand coming up to lazily play with her hair.
Agnes accepts the touch. She traces little patterns on your hip over the nightgown, soft and quiet. You can still see the red and blue lights from your hiding place in her neck.
“Why do you have the Chief’s car?” You ask.
She scoffs, “Mine broke down three hours into the shift. Had to call the Chief and walk all the way to his house to get the cruiser.”
“What? Agnes, why didn’t you call me?”
“I wanted you to enjoy your night in, honey.”
You think about arguing, but you recognize the exhaustion in her voice, and decide not to push it—for now. It’s an argument you can save for later.
“So what was it, the battery? I thought we just replaced it.”
���I think the old girl might just be done for. We’ve had her for a while.” Agnes shrugs.
“But that’s… we brought Nicky home in that car.” You whisper, chest aching.
Another piece of your life—connected to your baby—that you won’t get to keep. Agnes tenses, her breathing growing ragged, and you feel terrible; she’s likely already thought about this the whole shift, spent all these hours remembering it alone. That’s why she didn’t call you—she didn’t want to drag you bag into the deep end of the pain, too.
You press a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. No wonder she took the first opportunity to play with you, she needed the distraction.
“I’m sorry, my love.” You murmur.
“Not your fault, honey. These things happen.”
She sounds less and less like herself with every moment. You don’t want to shove the grief aside—the grief counselor said that only made things worse—but this isn’t how you want to handle it; Agnes draped over your freshly-debauched form in the backseat of your car.
This is a conversation, a breakdown for home, where the two of you can take all the time you need to soak in the new loss. You need to distract her away from this.
“Will the force offer you one of their vehicles?”
“Yeah. They should.”
“Where did you break down?”
“By the bridge on Old Forest.”
Perfect.
“Let’s give her a proper sendoff, then.”
Agnes pauses. The look she gives you is questioning, as if not quite believing your suggestion, but she knows better—knows you’re serious about this.
“Alright.”
Which is how you find yourself halfway across town, on a back road with no streetlights, pulling off perilously close to a ditch. Agnes' car is unmistakable even in the dark—from the extra mirror on the hood reflecting the moonlight to the dent in the back bumper she never got fixed. You feel suddenly overwhelmed as you trace your fingers over the body.
So many memories, good and bad. Your late-night trysts in the back seat. Bringing Nicky home. The back seat full of his stinky sports gear. Agnes’ old case files winding up on the floor.
Agnes comes up and drapes her jacket over your shoulders. The warmth of her body has seeped into the cloth, now blocking out the chill in the air, “This might not be the best idea.”
You raise a brow, “Cold feet, detective?”
“Mine are nice and warm. Yours, however...”
She looks up and down your scantily-clad form with a worried furrow of her brow. It’s sweet, but not needed.
“I don’t think our plans will keep me anything but warm.” You smile, leaning back against the car while pulling Agnes close, until every inch of her is pressed against your front. Her hands settle on your hips as she kisses you with a softness belaying the vulnerability she still feels, “Unlock the car.”
“Honey—”
“Agnes, would you rather I went home?” You murmur.
“Of course not.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Beats me.”
“You know what I want?”
Using your leverage against the vehicle, you draw one of your feet up the inside of Agnes’ leg, careful to press every part of yourself against her. Her warmth radiates through her flannel and jeans and you smile.
She raises a brow, “I’m sure I can guess.”
“I want you to bend me over in the backseat of this car like you did that first time. You remember, don’t you? How pissed you were that I’d been teasing you for five dates.” You laugh at the memory, “You couldn’t even make it out of the restaurant parking lot.”
“You were so loud we almost got caught.” She recalls, voice low, gravelly.
“There’s no one around to catch us now.”
Agnes wraps one of her arms around your waist and uses it to tug you sideways, making quick work of unlocking the car. With the hand not on your waist, she opens the back door, and eases her jacket from your shoulders. She lays it out on the cold seats with the warm side up.
Not for the first time, you’re moved by her consideration of your comfort. It would be so easy for a partner to disregard the little things if it meant getting to the end goal faster; but not Agnes. You reward her with a long, slow kiss.
When she pulls away, there’s a fond little smile on her lips. She pats your hip, “On your hands and knees.”
You obey without question. Crawling onto the backseat, you’re reminded of just how confined the space of a car is. You have to keep your head bowed so as not to hit your head on the roof. It’ll be worth your while, but you know the two of you will be feeling the adverse effects of this choice for days.
Agnes follows and shuts the door behind her. She works her way into the backseat until not a bit of space exists between the two of you. Every inch of her front is pressed against you, draped over you like a warm blanket. You push your backside back into her crotch, teasing.
“I should’ve sent you home to get your purple.” You say.
“Be good and you can have my cock later.”
Warm fingertips trail up the back of your thigh until they snake under the hem of your nightgown. The soothing heat of her touch is lovely compared to the bite of the cold air. You lean into it.
“Yes, daddy.” You sigh.
Her body pulls away from yours and you turn, confused. A sharp slap to your backside makes your breath stutter, your core clenching around nothing. Your toes curl.
“Interesting that you want to be good now, when you’ve been testing me all night.”
“What can I say? I’m motivated by rewards.”
You’re satisfied that Agnes seems to be in the moment, rather than locked up in the memories in her head. Intent on keeping it that way, you lean back into her, arching so you can match her entirely. Her muscles go taut and relax and being able to feel it makes you ravenous.
Two fingers push your ripped panties aside and begin to drag up your slit, teasing. It should be noted that you are trying to be good for her, offering the control she takes to so well. You like to think she can tell, too.
When she slips her fingers inside you without torturing you further, you’re sure she knows.
You push back, desperate. You want more of her and bad. It’s as if the orgasms she gave you less than an hour ago never happened. Every muscle in your body quakes with the knowledge of what only Agnes can give you. And you want it so deeply that it threatens to bring tears to your eyes.
“Please.” You beg without prompting, “Please, more.”
A split-second hesitation belays her surprise, but she does slip another finger inside, stretching you even wider. You can’t stop how you move, nor the noises that come out of your mouth. You feel cursed with hunger only she can sate.
It’s this car, this backseat, and the memories here that are driving you so mad. It’s the life attached to it that you never thought you would get; a family, a future, a wife who loves you despite all the ugly parts others had run from. It’s the years you haven’t had to live out alone, the pain you’ve shared. It’s the fact that this act was once a beginning and now it’s an end.
Her lips press against the back of your neck, impossibly gentle, so unlike the role she’s meant to be playing. Something inside you breaks.
“Agnes—“ You choke out.
“It’s okay, honey.”
You let go.
You let go from holding yourself back—fucking yourself on her fingers until you shriek with pleasure. You let go of the ball of emotions in your chest, of hunger and pleasure and guilt. You let go of the pain and let tears spill over onto your cheeks.
It’s not the best orgasm you’ve ever had, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s a goodbye to this piece of your life. It’s an end. And it hurts just the same as it feels good to embrace the potential of something new.
Agnes holds you, steady as ever. You feel the dampness of her own tears on your neck.
You turn and lay on your back, welcoming the weight of her. You use your thumbs to wipe away the tears coming from her beautiful blue eyes.
“Am I forgiven, or do we have to go another round?” She asks.
You grin, not taking your hands from her face, “You’re forgiven, my love.”
“Thank god.”
Agnes drops her head until it rests on your chest. You laugh, extracting the hair tie so you can run your fingers through the length of it. Her arms wrap around you as much as they can.
She presses a kiss to your chest, over where your heart is. You gently work through a knot in between your fingers. The windows are clouded with perspiration. Beads of water reflect what little moonlight peeks through the trees. Moonlight or no, you know every dip and curve of your wife’s form, and could identify every part of her without sight.
The stale coffee smell has worn off, replaced by the faint undertones of the cologne she wears each morning. It’s deep and musky and comforting.
Maybe it’s the weight of her head on your chest in combination with the memories that makes you speak, “Have you ever thought about us trying again?”
She tilts her head so she can look up into your eyes without lifting from her resting place. Her brows are furrowed.
“Trying again?”
The weight of her beautiful eyes on you almost makes you change the subject. These conversations are so much easier without that layer of intimacy. But you’ve started something and you’ll be damned if you don’t finish it.
“To be parents.” You whisper.
“I’m a little past due on that, baby.” Her smile is self-deprecating.
“I’m not.”
“You never wanted to carry. I remember that much.”
“That was then.” You continue smoothing through her hair, “Now… If you want to try again, I’ll do it. I want to do it.”
You can’t decipher the look in her eyes. She doesn’t pull away, but she’s tense.
“We don’t need to decide right now. We have time.”
She nods, “Alright.”
“You’ll still be daddy, even if you aren’t my baby-daddy.”
“That was terrible.”
It doesn’t stop her from grinning, nor does it stop you from laughing. Something in the tension eases. You can’t lean down and kiss her like this, so you press a kiss to the pads of your fingers, and press them to her lips. She nips at them playfully.
The quiet is nice, but you can feel the cold settling into your bones. You need to be back in a heated car before you get sick.
“When is your shift over?”
“In a few hours.”
You nod, figuring out what time she’ll come home and how it fits into your schedule, “I have nothing after work if you want me to make good on those orgasms I owe you.”
“I look forward to it.”
It takes some time, but you and Agnes manage to untangle yourselves and worm your way out of the back seat. She sits, keeping you wrapped in her coat, until the inside of your own car is nice and warm. That earns her a few lingering kisses.
She trails you on the drive home before speeding off to do god knows what during the last few hours of her shift. And when you fall asleep—already feeling sore—an eagerness sets in your chest of what awaits. With an end, a new beginning.
#agatha harkness x reader#agatha harkness#agatha all along#agnes o'connor#agnes o'connor x reader#agatha all along x reader#agatha all along fanfiction#agatha harkness fanfiction#wlw#wlw fanfiction#nov2024#multimilfswritings
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Birthday ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 19, oct.
(late post)
— pairing: Spencer Reid x sex worker!reader x Derek Morgan x Aaron Hotchner
— type: smut, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)
— kink: foursome FMMM
— summary: Morgan hires a prostitute to her finally take his best friend's virginity.
— word count: 1.2k
— tags/warnings: kinktober 19th day, female!reader, virgin!Reid, shy!Reid, foursome (female/male/male/male), oral (male receiving), loss of virginity, praise kink, cowgirl position, handjob (male giving), Moreid, age gap (older men/older woman/younger man), birthday present, prostitution, drunk sex, rough kissing, orgy, corruption kink, implied/referenced cheating, infidelity, light overstimulation, breast worship, butt worship, nipple play, minor Aaron Hotchner x Haley Hotchner, bisexual(?)!Reid, bisexual!Morgan, married!Hotch, Lila Archer Mentioned, minor Spencer Reid x Lila Archer, ambiguous/open ending, curse words, sub!Reid, dom!Morgan, dom!Hotch, switch!reader, canon divergence, porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.
— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @purplehaze206 @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a @helo1281917
— crossposting: AO3
"You're gonna love your birthday present, Pretty Boy."
That's what Morgan said to Spencer after his birthday party. He was finally becoming more of an adult, gaining more respect from the team. Everything was going perfectly. Now, Spencer Reid was no longer just a shy and genius little boy, he was also proving to be a man worthy of working in the BAU, not just because of his extremely intelligent brain.
Reid was not as shy as before, he was slowly loosening up. His germophobia was also getting better and better. Everything was going well. He was maturing.
However, he still had his virginity intact.
The entire BAU was surprised when Spencer accidentally confessed about his lack of sexual experience during his birthday party. It was a shock to everyone, even though it was so obvious. The team thought he would have at least one experience or another for the roster, but the fact that he entered college as a teenager had ruined everything. Even though he was handsome as hell now, Spencer was a complex person whose brain worked too fast for anyone to even try to fully understand, no girl never had much patience to flirt with him for more than a few days, and his excessive shyness did not do much for his situation. The few kisses he had already exchanged with some girls had never gone further. The only time he felt tempted to continue had been with Lila Archer, which did not happen.
Spencer did not plan on telling anyone about his virginity. It was a shameful matter that he would rather keep secret forever. If it were not for the alcohol consumed during the night, he might never have confessed. None of his friends would know about this part of his life. If it were not for the whiskey, he would probably remain a virgin forever.
"F-Fuck. I can't..." Reid whimpered like a pathetic little boy as he squirmed in his seat, clenching his hands into fists and arching his head back, eyes closed and lips pink and already swollen from biting them. "Her mouth is so good..."
Morgan laughed at the sight of his best friend becoming a noisy mess every time you on your knees in front of him masterfully sucked on the tip of his cock. The boy's moans echoed in the room and went straight to Morgan's cock.
"How do you feel?" Morgan asked Reid, stroking his friend's brown hair as he finally opened his eyes, biting his lip again and trying to give a concentrated answer, but it went from tearful moans, which caused a chuckle from both Morgan and Hotch, who was just watching the scene. "You should try to have fun with us."
"Men aren't my thing, much less the kid one there." Hotch grumbled and Spencer pouted his lips sadly, giving his boss his puppy eyes.
It was Morgan's turn to roll his eyes, pulling Spencer's hair back a little to lick his neck, his teeth nibbling on the soft, vulnerable skin, causing Spencer to start to lift his hips desperately with his cock inside your mouth, in a desperate attempt to reach orgasm faster. "See, sweetheart? You're doing amazing."
Morgan used his free hand to stroke your hair, your eyes shining at him in confirmation, before you turned to Spencer, letting go of his cock when you noticed he was going to cum any moment ago. The big sad eyes on Reid's face caused laughter between you and the other two agents.
"Relax, kid. If you cum inside her mouth now, you won't be able to fuck her tight pussy anytime soon." It was Hotch who muttered a little grumpily, trying to hide the slightly sadistic smirk when he saw the tears of despair running down the genius' face.
Morgan gestured for you to stand up, your body covered by only a white lace panties that seemed to be tucked into your ass, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Hotch and Morgan bit their lips, while Spencer whimpered, trying to squirm in the seat so he could touch you. He had never touched a woman's breasts or ass before.
Hotch scoffed when he saw the pleading in Spencer's face. "Looks like someone is very eager."
Morgan followed Hotch's gaze, diverting his attention from your ass for a while so he could watch the younger boy's despair, enjoying it. "I guess you should stop his suffering for a bit. His brain is gonna break if you don't let him fuck you soon."
Morgan's suggestion made you laugh. "Virgins..." You rolled your eyes playfully, but it caused a sad pout from Reid, too confused and desperate to understand that it was nothing more than a teasing. As soon as you took off the lace fabric and threw it to Hotch, you heard him growl. He did not like prostitutes and had been completely against hiring one for Spencer to lose his virginity. But Morgan had convinced him. At first, he had said he would just watch, but the moment you wrapped the condom around Spencer's cock and gently fitted it in, his mind went into a frenzy.
That was one of the hottest scenes Hotch had ever seen. The youngest of the team crying with so much pleasure after having his cock stuck in a wet pussy for the first time. Your ass shaking every time you bounced on him, your own hands cupping your breasts and staring into Spencer's submissive gaze, those beautiful eyes filled with tears. The way Morgan grabbed Spencer by the neck, distracting him from watching your pretty breasts for a while, while now he felt his thin lips being crushed by Morgan's mouth with an aggressive kiss, his hand going down the older agent's pants by instinct.
Hotch had not liked that plan at all. He thought it was absurd. He did not like prostitutes. He did not like it when two BAU members got involved, even casually. This should all be disgusting and repulsive.
However, when Morgan and Spencer were still kissing, Morgan's bit heavy hand crushing your breast while Spencer's slender fingers played with your other nipple, it all became too much. Every moan that left your lips with the overstimulation caused by your breasts being used or by your wet pussy riding non-stop on Spencer's virgin cock. The whimpers that came out of Spencer at the new and incredible sensation, in addition to Morgan's intense kisses. The growls that Morgan let out while Spencer hangjob him with an inexperienced and almost stupid way, which made everything even more perfect.
Hotch should hate this and go away, go back to his wife and pretend he did not see any of it. The problem was, he knew that would be impossible. He wanted to continue, he wanted to feel everything too. Feeling his sex life a little more interesting in all the chaos that was his career and his marriage.
"I'm serious. I really don't like guys." Hotch warned again with an uncomfortable face, almost as uncomfortable as the tightness in his pants. You, Morgan, and even Spencer shared a few soft chuckles when Hotch snorted and took off his tie, unbuttoning his white dress shirt and throwing it to the floor before grabbing you by the neck, kissing your skin while you continued to ride Spencer.
"So that won't be a problem, Sir. I'm not a guy, I'm just a whore. All of you three can use me however you want." You scoffed and Hotch huffed, nodding then and licking your earlobe, his hands moving your hips to encourage you to go faster on top of Reid.
Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist
HOTD Edition - Masterlist
Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist
#venusbyline#venusbyline's kinktober#kinktober 2024#kinktober#kinktober masterlist#kinktember#november writing challenge#november writing prompts#criminal minds smut#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds x you#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid#spencer reid smut#derek morgan x reader#derek morgan smut#derek morgan x you#derek morgan x spencer reid#spencer reid x derek morgan#spencer reid x female reader#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner smut#my fics#my writing
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Swan song
Professor Viktor x TA Reader
[PART 1]。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆[PART 2] ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆[PART 3] (coming soon)
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆[AO3 link] ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。
Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.
Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, romanticizing and eroticizing borsht, lab shenanigans, reader being filled with equal parts shame and lust
Word count: 7.8k
Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.
Notes: A little something something while we await season two ;] The draft for this post deleted itself twice now. If the formatting looks wonky (especially in the texting section), NO, it doesn't. Shut up.
He didn’t lie.
Which is all the more shocking, considering you attend his 8AM lecture on the very same day, and he seems more bright and alight than you’ve ever seen him.
When did he find the time?
Though there isn’t a daunting amount to your thesis just yet, you still want to believe you’ve written something quite substantial over the past months.
You toss one glance around yourself before you follow him into his office after his lecture, and you find the stack of papers you’d left on his desk last night looking positively devoured, in the most… academic way possible. Scribbles and notes litter the margins, the edges of the papers are already somehow lightly worn.
He must have read it multiple times.
“Coffee?” He offers.
“Yes, please.”
As he gropes the machine in search of its switch again, he cocks his brow at you. “And what was that for?”
You frown. “What was what for?”
“That… glance, before you followed me into my office.” The switch clicks, the light comes on. “Looking around like you were being followed.”
“Oh,” caught in the embarrassing act, you shrug. “I don’t know. Being cautious, I guess. Students have been looking at me a little funny, lately.”
“Much too late for caution, I’m afraid.”
Uh oh.
As he retrieves two paper cups, you’re left wondering what exactly that should mean.
“Why’s that?”
“I thought you were well aware of the fact that rumors would start, um… circulating the moment I made it public that I had hired an assistant.” Coffee trickles into the cups, a soothing little melody. Viktor leans against the wall beside the machine as he watches the cups fill. “I’ve always been adamant about not needing one. It is natural for people to have questions — and to come up with, eh, answers — when I suddenly do.”
The notion of the answers students might have come up with swirls around in your brain.
You wish they were right.
You’re glad they’re not.
You look at Viktor.
“Do you mind it?”
The coffee stops pouring. Viktor does that thing again, spreading long fingers apart to grasp both cups. And he’s quiet — for a beat longer than he should be.
“No. There are more important things to worry about than… gossip.” He sets the cups on the table, then takes his seat. He hesitates for a brief second, craning his neck before he fixates on you, motionless. Waiting. “Do you?”
“Trying not to.”
The answer makes him… deflate, somehow. It’s barely visible, for just a fraction of a second his chest sinks, before his tone is back to his composed cadence.
“You will get used to it,” he assures. “Now, onto more interesting matters — your work.”
Thank god. You don’t know how much more of the awkward tiptoeing you could have handled.
“Yes.” Your heart leaps into your throat. Acting normal has never been so difficult. “What did you think?”
“Very impressive.” He slides the stack of papers towards you. “I have made some… suggestions here and there, should you wish to take them into consideration. But, I think you struck gold with your hypothesis. Should you need a conversation partner, guidance, anything at all — I would gladly be at your service.”
“Thank you, Viktor. I really appreciate this.”
At the sound of his own name coming from you, something in him shifts. Shifts with an unfamiliar near bashfulness, he stifles a little smile into the rim of his paper cup, the corners of his eyes crinkle, he settles into his seat a little further.
“But you never held up your end of the bargain,” you point out. That snaps him out of it.
“Ah, yes. I did not.” He continues to hide behind his cup, before he finally seems to decide to take a metaphorical leap, as he sets it down and stares down at it. “I fear the unfortunate truth may be that when it comes to research, I either work better with a partner, or that… Cecil is right and I need to slow down. Though I’d guess the former is more likely.”
“You used to work with, uh…” you’re not sure how to approach the topic, “Talis, didn’t you?”
“The five basic principles of applied arcanism are commonly referred to as Talis’ princies, you do not have to feign uncertainty to appease me.”
So you drop the attempt to tiptoe around the subject, and ask, plainly:
“Why wasn’t your name added on?”
Viktor scoffs. “Talis-Sidorov-Sviboda has a terrible ring to it. Or so he’d said. And admittedly… I was more of a conduit than the co-author of his idea. He said we would name the next big thing we would discover after me, but… well, you know how it is. I dedicated myself to teaching, he retired to lead a quiet life in his gaudy mansion with his sports cars and his purebred German shepherds after he married some businesswoman.”
Though his story does line up, those aren’t necessarily the rumors you’d heard. There’d been talk of more than just a mild dispute of names, and… well, there had been… something between Talis and Viktor. But that’s about all you know.
Under your gaze, Viktor grows suddenly uncomfortable — both with the subject and the fact that he might be able to tell you know more. He’s quick to redirect the conversation.
“As for my research: I have been studying the laminal hexoin cascade in stabilized hexgems in various matrices. And though bold, I have been attempting to figure out the ideal matrix — something that will allow for close to a hundred percent energy renewal and render all other sources of energy obsolete.”
”That is bold,” you say. Your other thought, you keep to yourself: it also sounds impossible. You suppose stabilizing hexgems 20 years ago was also something thought impossible — and yet, Viktor hadn’t shied away. If anyone is apt for the job, it is him. “Any luck so far?”
“Partially. They have been yielding favorable results, but not enough to be viable energetic alternatives as of now.” He takes his cup again, bringing it to his lips in a rushed movement, drinking a mouthful, rather than a sip. Once Viktor sets it down, his hand remains on the table, fingers tapping on the shiny surface once, twice— “I could use a theorist to assist me with a few things.”
The implication dizzies you. Is he…?
But then he slides another one of his drawers open, and retrieves a stack of papers. Slanted handwriting, barely legible — you’re by now intimately familiar with it: his cursive. It litters the pages, in different inks and in pencil, diagrams, sketches… just looking at it makes you hungry to read it.
He smiles as if he’s read your mind, again.
“I was thinking it could be you.”
—
You’re invited to his office for lunch break the very next day too. And though he assures you there is no pressure in having to read through his notes by then, you disregard it.
It takes you a reread to be able to make sense of all his scribbles, but… it’s brilliant. He’s brilliant.
It should stop surprising you by now — his ideas, his drive, his curiosity, his mind — but with every single time Vikror impresses you anew, he becomes something more distant.
As you’re marveling at his intricate weaving of concepts, it strikes you, unpleasantly, that this is the same man you’d wanted to devour just days ago. The man who’s made you coffee, the man whose sharp eyes fold at the corners when he smiles.
You’d have deified him, had he been your teacher. You still do, especially now, after you’ve seen more of what his mind is made of. The mere notion of him becomes terribly out of reach, and you’re plagued with guilt for that night. Guilt for having tainted such a man with your thoughts.
And yet, you still can’t help but think of his neck, the soft pink of his chapped lips, the hollow of his cheeks. You wonder what his mouth tastes like, and you want to slap yourself on the wrist for it. You should have, because minutes later, you wonder about worse things too. The scent of his skin, the coarseness of his body hair, how far up under his navel it might reach.
And when you finish reading his notes a second time and bring the paper to your nose to sniff it — hoping for a trace of him — you realize you have a problem. A serious one.
It torments you for the rest of the night, through the hours you spend writing up some suggestions and ideas, all the way to when you switch off the light, and hug whatever pillow’s within reach close.
When you get the urge to tilt your hips against it, you decide to get up and splash your face with water.
And you wish you could do the same thing the very next day on your lunch break, when you’re standing in the doorway of his office and he’s eating borscht. The sweet-tangy smell of vegetables, beef and beets makes your stomach growl, but your physical hunger is long lost on your otherwise preoccupied brain.
The beet red of the soup has pigmented his lips. They look kissed raw, puffy, ripe. A lavish speck of colour on his otherwise pale face, it draws your gaze and does not let it stay somewhere more respectful.
You want to taste them.
He does it for you, raspberry pink tip of his tongue darting over the plush of his lips before he swallows and finally greets you.
“Sorry,” you say, and it comes out tense, near horrified. You’ve caught him eating soup, for chrissakes, not being bent over his table. Oh, god. Why did you have to think about that? ”I’ll come back later.”
“No,” Viktor gestures to the empty seat across from him. He screws his thermos shut, and puts it away. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you. Sit.”
And you do, like the dog you feel like you are right now.
“Did you manage to find the time to read my notes?”
Oh, did you.
“I… followed your example and made some suggestions of my own. But on separate pages. Here.”
His reaction is more than what you’d hoped for. It’s more than the impressed raise of thick brows that had kept you fueled last night, it’s more than the smile you’d been hoping for.
“You are unbelievable,” he grins, and takes what you offer, pushing his glasses up his nose before he starts reading. You selfishly use the distraction to stare at his lips again. He mutters to himself as he reads, pink mouth molding around whispered jargon, nodding. “Yes, this… this is exactly what I’d hoped for, when I’d asked for your assistance. Your fresh set of eyes is invaluable. I hadn’t thought of approaching the modification from that angle.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the page for even just a moment, flipping it surprisingly fast, and taking it with him as he leans back in his seat.
And decides to torture you.
Viktor traces the pad of his own thumb over the curve of his bottom lip as he takes in your handwriting. The give of the flesh under his fingertip hypnotizes, the slight drag of rough skin on soft pink one, your mind is long gone.
You think of rough fingertips on his lips, on his chest, rough fingertips on the pasty white of his gaunt lower stomach, rough fingertips in coarse hair. Rough fingertips dipping between his milky thighs, rough fingertips on where he runs just as pink as he does on his lips, rough fingertips dipping, slipping on slick skin—
You need to stop.
And you most certainly need help.
“Is something the matter?”
It feels like you’ve swallowed your own brain whole when he speaks, because your skull rings hollow when you try to come up with a reply that isn’t incoherent babble.
“Wh— me? No. Why?”
And because embarrassment loves to stick around once it has made its presence known, the stars align for the next social disaster: your stomach growls. Loudly.
“Did you not have lunch?” Viktor asks.
“I… didn’t get around to it,” you admit.
“I won’t take up too much of your time, then,” he assures. If he knew just how much of your time he’s started taking up — and the fact that you wish you could give him what is left of it to him, too. “I would like you to work alongside me on my research. But if you don’t feel like you can squeeze another project into your presumably busy schedule, I understand. I would be glad to have you merely as… a colleague to consult with, as well.”
Is that even a question? He’s offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You would be an idiot not take it.
And an even bigger idiot to turn down more time spent with him.
“You don’t even have to ask,” you joke. “Yes. I would be thrilled, Viktor.”
This is his first smile you witness when his pretty boyishness doesn’t shine through. It’s a gentle quirk of his lips, no teeth to be seen, just tenderness. It makes your heart leap to be the cause of it.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you.”
Silence.
Just as you’re about to breach it — he does it first.
“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow as well?”
He watches you from below long, dark lashes as you give a breathless yes.
—
“I brought you something.”
It’s the last thing you expect as you step into his office at noon, upon exchanging hellos.
You’re alight. With curiosity, above all else. And with worry — why would he bring you something? What will you do to reciprocate?
“Thank you,” you say, though you have no idea what for just yet. “What is it?”
“I saw you eyeing my borscht yesterday.” There’s a glint in his eye that suggests more, so much so you can’t decide between flirting or digging a hole for yourself in the hardwood floor of his office.
The middle ground is standing in his office awkwardly as he unzips his backpack.
He retrieves two thermos bottles: the one you’re already familiar with, and another that looks older, more worn, and sorely lacks the sticker you’ve so come to love and fixate on and dream about. “I, eh, I made you some. In case you wouldn’t get the chance to eat before you came here.”
Your chest swells so much it hurts.
He made you soup?
“You… Viktor, this is… thank you. You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to. Have a seat.”
You practically jump into the seat across the table from his — a seat you’ve come to associate as yours, in spite of being well aware of the oppisite.
As he screws the bottle open and pours some steaming soup out into a paper bowl — god, he’d brought paper bowls — his eyes flick to you.
“But if you don’t care for borscht, you don’t have to—“
“I do care.”
And that rings true not just for the borscht.
It rings true for the soup he brings you the next day too, it rings true for every word that passes his lips. And it rings true for the time you start to spend in the insane coffee shop queue to surprise him with his preferred order and a slice of cake (a different one each day, until you figure out his favorite: cinnamon coffee), it rings true for the dark blue roughed up thermos he lets you take home the day you don’t finish the soup he brings you because you’re just so busy talking.
It’s November before you know it.
As the days grow colder, it’s not rare to be finding warmth by lavishing in Viktor’s attention as you ramble on about ideas — either for his research, or your thesis. All while he intently follows your thoughts with a smile, stopping just to shave another mouth-half-full’s worth off his cake of the day with his plastic spoon.
And once he savors the last bite, Viktor almost always flips it hollow side down, sliding it down the swell of his tongue within his mouth, removing it from between puckered lips. His cheeks hollow, he holds eye contact all the same, and it’s a mental image that haunts you. A mental image you project in your mind, nestled between the apex of your thighs. The thick of his tongue. The cushiony seal of his lips, the suction of his cheeks.
It never becomes any less distracting than the first time it happens.
You startle when Viktor speaks as he sets down the plastic spoon into the now empty packaging.
“I would like you to accompany me to the lab sometime soon. When would you be free?”
You’ve been before — but just a handful of times. Mainly for him to demonstrate or disprove certain guesses, or test conclusions you’d reached together.
“I’m free right now,” you suggest.
Viktor shakes his head. “I have a lecture in an hour.”
Right.
“I mean… I think we could make it in an hour.”
“I prefer to take my time.” Viktor leans back in his seat, stares thoughtfully at the clock on his wall for a moment. “Would seven PM work for you?”
“Uh…” you mentally go through your schedule for the day, “yes. It should. I might be a little late, though. How about… seven fifteen-ish?”
“Good.” The flow of the word is syrupy, yet his next sentence comes out surprisingly peppy with excitement: “See you then.”
—
Though you’re well into the final week of November, it never stops bothering you just how quickly the sun sets. By the time you get to the lab, the air’s gone cold, dry, and the darkness is heavy and thick.
Viktor waits for you just outside the university lab, under the halo of the street light — perhaps just a hint overdressed for the cold, in your opinion. It’s certainly trench coat season, though his is surprisingly long, reaching somewhere along the middle of his shins. The hand he hasn’t tucked in his pocket holds his cane and is clad in a leather glove. Around his lengthy neck, a red knitted scarf lays in chunky, impenetrable layers, reaching almost all the way to the swell of his top lip and his ears. You can hardly see his smile from underneath when he spots you — but his eyes give him away.
“Right on time,” Viktor’s tone has just as much pep to it as a few hours ago, perhaps even moreso. He rolls his shoulders, before he subtly nuzzles further down into his scarf, shying away from the biting cold. “Let’s get inside.”
He leads the way into the building, its warmth embracing you the moment you step in. The tip of your nose and your fingertips feel like they’re beginning to thaw, tingling just a hint. As you go to take off your coat, you notice Viktor isn’t in a rush. He rests his cane against the wall before he unwraps the thick, wide scarf from around his neck, folding it. He sets it on a nearby table, shucking off his trench coat, slender shoulders under a wool sweater. You watch closely as he then takes his scarf and stuffs it into the sleeve of his coat before he hangs it up.
There’s something stiff, painful, about how he moves. You wonder if it’s the cold.
“What?” He watches you with appeased amusement.
Caught red-handed, you jump, still halfway clad in your coat.
“Nothing,” you reply, scraping for a way to deflect from your obvious staring. “Not a big fan of the cold?”
“Never.” He says it like it’s a very serious matter. “I still don’t know how I made it through my first eighteen winters in St. Petersburg.”
“You grew up in Russia?”
He laughs through his nose like you’ve told him a half good joke. “What gave it away? The accent? The surname?”
“No, I just thought… Svoboda is a Czech surname.”
With how his smile turns knowing, self-satisfied, you’re suddenly back in his office again, uncertain and nervous and asking for a job as his assistant. He could taunt you with the knowledge that you’ve looked up his last name, embarrass you a little, play with you.
But he isn’t that man anymore — not to you. This time, he feeds your curiosity, albeit just with crumbs.
“My mother’s,” he clarifies. “Sidorov is Russian — my father’s.”
Oh.
“It’s nice that they used both their names. I’m assuming that wasn’t… common, back then, and back there.”
“It wasn’t, and they did not.” Viktor waits for you to hang up your coat, watchful gaze making your every movement feel loaded with static that’s about to snap. “I added hers when I changed my name.”
Changed his name?
The image of the sticker on his thermos turns up fresh in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder…
“Well? I was hoping we could discuss more in the lab, but if you prefer the coat hanger…”
Goddamn it. Focus. You need to focus.
“Sorry.”
You catch up, then slowly follow Viktor down the hallway, into the small lab he has been assigned. It’s one of the less grand ones, but it has all it needs — from a pretty new hexion accelerator to a humble whiteboard. It smells sanitized, sterile, ozonic.
You assume your usual seat by the whiteboard while he sets up. It still doesn’t feel… right to let him do all of that by himself, but he insists upon it, so, you stay out of his way. Viktor tidies up the space just a little, finding his goggles among the mess. He slips them onto his head, elastic pulling back his soft hair into a fluffy grey and brown mess. His cane thumps against the linoleum with every hurried step — though he doesn’t seem to be hurrying on account of you being there as much as excitement to show you.
Once he’s done, he sits in front of the accelerator, slipping his goggles on, and nods for you to come. Which you do — you’d be at his beck and call beyond just the academic context. For a moment, you pluck the inviting tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips out of their context, and you plant it atop your own bed, him in just a loose shirt, underwear, lax with freshly received pleasure. More comfortable than he’s ever been, all because of you. Beckoning for you. Come here. Smiling at you when your knee dips into the mattress, tucking his index under your chin as you crawl to him, reeling you in for a kiss.
“Come closer.”
God help you.
You comply with a wildly beating heart, stepping forward until you’re close behind his sitting form, watching the accelerator over his shoulder.
He smells nice. Like an indistinct, aromatic cologne, covering up the natural, gentle musk of his skin. You have to resist the urge to dip your head down and trace the tip of your nose along his spine, from where the bones of his neck show to where the scruff at the back of his head goes thicker, fuller. You wonder if he’d shiver as you let the scent of him imbue you… you wonder if he’d lean into it, if he’d tilt his head for you, let you dip your face into the slope of his shoulder, where his scent’s more potent.
The mere thought of him, vivid in your nostrils and clinging to your palate and the floor of your brain, rattles you with a shiver.
“I thought I’d rather show you than tell you,” he explains, wrapping both pale, bony hands around the handles of the accelerator. Steam hisses from the exhaust, flooding the room with more ozone, and gently, but certainly, the gem starts to spin behind the glass panel, beginning to levitate out of its socket, illuminating the room.
God, you should have put on goggles too, it’s making your eyes hurt. It’s a welcome reminder as to why you chose to spend most your days staring down a blackboard rather than the thing itself. The screen right above it is more of a familiar sight to you: numbers, reading the rotations per minute, as well as energetic output, steadily increasing.
It whirrs, magic static whirling up around the blue orb, electricity crackles.
You can see the appeal of this over a blackboard. But you’d still take the chalk. Especially considering the deafening noise.
Nevermind the damn goggles. You need to remember to bring some ear plugs.
“Watch the panel.” Viktor raises his voice over the hum of the machine, and turns to you, watching you from behind foggy lenses with a smile. You wish you could see the way his crow’s feet deepen. It rumbles harder, so much so Viktor almost has to shout the next thing he says, which is a shame, because his usually playful lilt is lost in the noise of it. “Not to… spoil the outcome of this experiment for you, but I implemented the conclusions we came to last week, and, it is safe to say…”
With a well-timed click and tug on a lever, the machine disengages, and the gem drops back into its socket under the influence of gravity. Its violating light returns to a faint, blue glow, like an artificially lit aquarium; fluctuating and undulating gently in its intensity. The potential energy indicator’s numbers climb back up, steadily, but faster than what you’ve seen before.
Much faster.
You can’t help but grin with excitement. “It’s regenerating fast.”
Viktor smirks at you over his shoulder like you’re sharing a sacred, intimate inside joke.
“It is.“
You await the verdict with a bated breath.
“How much?”
Viktor’s smile only grows, like he’s about to give you a present. And, all things considered, this is going to be one, in months’ or maybe even years’ time.
“A thirty-seven percent recovery after usage within an hour.” Viktor spins in the lab stool to face you with the theatrical self-satisfaction of a magician who just sawed his assistant in half and is waiting for the applause. You nearly forget to step back to give him the space for it, so much so your knees knock together. But there is no chance for you to apologize, Viktor is unbothered, sliding the goggles up his forehead enthusiastically, his show of complacency ditched in favor of pure excitement. “That is more than I’ve ever achieved thus far. Thanks to y—”
His voice sticks in his throat, turning into a pained hiss.
His hair’s tangled in his goggles.
“Oh, wonderful,” he grits out sarcastically.
A frustrated half-sigh half-groan rumbles in his chest as he pulls again and only makes things worse.
“Could you get me a pair of scissors? I should have some in the third drawer over there.”
“Wait. At least let me try first,” you insist. Reluctantly, you step closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, Viktor lowers his head for better access like a feral animal letting itself be pet for the first time. He sits still, the sound of both your breaths suddenly loud in the tall, quiet room as you’re forced to step even closer. “Could you…”
You nudge his ankles apart with the tip of your shoe.
He listens.
After a stuttering, fragile exhale, Viktor spreads his thighs.
You take the space offered. And you try not to think about kneeling, about making a home for yourself between his thighs.
“Do you think you can do it?”
You wish he’d asked you that about any number of things, except for the goggles tangled in his feathery, soft hair.
But yes. You think you do.
It would have been a terrible shame to cut it — though some shorter, bluntly cut hairs that sit a little further back near the top of his head tell you his suggestion was not the product of a new idea. Carefully, you pull whatever hairs are looser from between the lens and the bridge of the goggles, though a strand remains stubborn.
You try to ignore the warmth of his breath on your shirt, the intoxicating, soapy, yet distinctively human smell of his scalp, and the mesmerizing ratio of grey to dark brown, the subtle heat on the sides of your palms and wrists, resting on his head for stability.
As you separate another few hairs from the stuck strand and accidentally tug at them, Viktor has no reaction. Beyond swallowing thickly, and sitting through it dutifully.
You wonder if he’d act just the same, had you bunched his hair into the spaces between your fingers and tugged — simply biting his tongue and chewing through the pain — or if he’s leaned into the force, moaning with it, and god, you’ve hurt him, and you haven’t even apologized.
“Sorry.” You sound twice as genuine — mainly because you apologize for much worse than the inflicted pain. “Almost done.”
“The scissors would have been faster,” he half-jokes.
His voice sounds different. A hint more… strained. He shifts in the seat, wipes his hands on his slacks.
“Would have been a shame, though. You have pretty hair.” The last part of the sentence positively escapes you, and once you hear it, you freeze. Your brain scrambles itself trying to add something that will fix the inherent following awkwardness, the horrifying realization you just called your boss pretty, the fact that it’s true, the fact that—
Viktor flinches with another accidental tug of his hair, and so do his thighs — jumping with the surprise, clenching together until they squeeze around yours. But they’re gone just as fast, flinching away with horrified urgency. Before you get to savor the supple flesh pressing into your own in another new perverted way, before you get to imagine his ankles locking behind you, tilting and rubbing your hips into the hug of his thighs.
You need. To get. A grip.
“Sorry.”
You continue on in silence, and thank everything above he at the very least can’t see the way your hands shake, because he’s staring at the floor like he could drill a hole into it with just his eyes.
You should have gotten the damn scissors. As if through divine intervention, the rest of his hair comes loose not soon after.
“Okay. All done.” You smooth the slightly crinkled, but now free strand back down into the rest of his soft hair.
Viktor’s dainty features come into view from below his face framing pieces as he tilts his chin up. His lips quirk into a gentle smile, his eyes sparkle in the faint blue glow, soft shadows under the hollow of his cheeks and the swell of his lip and the tip of his nose and the bone of his brow. You wish you could immortalize him in whatever way he’d let you — a sculpture, a painting, a poem. He looks ripe for kissing, eyes half-lidded and twice as dreamy as he peers at you.
You’re going to see him like this in your mind’s eye later tonight.
Nestled between your thighs, or kissing down your stomach, molten gold under long, dark lashes, sitting atop carved marbled bone.
“Thank you.” He says it quietly — like it would break the sudden holiness of the moment to say it any other way.
He’s so warm.
You could kiss him. See what the ozone of the room tastes like in the slick of his mouth. You wonder if he’d let you, if he’d suckle your tongue into his mouth in a show of submission, or if he’d bite your lip, licking your teeth, pressing, pushing, make you earn the privilege to taste him.
You wonder if he’d hold you, or if his curious hands would roam, tracing the front of your stomach, or your spine, or press to the middle of your breastbone like he wants to see where you’d split open for him down the middle like a ripe peach. You wonder if he’d let you dip a hand down the front of his slacks, you wonder if he’d tilt his hips into it like he’d been aching for it, aching for you. Scorching your hand with want, materialized in slick or straining hardness. You wonder which it’d be.
From where you’re standing, the distance between the apex of his chin and the space where his slacks stretch between his thighs is small — and your gaze takes the leap, searching. But the material dips and curves in such a way that you’re left none the wiser, and with nothing but a disgusting realization.
You’re staring at your boss’ crotch.
You step back from the heat between his thighs, painfully awake, aware. It squeezes and wriggles in your chest like you have a parasite lodged in the chambers of your heart.
You’re disgusting.
You need to put an end to this.
“You’re welcome, professor.”
With that, you’re practically bolting from between his thighs, to stash the scissors away again.
You’re neglecting your job, you’re putting it in jeopardy. Putting yourself in jeopardy, risking all the rumors circulating becoming a shameful truth, you’re risking the first man who ever kept up with you, followed you where you wanted to go and took you further — you’re risking it all because he makes you unbelievably fucking horny.
And it’s absurd. Embarrassing. You need to get a hold of yourself.
“I was… thinking, actually,” you begin, and want to punch yourself over how Viktor perks back up from where you’d left him. “About some things regarding my thesis that I’d like your thoughts on.”
“Oh. Of course.” You have got to be imagining the subtle disappointment in his tone. The second you let yourself believe it’s more than just a figment of your make-believe, is the second you will be doomed.
Viktor, with all his years and experience, would and does know better than to fall for his assistant. You know he does.
“What’s on your mind?” He prompts after your prolonged silence.
If he knew the half of it.
—
You’re late.
And it’s a direct, shameful consequence of last night’s lusting, the time you’d spent frustratedly tossing and turning and thinking of his mouth and his eyes and his scent, before you’d given in past midnight, and humped your hand into completion.
Thinking about him under you, about pressing your face into his neck, about pressing him into the mattress and rutting into him until he gushes and his tired body sings for you and his voice cracks. Until he breaks for you, until pleasure itself oils and unscrews all the biological cogs of his body and he comes out unstrung, reborn.
Viktor’s in a wheelchair.
And he looks worse for wear than you’ve ever encountered him before, slumping in the chair and massaging his eyelids with his thumb and index, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He’s dressed even warmer than usual, in a loose but thick, dark red sweater. There’s a colorful knitted blanket folded and set over the tops of his thighs.
Viktor doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in and sit near the whiteboard, simply resumes his lecture as he regains his mental footing. And he goes on for a while, not sparing you a single glance, as he goes through powerpoint slides today, instead of his usual writing and hand drawn diagrams.
He’s at it for a while, not as fast as his usual pace, but undeniably concise, certain. Until…
“The energy output increases proportionately to the spin, and, with powerful enough matrices, some hexgems can create force fields of their own. This is a particularly common phenomenon in unstabilized gems as well, though with the activation of their force field, those tend to also create… eh…”
Viktor stops, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. He frowns, mumbling something in another language, which, judging by the heavy consonants and squeezed vowel, you’d assume it’s Russian. The word must be slipping his mind, so you decide to help out.
“A shock wave.”
Viktor’s gaze cuts. He’s looked at you with disinterest before, sure, but this…
He doesn’t even turn his head to look at you, just eyes you from the corner of his vision like something unworthy of acknowledgment. You wish you could swallow your words back up.
“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. A shock wave.”
You don’t say anything again for the rest of the lecture.
Once the door falls shut behind the last few students who have left the room, Viktor turns to you. You wish you could shrink; and it feels like you do, when he finally speaks.
“I appreciate your intention to help — but do not interrupt me again. I know what I’m trying to say.” He sounds utterly unlike himself, both spent and angry. “I don’t need help. Especially not in the middle of a lecture.”
“Sorry.”
That alone softens him up a hint. He looks away, rubbing his thumbs against the wheels of his chair, before he speaks again. Calmer.
“Just… do not let it happen again.”
As he slumps in his seat, massaging at his temples, you understand that his anger… might not have been as directed at you as you’d initially thought. He’d been snippy when his back hurt — having switched to a wheelchair must mean he’s in a lot more pain now.
And you understand his frustration. He’d just gotten himself an assistant a few months back, and started a new project — looking like he requires help in front of his students is certainly not doing his reputation right now any favors.
“But if there’s other things I can do to make your day a little easier, I’d like to do them.”
“No, thank you.” He shakes his head, before he grabs both wheels and advances to where he’d left his bag. As he starts packing his things, he stops again, quietly groaning somewhere in the back of his throat. “Where did I put my pen…”
Viktor eventually finds it right behind his water bottle on the table, tossing the both of them into his bag, shutting it tightly. You expect him to wheel himself over to the ramp that leads to the exit, but he just hangs his head, massaging at his temples again, before he looks at you.
“Actually, I’d like it if you went to my office and got me a silver tin box in the… fourth drawer on the left side of my desk. Do you have the key with you, or should I give you mine?”
“I have it. I’ll be quick.”
“Thank you.”
And you deliver on your promise. You don’t run, but you power walk there, and you’re back with (hopefully the right) tin box in the same lecture hall before his break ends.
Viktor takes it from you gladly, popping it open. It contains two foils of painkillers, one already half empty, a small ziploc bag of… gummies, and at the very bottom, some dark chocolate.
You must have pulled a bit of a face at the contents — particularly the gummies — because Viktor cocks a brow at you, before he faintly chuckles under his breath and pops three painkillers in one go.
After depositing the foil back in the box, he fishes out the dark chocolate bar. It looks to be the expensive kind, something Belgian — Viktor breaks off a piece, putting it in his mouth, before he holds it out to you.
“Peace offering,” he clarifies when you hesitate.
You’d be a fool to turn him down. You take some — it’s rich, buttery, and melts on your tongue. It coats your mouth with its taste, dark and aromatic and unfortunately not as sweet as you thought Viktor preferred. He’d always favored the almost disgustingly sugary cakes.
“Didn’t think you’d like something so bitter,” you say.
“I do not. It sometimes helps with my migraines,” he tells you. “Sugar makes them worse. A very… devastating discovery to make, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
You wonder if right now is the right time to be curious — and you decide it might be.
“Do the migraines also affect your leg? Or the other way around?”
“No.” Viktor shakes his head, popping off another piece of dark chocolate. “This,” he gestures at himself, the wheelchair, “was just a very unfortunate… overlapping.”
“Oh.” You grimace in sympathy. “Fun.”
“A punishment for it, more like.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Let’s hope my migraine eases up on me throughout this lecture.” He smiles at you — and for the first time you’ve known him, he looks old doing it. Exhausted. The face of a man who’s seen enough hardship for a lifetime, but has yet to cave under it.
You wish you could hold him. You wish you could melt it away, kiss it better, love it better. Whatever he’d let you.
You surprise both him and yourself when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and let your thumb rub a small circle over the wool.
Though he flinches at the first contact, once something in his brilliant mind unfurls and settles, so does he. Through the cracks, tenderness shines under the fatigue. Viktor can be soft — in spite of everything im his body and his past that protests against it. “Thank you.”
You take your hand away sooner than you’d like — but at the ideal time to keep it from being anything more than a friendly touch.
“I’m glad I could help,” you say.
—
Viktor isn’t there at all next week.
You come in on Monday to find his office empty during lunch break, and when you attend his lecture, it’s another professor from his department teaching it. The students don’t seem all too excited about the change either — and you leave before it even starts.
Heimerdinger is none the wiser about Viktor’s situation when you talk to him — in spite of their shared history. He simply tells you he’d taken the week off and had arranged for substitutes.
You consider messaging him… and ultimately end up doing so, after some internal debate. You simply text him to get well soon and that you hope he’s getting some well-deserved rest. He replies with just a plain thank you.
Tuesday is quiet. You receive a stack of midterms you need to get through from the substitute, and you do, by Thursday morning. Which is when Heimerdinger messages you.
Dr. Prof. Cecil B Heimerdinger
Good morning! I’m well aware this is on very short notice — but the substitute professor has unfortunately suffered a minor car accident. Not to worry; they only sustained small njury. However, I am finding myself forced to task you with Viktor’s lectures today. Do you think you could take care of that? Thank you.
-Cecil B. Heimerdinger
9:32
Just the thing you needed — teaching two full lectures, entirely unprepared.
Alright. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You just need to find out what’s even on the agenda for today. You could text Viktor, right? If he answers on time, that is… he’s sick, he might as well be asleep right now. You could call, but… he said only to do that in the case of an emergency when he gave you his phone number.
Would this count as an emergency?
Your phone beeps.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
There should be a black flash drive in the third drawer on the left in my desk. It has all my lectures.
9:34
Today’s topic is LHC segments naturally occurring in unstabilized gems. Feel free to use my work laptop to familiarize yourself with the presentation before the lecture.
9:35
Me
Thank you so much!
9:35
His answer comes a few minutes later, just as you fish the flash drive out of his drawer, and plug it into his laptop.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
Good luck 👍
9:42
It would be a lot easier to get caught up in the desire to snoop around on his laptop if you didn’t have less than 20 minutes left until the lecture. His background is disappointingly the default image, but some of his folders look undeniably tempting — not just the scientific ones, which take up most of the space. There’s some photo albums titled with the year and location: Germany 2011, Czech Republic 2009, among many others. There’s also a photo album titled Persichka.
Who is that?
You almost click it. But then you check your watch again and realize you only have 15 more minutes until the lecture, and decide against it.
—
For how utterly unprepared you are, it goes surprisingly well. You stumble, once or twice, but you’re glad to see that even by the end of the lecture, you still have most students’ attention.
After you dismiss the class, you don’t expect questions. But a good handful of them, a little under ten, approach your desk, whispering among themselves, before a hastily appointed representative emerges.
“We were just wondering,” she awkwardly begins, “if professor Sidorov-Svoboda is alright. And when he’s coming back.”
“Oh.” You hope they’re asking because they understandably prefer him, and not because you did a particularly shabby job. “He texted me just today — he’s doing alright. But I can’t give you an exact estimate for when he’s coming back just yet.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
With that, all of them turn to go. After the last student has left the room, you reach for your phone, and pray you don’t see any other day-altering messages today.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I did not mean for you to have to do this.
10:11
You unlock your phone and jump straight into the chat.
Me
Don’t worry, it’s alright. I handled it :)
12:02
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I knew you could.
12:02
Thank you.
12:02
Me
Focus on resting up and getting well soon!
12:03
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I have been. I actually feel well enough for company now. Coincidentally, I’ve gotten some ideas for your thesis and I would like it if we discussed them sometime. Would you be free this weekend?
12:05
He wants to meet? Outside of the university? Undoubtedly for academic purposes still, but your heart squeezes and bounces and pops with the implications.
No. You shouldn’t let yourself hope for more than just a few formal, at best friendly hours spent together.
Viktor doesn’t want you. He would never want you — he knows better. You know better.
Me
I’d like that! Saturday works for me. Where would you like to meet?
12:05
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
If you’d prefer somewhere on academy grounds like my office or the coffee shop, either would be fine.
12:06
My apartment is also an option.
12:06
The choice is obvious.
#viktor arcane#viktor arcane x reader#arcane viktor x reader#arcane viktor#viktor arcane x you#reader insert#my writing
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The guy who has read every single comment on the AO3 update post reporting back here. There are still folks going "I disapprove of the change because people will think that the tag is only for underage sex" and not understanding that they are the people the tag was changed for. I am still entertained.
One interesting point is people suggesting that "Underage Sex" instead be called "Underage Sexual Content" or "Underage Sexual Activity" because some chucklefucks think only penetration or even as narrow as only PiV sex counts as sex, and that for example a handjob doesn't count as sex. Cue ancient fandom discourse about what counts as sex.
While I do agree that sexual content/activity is clearer terminology and leads to the fewest possible misconceptions, part of me hopes that it stays "Underage Sex" because it's the crudest version of the tag, and I want the folks who didn't bother to read the description of the "Underage" tag to one day wake up and get the shocking realisation that their sweet brothers hanging out fics and their wholesome friend group having a good time fics are now tagged with Underage Sex.
--
I want it to stay because the wishy-washy version—to me—invites the idea that it's the fact of the sex that needs the tag and not the on-page-ness of it. Neither tag makes that explicit, and I don't think any tag of a reasonable length would, but the "Underage Sex" version feels cruder and more graphic in a way that suits what the tag is for.
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A Love Written in Gold
Part 1 — The Grand Debut
🦢 Summary: Dearest gentle readers, the much-anticipated season of debutantes has finally graced us, casting a spell of delightful nerves among our young ladies poised to conquer the glittering heights of society. As is tradition, a diamond amongst them has been selected to dazzle—oh, which lucky charm shall it be this year? Amidst a flurry of introductions and grand soirèes, let it be noted that the inaugural ball shall be hosted by the illustrious His Grace, the Duke of Beaumonte. But pray tell, who are those most peculiar gentlemen drawing all eyes with their striking features? And what delightful mischief lies in wait for the debutante of the Jeong Household and her charming commoner, behind the discreetly shut doors of the music room?
🦢 Pairing(s): Proletarian!Hongjoong x Noble!Reader, Duke!Seonghwa x Noble!Reader
🦢 Genres/Tropes: Bridgerton AU, Regency era, forbidden love
🦢 Warnings/Tags: no use of (Y/N), female reader, sexism, mentioned classism, explicit language, overprotective!Yunho, wholesome family dynamics, slight angst
🦢 Wordcount: 14.8K
🦢 Author's Note: Welcome to my second series!! Whi-hoooooo! I've been wanting to write a Bridgerton AU since s3 came out and what better than to make it a Hongjoong series. It was about time I did something for my bias lmaoo. Anyway, the tags are a bit vague and I'll update them as the chapters come out, so check them out with each update. A little fun thing I did. There are a few 🎼 emojis spread through out the chapter with songs I thought were fitting to the scenes, so if you want, listen while reading :) The following songs are in order:
Young and Beautiful, Vitamin String Quartet | We Are Young, Vitamin String Quartet | Positions, Jeremy Green | Chopin: Waltz No. 19 in A minor, Op. posth.
This is all fiction and not meant to represent the idols involved in any way or form. This work is NSFW and not appropriate for minors as it contains explicit scenes. Minors and ageless blogs, please, refrain from reading or interacting with this work or my blog!!!
AO3 Masterpost Moodboard Permanent taglist
Winter prepared for its departure as spring eagerly waited by the door, a green blanket in hand and pockets full of overgrowing flowers. She was more than ready to wrap the world in a warm hug of vivid colors and greenery. Many ladies got ready for their first active participation in the social season, giving their parents, maids and butlers a handful of things to fret over. In one of the most respectable households of the ton, the Jeongs were arranging everything for their youngest to make her appearance in society as a débutante and help her search for the perfect eligible man.
“We must hurry! The carriages are outside,” Wooyoung announced and raked his hand through his combed hair, making it appear messy as if just risen out of bed.
Although being the second born of the late Viscount and Viscountess Jeong and possessing no title to his name, Wooyoung still dressed the part of an aristocrat. His double-breasted vest was a white creme color with a tad bit brighter dress shirt beneath, the light colors contrasted his dark features and he stood out as a star in a pitch black sky. A matching neck scarf rested around his neck and he occasionally tugged at it, complaining of the itchy and suffocating material that no one dared to alter, courtesy of it being his mother’s choice. His legs were tightly wrapped in a pair of black trousers, showcasing his glutes and muscles. The black tailcoat was yet to be worn, but he had no doubts it would hug his body in a delicate way to display his slim waist and make up for his lack of height.
Granted Wooyoung was not seeking a lady to wed, he would still arrive to gatherings wearing expensive pieces of clothing and jewelry and a dazzling smile that would make even the stubbornest of ladies swoon. Much as last year’s social season, Wooyoung planned on greeting the pretty debutants with a kiss to the back of their hands and — if feeling frisky — asking to sign their dance cards with a glint of mischief in his truffle colored eyes.
“Then someone should hasten our lovely sister, do you not agree, Brother?” Yunho, the current viscount and head of the household, suggested.
Unlike Wooyoung, Yunho was wearing darker schemes besides his white shirt and the pretty silver patterns on his thick vest. His tailcoat was darker than coal, but soft as feathers, made out of a velvet fabric indigent people had never set eyes on, much less dreamed of. The black scarf was neatly tucked beneath his vest and the elder showed no signs of irritation, he looked rather content and relaxed on the plush couch in the living room. Yunho’s long legs were decorated with black pants and extravagant leather boots reaching up to his knees.
The Jeong brothers did not look alike, from their varying facial characteristics to the height difference, anyone not aware of them sharing blood — they would be foolish not to know — would not believe they were nurtured by the same father and mother.
“What a splendid proposition, Brother, however, I do have to say she is far more civil in your company.”
“Stop speaking of your sister in that way,” their mother, Dowager Viscountess Ireum Lee, chastised and gently ran her palm along her beautiful pistachio green gown.
At first glance, the woman seemed to be a very serious and strict lady. Some even dared to compare her to a sly fox. Looking into her sharp and dark eyes would be the equivalent of staring into a void hole—dark, empty and cold. Her neatly braided, black hair and red-tainted lips were vivid against her bright complexion, and she was always shielded from the sun whether it was under an umbrella or a great tree. Despite her resting facade — claiming to be missing that motherly warmth newborns would yearn for — she could light up a room with her bright smile and soft-turned eyes. Her beauty was truly unmatched and no amount of makeup could make the other mamas appear nearly as pretty. It was no secret both Yunho and Wooyoung acquired their looks from her. Yunho with his cupid bow lip and Wooyoung’s wide cheekbones and sharp jaw.
“Although it is true we do not have time to idle. Let us fetch your sister.” The brothers followed their mother as ducklings padded after a hen, with haste and no further questions asked.
“Is she still not ready?” Yunho asked as the trio stopped before a great white opening, both of the doors closed and some shuffling noises coming from inside the youngest's room.
“It seems so, dear.”
“We do not have time, Mama. I should call for her.” As Wooyoung advanced forward, his hand stuck out to grasp the golden knob, Yunho quickly gripped the younger’s wrist.
“Did you not say she preferred my company over yours, little Brother?”
“That was before we risked running late, now if you would.” Wooyoung ripped his hand out of the gentle hold and gave a new try of entering.
A millimeter away before Wooyoung’s gloved fingers made contact again, the doors swung open and the trio simultaneously stepped back. Multiple maids rapidly left the room and soft as a feather, the youngest and only daughter of the Jeong family came into view. You were gorgeous. The epitome of breathtaking. The white dress cascaded down your body and reached the glossy tiles of the hallway. The details of the gown were subtle. The pair of golden roses professionally woven into the puffed sleeves and across the bosom accentuated your chest. No more frilly necklines or thick dresses to cover your figure. Your exposed neck was adorned with a golden necklace, an heirloom passed down in generations, from your late grandmother to your late mama, to you and eventually to your future daughter or daughter-in-law. It was a simple piece of jewelry and resembled branches of a tree holding pearls and clear diamonds instead of leaves. The maids responsible for your hair arranged it into an updo with many pins to not accidentally stray in your gently dolled-up face. A feather headpiece drew all the attention to itself, standing tall on your crown and flapping with each little movement of yours.
“Miss Lee!” Wooyoung teasingly remarked, “You sure do make a fine debutant, little Sister.”
Matching Wooyoung’s playfulness, you pinched the material of your dress between your silky-clad hands and curtsied with a faux smile, an expression you mastered over the years for this specific event.
“Thank you, Woo.” Facing the rest of the family, you bowed again, “Mother. Yunho.”
“You look lovely, my dear.” Ireum placed her hands on your shoulders and gave them an encouraging squeeze. “Your papa and mama would have been proud of you, treasure.”
“Do you really believe that?” The insecurity in your tone did not go misheard.
“I am more than certain.” She cupped your jaw and allowed her thumb to caress the apple of your cheek.
Your real mother passed during childbirth along with your younger brother, who did not live to take his first breath outside her womb. Three summers passed until your father, the late Viscount Lee, wed another lady with the promise of taking her two sons under his care. In exchange, Ireum raised you as her own daughter, but never with the intent of erasing the trail your mother left in the short three years she shared with you. There was only so much a three-year-old could remember and if it were not for the big portrait of your late parents hanging in your room, you would have forgotten the face of your biological mother. Despite the loss of your mama, you still felt the motherly love seep through the words and touches of Ireum.
The quirk of having a small family was that all members fit into one carriage and no one was rarely ever forgotten. Except for Wooyoung, who did the unthinkable just to escape the watchful eyes of Ireum in order to have some fun. Holding the title of the household, Yunho never stepped out of line and fulfilled his duty of keeping the family in good hands. You had what would probably be the easiest task; to stand and look pretty. It sounded boring at first, but the more you did not bring attention to yourself, the easier it was to slip under the radar of the ton.
That would all change today. Whilst the people of the ton woke up hours after the sun rose, the famished side of town was on their legs since before the bright star had peeked over the horizon. For them, it was nothing more than another day of hard work and bringing food to the table. Age and gender were two words that did not mean much besides giving character to their entities. The poor were thrust into work at a very young age — something families like the Jeongs could never imagine — and brought in a handful of pennies over the course of weeks. The cycle would repeat until driven into an early grave from either lung poisoning, exhaustion or starvation. Some would say it was unfair that the sole family you were born into could determine your whole life and others would argue otherwise, claiming life was formed by sheer strategy and the use of tools that were handed to you after birth.
Mister Choi would agree despite having more leaves and sticks in his boyish pockets than coins. Raised and almost born on the floor of his father’s pub, Mister Choi spent more time inside the beer-filled room than in their own house. He was a somewhat respected man, not by means of money, but by the reputation built through his greatest treasure, his pub. It was the reason behind the Choi’s survival through generations and the next owner in line was no one else but his first and only child, San. Mister Choi would be turning in his grave had he known what his offspring planned to do with his greatest treasure.
Far away from the flower populated streets filled with luxurious carriages, men and women dressed in eye-catching costumes, and magnificent architecture, a dingy space residing in a rundown building. The name decided by the great grandfather of Mister Choi was carved into the wooden sign hanging above the entrance, albeit reformed throughout the years. The moment the key was in the palms of San, the young man decided to change the complete interior. The Crescent was the pride and glory of the Choi bloodline and looking over the semi-full boxing club, San could not have imagined a better use of the previous pub.
“I do not get how you do this, I mean, you can not even see a speck of blood on my floorboards!” San exclaimed, bruised hands resting against his bare hips.
The male who was done scrubbing the wooden floor threw the dirtied rag over his shoulder and glanced up at the owner. San was a very handsome man. Sharp eyes, full rosy lips and prominent cheekbones. The black hair was parted down the middle with a few strands escaping and falling over his forehead. His most alluring feature were the dimples appearing with his dazzling smile, an attribute people would commit treason for. That was not all. Beside his captivating face, San’s body was that of a sculpture. The thin tank top did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and strong arms, and even brought forth his slim waist. The man had muscles in all the right places, courtesy of the daily exercise in his club blessing him with very hard abdominal muscles and firm buttocks. San was a work of art and there was no doubt in mind he would fit right in with the ton, if he only discarded that kindhearted personality.
“Lukewarm water and a lot of finger strength,” replied the worker, his pale hand coming up to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
“Remind me to give you a raise. You have helped me more than anyone and to you I am forever in debt.”
“The debt was paid off the moment you allowed me a space in your home, providing food on my plate and shelter over my head. Do not fret over such minor things, San. I do see you as family after all.”
“Good, because you are the closest I have to an older brother, Hongjoong.”
The first time San saw Hongjoong, they had yet to reach the age of puberty. The elder was a scrawny child by nature and stayed that way in his twenties as well. Thinking back to the olden days, not much about his appearance had changed except for the aging and looking part of a man and not a boy. His caramel colored hair was still untamed and reached the base of his neck while the front strands were cut so as not to fall in his line of sight. Hongjoong was a man of very delicate features; a small and pointy nose, a heart-shaped mouth and feline eyes in the prettiest shade of brown San had ever bestowed.
Hongjoong would have thrived in the life of a rich man, but that loose mouth of his would certainly land him in a heap of troubles. However, it did not matter as he was born with nothing. No title that would pay off all his troubles in life, no family with a great sum of money or greater achievement to inherit. Hongjoong was a mere man with a dream that would never be fulfilled. All the obstacles thrown in his life taught him to be grateful for what he had and not long for dreams out of his reach.
“I do believe we have cleaned up nicely for my cousin’s arrival. You can take a rest and write some of your poems and stories that you oh-so-desperately hide from me.”
The exhaustion settled over Hongjoong’s shoulders and he could not have been more happy to hear the word ‘rest’ leave San’s lips. They had been cleaning since stepping foot in the boxing club and all because of San’s wish the place be tidy for his cousin’s first visit.
He let out a sound the mix of a chuckle and cough. “They are music sheets, not stories and I am merely hiding them because they are yet to be finished.”
“You are telling me you have not even finished one piece of music over the course of how many years?”
“I am a perfectionist! You of all people should know that, San-ie.”
Prepared to tease the elder a little more, San threw an arm around him and lit up the room with his dimpled smile, but was interrupted as the door creaked open. In came a man appearing younger than Hongjoong and with a bigger value than the whole club and San’s apartment combined.
Judging by the unknown male's exquisite choice of clothes, Hongjoong would guess he belonged on the opposite side of town where they dined appetizers for lunch and drank champagne instead of water. Not a speck of dirt tainted his all-white suit, in fact, the only brown smudge on his whole appearance was his neatly parted hair to show his forehead. The stoic expression on his round face sent caution heedings through Hongjoong. Fearing he was there to cause ruckus — because why else would distinguished gentlemen stop by a boxing club funded by another poor man — Hongjoong hardened his gaze and balled his hands into fists. A gesture that would have him shunned out of every place in the whole town, no matter how poor or rich he may have been. As Hongjoong moved to greet him in an unfriendly manner, San’s sudden detachment from the caramel-haired man caught him off guard, but not nearly as much as the loud and warm greeting following seconds after.
“Little Cousin!”
San moved at the speed of a racing horse and disregarded the extortionate suit as he wrapped his bare and sweaty arms around the man, using enough power to lift him off the ground and spin them around. The man looked uncomfortable, but his features were not colored with a tinge of annoyance or anger, quite the opposite. He broke out in a smile, gummy teeth on display and eyes creasing as a cute giggle filled the spunky atmosphere. The threat Hongjoong created in his mind was nothing but an exaggeration. Instead of a Grizzly Bear, the man became a teddy.
“San, release me!”
“I cannot help it, Cousin, I have not seen you in ages!”
The cousin, Hongjoong had yet to put a name to, dusted off imaginary dirt and straightened the lapels of his suit. “It has not been ages, you always exaggerate. We met at Mama's funeral last season, although I do apologize for not interacting all too much with you.”
It sounded like a foolish thing to apologize for, but who was Hongjoong to question it? He had never been to a funeral and would most likely not live to witness one either. The first one would attend, he would be lying in the casket if he was lucky enough to afford one in the first place.
“Anyhow, that is not important now. I did not travel all the way here to reminisce of my last moments with Mama. I have a proposition for you, but before that will you not introduce me to your… comrade?”
Hongjoong looked as perplexed as San’s cousin sounded. He did not expect the young man to address him anywise and certainly not with a high regard. His mouth opened and closed continuously. The silence prolonged and Hongjoong awaited harsh words and a biting remark from the gentleman at his lack of answer, but all he received was a patient stare.
“Uh, right! Right. May I introduce my one and only trustworthy friend, Hongjoong? Hongjoong, this is Lord Choi, owner of Precious, the most well known pub industry in all of Scotland and currently expanding to England.”
“Just… Hongjoong?” The man nodded and Lord Choi sighed. “Very well then. As my cousin said, I am Lord Choi, but you can address me by my given name, Jongho. I am not all that keen on formalities, especially with friends, and a friend of my cousin is a friend of mine.”
Hongjoong stared at the Lord, at his new friend, who showed off his gummy pearls as if the man had promised him a house of gold and not just progressed past the formalities five seconds into their meeting.
“Now, back to what I was saying. The proposition, Cousin. His Grace is hosting the first ball of the season and I have been given the freedom to bring whomever I want.”
“And you decided to bring your dirt poor cousin because?”
“You know I have never liked these social gatherings, I cannot deal with mamas coming up trying to wed off their daughters. Matter of fact, you are invited too, Hongjoong.”
Jongho was full of surprises, Hongjoong concluded. Dressed in a proper suit and hair tidily combed, but he still whined as if a century old child. It was uncommon—in fact, it was very rare—to see an aristocrat be kind toward people the likes of Hongjoong and San. He could not count on his hands the number of times nobility shunned him for his mere existence. To have a Lord call him his friend and invite him to the first ball of the season was bound to leave him skeptical.
Hongjoong cleared his throat and wiped his clammy hands against his ripped bottoms. “Uh, my apologies, Lord Ch– Jongho, but I cannot attend… I do not have the means to finance an exquisite suit or carriage or, well anything to be frank.”
“The same goes for me, little cousin.” San slung his arm over Hongjoong’s shoulders and connected the sides of their heads. “Besides, who will tend the boxing club?”
Jongho broke out into another grin, shoulders up to his ears and his brown eyes squinting so hard one could believe San shared the funniest joke of the epoch. “You seem to forget yourself, cousin. I, Jongho, have enough money to free up the rest of your week and restock your wardrobe for the foreseeable future. For the both of you. Go and clean up while I make some arrangements for us. It is time to pay a visit to an old friend.” He firmly grabbed both men by their shoulders and guided them further into the boxing club.
Hongjoong was never one to back down from a good time full of food, sweets and excessive beverages, not to mention pretty ladies in frilly dresses. Going under the hot stream of water and changing into a new set of somewhat clean clothes, the three men took Jongho’s carriage to the supposed old friend. The representative colors of Kilmartin, blue azure and an argent shade of white, covered the carriage in swirls. The foreign palette was bound to make them stand out from the rest, like the cart passing by drenched in complete black and minimal designs of gold added on the outline and handels.
There was always a mild curiosity among the bystanders standing on the pavement, yet the blue and white colors managed to even catch the attention of the second-born Jeong, who himself was in a carriage going in the opposite direction. The rapid flicks of his wrist slowed down as he continuously peered out the window, his attention caught by something more important than his sister’s worry over her debut. Sweat coiled beneath your armpits and chest, and the air fanned with the help of Wooyoung did nothing to cool you down.
“Are there different ranks for certain carriages?”
You snatched the fan from Wooyoung’s hands and smacked it over his head. “Is that the most crucial thing to discuss right now, Brother? I am sweating like a pig and all you ask is the value of carriages? I have not heard one, ‘How are you, Sister? Can I help you, Sister?’ from you.”
“Will you two hush? The whole ton can hear your bickering and I am certain that will not heighten your reputation amongst them. What man fancies a lady who is ill mannered and what lady seeks out an aloof gentleman?”
The two youngest of the Jeong Household erupted into another fit of whines and complaints making Yunho’s attempt at calming them down futile. As the head of the family and viscount, he could handle all the duties that came with the roles, but aiding their mother with the growth and upbringing of his siblings was a far more complex task than anything he had battled before.
“I would not be deemed ill mannered if my brother could focus on the task at hand!”
“Aloof? Aloof?! What is so aloof about wanting to expand my knowledge?!”
Yunho sighed and leaned back against the plush seat, he could not listen to another second of pointing fingers and turned to his mother for help. The Dowager Viscountess chuckled gracefully, mouth shielded by her clothed hand and lips tightly sealed but not enough to hide the delighted sound. The struggle straining his features did not go unnoticed and she decided to interfere before his rich brown strands turned gray.
“Alright children, settle down!” Ireum took the fan out of your hand and resumed Wooyoung’s previous task. “Now, Yunho does have a talent for over exaggerating, my dears, but I do not agree with his claim. None of my children are ill mannered, maybe sharp-tongued and… on occasions rowdy, but still very demure.”
“But Mama!”
“No, buts Wooyoung dear, stop arguing and let us focus on your sister’s debut into high society.”
You straightened at the attention and raised your chin to the heavens. The pride set into every atom of your body and pulled at your lips until a triumphant smile lit up your face. There was no sweet victory as the one over your brothers. Your pleased look crumbled as the trotting horses slowed down and eventually stopped the whole carriage. The moment you had been dreaming of since little legs was upon you and it was equally scary as it was exciting. Walking through the doors of the royal court and being guided into a room with a dozen other ladies waiting to present made you realize how close you were to your dream. There was no retracing your steps to the life of a little girl anymore and while it sounded great, it also filled you with melancholy. Debuting meant entering a stage in life neither of your biological parents witnessed you in and closing the door on your childhood was to leave the memories of your late papa and mama. However, your mourning did not solely contain the passing of the late Viscount and Viscountess Lee, but also of the girlhood you would not face until your own daughter was brought to the world with an ear piercing cry.
Your brothers or any other male relatives were not allowed in the waiting room and were referred to accompany the remaining guests in the main hall. The girls in your vicinity were all clad the same, some were more nervous than others, but the tension was nonetheless high in the room. The worry of their appearances did not quiet down until the first girl was announced to step out. The remaining débutantes-in-waiting stopped adjusting their gowns and feathers and focused on being calm enough to not ruin the important walk that would determine their rank and value in the market. Out of everyone there, you wished for one person to appear. Mingi, the heir to the seventh Viscount Song, whom you had known since birth more or less. It was a shame only the primary family of each débutante could attend as it would bring you immense peace to have him there. To see his towering height, bright smile, and single crooked front tooth on display and mouthing encouraging words. Mingi’s presence alone would lift the suffocating spell you were under.
🎼 The chatter of the people outside moved in waves, raising and simmering out between presentations. As with many others, your name was eventually proclaimed on the other side of the door and the last ounce of concern sketched on your features evened out into a pleased expression. Your small courtesy smile was to catch everyone’s attention while your eyes would be the gems making them swoon. The announcer’s voice increased in volume as the doors parted, allowing the spectators to drink in the next débutante.
“...Presented by her mother, the Right Honorable, the Dowager Viscountess Lee!”
You took calm and collected steps, synchronizing them with Ireum’s who was half a step behind you, looking equally as mesmerizing and captivating as the day she debuted. The trick to these things, she had told you years ago, was to keep your head straight and posture upright, showcasing importance and elegance. You had been practicing the walk for ages. The amount of trashed books and shattered teapots stretched over a hundred, but they lived to serve their purpose in the end. Hushed whispers and looks filled with curiosity followed your moving forms. You immediately found the scrutinizing gaze of the Queen, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. She was clad in the most exquisite dress you ever laid eyes upon and that spoke volumes as you had your own fair share of expensive silks tailored to fit your body like a glove. The mighty periwig adorning her small head took on the form of a rosebush and put everyone else’s to shame. It was so huge, you nearly missed the gleaming crown — delicate and small — on top, sparkling in the dim lights of the chandelier.
Somewhere in the crowd stood your brothers. Wooyoung with a proud smile and cheesing eyes while the older looked rather grim, not liking the idea of his baby sister turning into a woman. But underneath that hard exterior, warmth and happiness heaved a weight off his shoulders. A feeling akin to pride swelled in his chest just to see everyone’s surprised and amazed reactions. The Jeongs always knew how to leave an impression.
“Your sister does take after your mother, Lord Jeong.” A deep yet soft voice murmured next to him. Yunho looked away from you curtsying, the correction resting on his tongue dispersing into thin air as it landed on a familiar face.
“Your Grace, what a delightful surprise it is to meet you here.”
The Duke of Beaumonte, Seonghwa, looked as he sounded; rich and eloquent. His hair was long and black, falling as a blanket over his nape and tickling his collarbones. Most of his hair was neatly combed back, all but one piece of his fringe, which was styled to curl in front of his bare forehead. Not many gentlemen dared such a hairstyle, as the fear of appearing gruesome was more probable than winning a horse race, but Seonghwa was the exception. He did not cower for any challenge, even those involving fashion. From peculiar suits to eye-catching hairdos, he frequently introduced new styles into society and it was by virtue of his handsome features that it looked good. The long bridge of his nose, full raspberry-colored lips, prominent dark brows and a pair of mesmerizing eyes held a peculiar coldness, but in essence he carried a warmth strong enough to melt iron. The duke was a character born out of a fairy tale with the posture of a soldier and the brain of a scholar. Women dreamed of a worthy man the likes of Seonghwa and men were green with envy whenever his appearance was made.
Seonghwa chuckled, “I hope it is not that big of a surprise as I intend to find a wife this season.”
“Ah, that does explain your presence indeed and is that the reason behind hosting the first ball of the season, as well?”
Seonghwa pursed his lips, a futile attempt at covering the broad smile fighting to come forth. “You are still quick-witted, I see… Perhaps it is. A man has to assess his range of selection in some way, does he not?”
Yunho nodded, agreeing with the duke, but could not further comment on the matter as the Queen rose from her seat on the red throne, wordlessly silencing the entire hall. She stopped before you and put a finger beneath your chin, guiding you to stand straight. Ireum did not dare to move an inch from the uncomfortable crouched position and your brothers’ held their breaths as if one single intake of air would ruin the moment for you. The Queen’s icy demeanor was a stark contrast to the warmth emitting from her touch. Your heart nearly collapsed as she uttered one single word and blessed you with a tender peck to your forehead.
“Perfection.”
Your chest rose and fell rapidly, and your previously gracious smile fell into one of bewilderment instead. There was no higher honor than the praise of the royal house.
Viscount Jeong did not fathom how powerful of a tongue the Queen possessed. He did not manage to step foot outside the royal court without being hounded by at least a dozen eligible gentlemen, asking for a formal introduction to his sister while boasting about their gold mines in the Kingdom of Spain or studies in India. Yunho was overwhelmed and there was still a ball to attend. The interactions would not stop there, as the season had only just begun, but Yunho was already overthrown by a headache not even his finest flask of brandy could cure. As if that was not enough, another headache in disguise of his brother waltzed through the door of his study.
Wooyoung was dressed boldly that evening. The rich red of his tailored jacket was hard to stray away from and one would think he was one of the débutantes searching for a bachelor to court. It seemed to be a trademark for the Jeongs to have gold details carved into anything they touched as Wooyoung’s jacket was embroidered in that particular color. The rest of his suit was all black; slacks, dress shirt and shoes with his dark hair slicked back with stray strands falling over his forehead in a fashion-like manner. The younger was also freshly shaved and Yunho could feel the pinch of his strong cologne on the other end of the room.
“Oh, Brother! I was sent to fetch you by Mama; it is time to leave yet aga– Pray do tell, why are you not dressed?”
“I have been busy discarding letters asking for formal introductions to our sister. Would you believe me if I said there have been over ten so far?”
“Well, yes? Have you seen our sister? She is the most beautiful débutante of the lot! They would be foolish not to secure a formal introduction with her, especially when the competition is tight. Each word spoken is one step closer to joining the family, Brother.”
Yunho opened another letter from the big pile on his right. “As if I would let those deuces in the vicinity of our sister. That is a very distasteful approach, I must say… Letters? What do they take me for? A man who remembers every single face I come across… Just take a look at this!”
Dear lord Jeong,
I pray this letter finds you in excellent health and high spirits.
I shall be curt and consistent in my writing. The news of Miss Lee making her debut in society has captivated all of London and I, too, find myself among the gentlemen bewitched by her beauty. Though I am not the first nor the last to seek you out in regard to Miss Lee, the urgency of my sentiments outweighs my concern for the multitude of letters that clutter your study.
It is said Miss Lee’s grace and elegance surpass the high expectations of Her Majesty. Whispers swirl the ton that Miss Lee has secured the esteemed title of the Diamond of the First Water, and I must confess, it is indeed quite fitting, rendering her all the more desirable. As you well know, Miss Lee embodies a kindness and warmth unmatched by her fellow débutantes and is a great trait for nurturing offsprings, a prospect with which I wrestle most ardently. The gentleness and affectionate nature of Miss Lee is to be guarded and protected from the vile eyes of the inappropriate gentlemen and as a frequent patron of the pugilistic club, I stand ready to defend her purity. This, I give you my word for.
Each new piece of information adds admiration to her character and one cannot help, but ponder what further attributes Miss Lee may possess. I am but an intrigued gentleman who marvels at Miss Lee’s mere existence and I harbor a desire to peruse the remaining chapters of her story.
It would be my utmost privilege to make the acquaintance of Miss Lee. Might we arrange an introduction at His Grace the Duke of Beaumonte’s ball to deliberate upon a potential courtship?
Yours truly–
The paper was torn to bits before Wooyoung could catch the name of the sender. Although he had to agree the choice of words was improbable, he could argue Yunho’s protectiveness was the main reason as to why none of the letters were approved either. Finding you a possible suitor would be harder than anticipated if Yunho did not let up on his hostility, and as your other brother, Wooyoung made it his mission to help you.
“Perhaps I could help you look through the letters after the ball, but it is best you give it a rest now and get dressed, Brother. I doubt Mama would be delighted to know her eldest is the last to be ready considering your title.”
Heeding his words, Yunho slid the rest of the envelopes over the desk and into his first drawer before disappearing into his bedroom. A similar suit jacket to Wooyoung’s hung over his wardrobe, ironed and ready to be put on along with the rest of his attire. It seemed everyone in the Jeong household was to dress in the colors of love, passion, and anger. The guests and hosts attending the balls Yunho was invited to were usually clad in mild colors and he had yet to witness someone come in a starker hue of red, green or blue. He was well aware of his mother’s schemes. You already garnered enough attention with the simple flick of the Queen’s wrist, and Ireum was a smart woman for playing further into that act. Keeping the curious flame of the ton alive by giving you the most breathtaking dresses the people were going to see. Nothing was to halt Ireum from finding her daughter a perfect suitor, with or without the viscount’s permission.
🎼 Descending down the few steps of the carriage, you held a fair amount of your gown while the other hand was clutching Wooyoung’s open palm. The Jeong family was neither early nor late, although it did not matter whichever because people sought after your arrival. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the débutante evoking a pleased reaction from the Queen. They wanted to see for themselves if your beauty was truly unmatched.
Yunho was the first to exit the carriage followed by Ireum, Wooyoung and lastly you. After your feet met the ground again, Wooyoung delicately passed you onto Yunho. Entering high society meant replacing your simple ballerinas with low-heeled shoes, something you had yet to grow accustomed to.
“Please, do not let go of me,” you whispered and held tightly onto Yunho’s bicep.
“I do not dare dream of it, Sister. In fact, you will not leave my sight this wonderful evening at all.”
Yunho met the eyes of a dozen lust filled men, some of whom could not even keep their tongues from straying past their lips. These were supposed to be chivalrous gentlemen, he thought and scoffed. It was no doubt the red attire — besides your beauty — was making them act ungraciously. Your gown was lengthy and stuck to your waist perfectly, revealing your ample bosom and collarbones. A ruby and gold amulet was sown into the middle of the neckline and you were certain people would not be able to decide what to look at more, your cleavage or the pretty gem. You absolutely loved the color, a deep red reminding you of the stunning roses growing outside your windows or the fresh cherries that were soon in season. The rest of the fabric hung loosely around your legs, granting you the freedom to move more steadily without the fear of falling over. Your shoulders were covered and bejeweled with rosettes and pearls matching those around your neck and ears. To shield you from the summer breeze, the modiste had gifted you a knitted cardigan that you looped your arms through. Ireum insisted on doing your hair as she had done so for many years and learned to style it the way you loved it.
Crossing the short walk to the entrance of Park Manors, you were in awe at the beauty of it all. Disregarding the decorations, the inside was not much different from your own residence; spacious, tiled flooring and high ceilings, a few paintings and statues to liven up the place, even a few flower pots. But as Seonghwa was hosting the season’s opening ball, he made sure to enrich the place with the most outstanding decorations the ton would see. Big hydrangea bushes were planted by the stairs, the different shades of lavender, violet and purple continuously wrapping around the railings and leading the people through the mansion. The walls were a beautiful tapestry of cream white that gave much space to work with any colors the duke wished for, and by the look of the interior, he had chosen all the hues falling under the category purple. Following the stream of people, you and Yunho found yourself standing in the main hall, a big space leaving room for both dancing, socializing and tasting the savory pastries on the sides.
“This is wonderful,” you said under your breath and kept your eyes on the enormous chandelier suspended in the center of the ceiling. Under the lightning ornate was an orchestra stationed, already playing a pleasant melody as the guests strolled in one after another.
Yunho hummed in reply and led you to stand by one of the many windows draped over with a lilac curtain. It seemed to be the safest place for the time being, squashed between him and Ireum, whilst your other brother had already managed to snag a glass of champagne and a tart of some kind.
“I do not appreciate the staring, mother.”
“It is expected, my dear,” Ireum answered, completely overlooking Yunho’s unease. She gave your elbow a soft squeeze of comfort. “We shall let them come to you, my ruby.”
As the music took a quick turn from a mellow to a more festive tune, the gentlemen around you pursued the débutantes for a dance. You perked up at the thought of being asked to dance and could nearly not contain your excitement. A suitor of sturdy height and dark hair had kept his eye on you since your arrival and mustered up the courage to advance with the aid of a much older woman you recognized as Lady Kang. She bowed, which all three of you returned.
“Lady Kang, good evening,” Ireum greeted and smiled politely.
“Good evening, Lady Lee, Miss Lee and Lord Jeong. I believe you have not yet met my nephew, Lord Yoon. Nephew, this is Miss Lee, Lady Lee and Lord Jeong.”
“It is my pleasure.”
“Likewise,” you replied and smiled charmingly. He did not look bad, not at all. His suit was elegant too, and he had a cute pair of eyes, very warm and welcoming.
Yunho, being overly observant and on edge since stepping foot in the Park estate, acted with haste. “Lord Yoon, is it not? I believe I do find your name familiar… Ah, right! You are familiar with the fencing club, correct?”
“Very much indeed, Lord Jeong.”
“It is a shame you have not visited in quite some time… Does it perhaps have to do with your failed payment issue? Or was it for acting unruly after conceiving one too many drinks?”
Despite the festive melody surrounding the two families, the atmosphere had thickened at Yunho’s revelation. Lord Yoon was left gaping with red cheeks giving your dress a run for its money as you took a turn about the room, arm hooked with Yunho’s. Ireum was left to deal with the stunt her eldest had caused, apologizing for Yunho’s curt tongue.
“I did not realize…” You began and glanced down at the shiny floor to hide the embarrassment tinting your cheeks.
“It is not easy, dear Sister. But that is precisely why I am here… and Wooyoung too, but we shall not rely all that much on him as of now.”
Yunho steered you in the direction of Wooyoung still standing by the treats, passing all the mamas and débutantes swooning at his presence, not indulging in them for a fraction of a second. Yunho was not interested in courting a lady and would not do so in the vast future either, he had too much on his plate to seek out a perfect candidate to be his wife! You were his main priority now and God help him if you landed in the hands of someone unworthy, like Lord Yoon, for instance. Creasing and plastering on an overly wide smile, you and Yunho walked past the entrance, missing the arrival of three very handsome gentlemen who stole the attention of every lady inside, single as well as married.
Hongjoong was not used to being under the spotlight. No one would think twice to look at him, let alone whisper about his handsome looks and wish he would ask them up on a dance. Then again, this was not his setting at all. Fancy suits, pretty ladies and interiors worth a sum he did not dare to imagine. At least the music was to his taste, he thought and mentally applauded the orchestra for their skilled fingers managing to handle the instruments correctly. Of course they would, they had all the means for it. Envy climbed up his back and threatened to seep into his bones, but the firm weight of San’s hand on his shoulder brought him out of the jealous haze.
“This is…”
“I know. It is rather overwhelming,” Hongjoong admitted and nervously caressed the front of his white vest. His whole attire was brand new, a little something whisked together by the ton’s modist — a sweet and peculiar man with kind eyes and a soft spoken tone. They were lucky Jongho’s social circle was quite grand otherwise they would have never made it past the gates of Park residency, let alone see the shimmering insides of chandeliers and diamond ornaments.
“Brothers,” Jongho’s deep yet smooth voice called for their attention. How and when he managed to obtain two glasses of champagne was beyond Hongjoong, but the proletariat in disguise did not care as he grabbed the stem of the overly light champagne flute. “Let us be entitled gentlemen for the night.”
The statement was ironic, if something. Out of the three, Jongho was already a gentleman, but the aspiring musician did not correct him. If the owner of Precious wanted to play pretend, then Hongjoong was going to display the best act of his life.
He smiled, the corners of his mouth sharp and his eyes playful as he clinked the edge of his glass with the others, “Let us.”
The intrigued gazes of the remaining guests were not as overwhelming as Hongjoong first thought. After some time, he, along with the Chois, blended in with the rest of the crowd. They stood a bit from the dessert table and snickered at the aristocats under the guise of looking at the sweets. Hongjoong understood why Jongho chose to not socialize with them. Everything they did, from talking to simply existing, was pretentious.
“Do you do this often?” He eventually asked.
“Laugh at the upper class? Yes.”
“No, I meant this.” Hongjoong gestured to the ballroom. “Attend balls and other events.”
“Ah… Well, not precisely. Although I am an Earl, Hongjoong, it does not grant me invites to every social gathering. I am here merely because I am an acquaintance of the host.”
“Where is the man of the hour, anyway? Should the host, I do not know, maybe tend to his duties?”
“His Grace is full of surprises. Everything he does is unexpected. Who knows, perhaps he will not even show, but I do doubt that. It is said he is intending to marry this season.”
Another entitled prick added to Hongjoong’s never-ending list of arrogant nobles. Sipping on the bubbly champagne that left a sour taste on his tongue, he watched as a new round of waltz lured the gentlemen to the waiting ladies. Soon enough the room was in full swing and truthfully, it was making him dizzy. All the spinning and changing partners and maintaining the beat—what an exhausting activity. The people standing on the sidelines, much like Hongjoong, enjoyed the festivities of the ball and he wondered if they had nothing better to do than eat sugary treats, gossip and fantasize about romantic endeavors. Not that he could be one to complain, his free time was spent writing poems and music sheets, more precisely piano scores.
🎼 As the current round of dancing came to an end, the orchestra stopped their performance, making everyone turn their heads in confusion. Their questions were answered as a pair of white doors separated and someone of high status, Hongjoong presumed, entered through simultaneously as the violinists of the orchestra drew their bow across the strings of the instrument. He was mid-sip when the whole room erupted in gasps and murmurs of awe, startling him and having a gulp of bubbly champagne slip into the wrong pipe. Throwing a hand over his mouth to lessen the violent coughs, his eyes widened to the size of the duke’s saucers as they fell on an elegant man knocking the wind out of everyone. It did not matter how well-dressed Hongjoong was or what kind of attire the modiste brought out, no one could match up against–
“His Grace the Duke of Beaumonte!”
Hongjoong could not believe what he was seeing. The duke was simply a flower and every lady, along with their mama, were bees eagerly waiting to get a taste of his pollen. Loyal to the theme, he decided to dress in a velvet suit the color of moonvistas and wisterias. The white damask pattern on the vest was divine and matched his cravat and gloves. Every corner of the room erupted with ‘Your Grace’ as the man passed them, exchanging polite smiles, but not lingering any longer than necessary. What a presumptuous bastard, Hongjoong thought and masked his disgusted scoff with another cough.
The hundred pairs of eyes burned into the body of the duke, never letting him out of their sight, but Hongjoong could not bother to keep looking at him. The host was vexing the green monster inside of him by existing. It was incredible how the toss of a coin pre-birth could determine the outcome for the rest of one’s life. The title was passed down to the duke because of the time and place of his birth. That could have been Hongjoong, San or even Jongho had they come out of the duke’s mother instead.
“Perhaps we should greet His Grace?” San suggested and adjusted his cravat.
“You really believe that would be a wise thing to do? I mean, those hounding him are mainly ladies. What socializing topic could we have to offer him? Perhaps indulge him in your boxing club or– Oh, I know, I can share some of my work and see if he will hire me as a pianist!” The sarcasm did not go misheard and San deflated at the hostility lacing Hongjoong’s voice. The elder quickly regretted his harsh words and patted his friend on the back. “I am deeply sorry, San. That was unjust of me.”
“All is well. It was a foolish suggestion anyway.”
Before Hongjoong could reprimand him for his chastising demeanor, Jongho cleared his throat. “I could formally introduce you. I am quite close to His Grace, after all.”
“You never told me of your connections with a duke?!” San whisper-yelled into his cousin’s ear. “Now you must introduce us, see it as your payment for being dishonest.”
Sighing, Hongjoong replaced his empty glass with another full one. If he was going to turn his nobility act up a notch, he would need more alcohol in his system. Mimicking Jongho’s stance, Hongjoong and San straightened their postures and formed their expressions to make it seem as if they were of important background, all while feigning joy from attending the event. Despite being the shortest of the trio — courtesy of Hongjoong’s heeled shoes making him a few inches taller — Jongho took the lead and maneuvered through the sea of people.
“Your Grace!” He called and the swarm of ladies gathered around the duke dispersed with annoyance dragging their features.
The stoic expression of the duke lit up brighter than the chandelier above his head. “Jongho! I am delighted you could come!” The men sealed the greeting with a firm handshake, both sporting wide smiles and stars glinting in their eyes. It was one thing to drop formalities with an underdog, but to be on first name-basis with a duke was so foreign to Hongjoong’s ears.
“I hope Spain has treated you well?”
“Certainly it has. Very beautiful weather and polite people. I wish to return after the social season… Possibly with my future wife if everything goes as planned.”
“And I am sure it will. You are the Duke of Beaumonte after all, it should not be a harder task than the piles of paperwork you have worked through in your life.”
Seonghwa let out a hearty laugh. “No, it should not, but I do want a genuine lady and not someone who is after my title. Perhaps, if I am bold enough, I may even hope for a love match.”
“I would not put it past you, Park. Anything can happen while the season is still in bloom.” Jongho winked and sipped on the champagne. The clearing of San’s throat diverted the conversation to the pair standing slightly behind Jongho. “Yes, of course. Your Grace, may I introduce my cousin, San, and our very good friend, Hongjoong."
“Well, gentlemen, I hope the evening is up to your taste.”
“It very much is! I adore the theme and colors of the decorations, it is very soft and not flamboyant as most balls are,” San admitted and although he did not have anything to compare it to, he was genuine with his compliment.
“Thank you! I deemed it most fitting to decorate everything in my favorite color, as you may have noticed on my suit.”
“Yes! A very el–”
“If you will excuse me for a moment, I need to use the restroom,” Hongjoong interrupted. The duke had not done anything particular to upset him, he was simply not in the setting to discuss the elements of the interior while he would later return to his rundown bedroom in the basement of San’s boxing club.
“Of course. Take left in the hall followed by the second turn on your right, continue on the path and turn on the first left, and you shall find the restrooms. Do not worry if you get lost on your way, there are servants and guards roaming the halls so feel free to ask for directions.”
All Hongjoong heard was, ‘Do what you want as long as you do not get caught.’ With his disappearance, the duke excused himself for a moment and took a turn around the room. It was lovely seeing familiar and genuine faces, not just people showing up out of curiosity or interest for Seonghwa’s business. Jongho was one of the few nobility he could stand and actually enjoy the company of without fearing possible ulterior motives.
You bowed to your dancing partner, an Earl you could not bother to remember his righteous piece of land, and returned to the safety of Yunho.
“Did he step on your toes?”
“No, Brother.”
“Then why did you make such a horrid face mid-dance?”
You contemplated whether to share the fragment of conversation between you and Lord Emberstorm that pulled on the corners of your mouth, estimating how furious Yunho would be after hearing what distasteful words stumbled out of the Lord’s mouth. Deciding to keep it a secret for you to bear and your diary to hear, you offered a bright smile and averted the topic elsewhere.
“I am quite parched, Brother. If you will excuse me–”
An imitation of a cough halted you mid sentence, and you hastily turned around, expecting to be met with another request for a dance. What you did not expect to see was–
“Mister Song!” If it were not for the public setting, you would have your arms wrapped around the gentleman’s neck and cheek mushed against his. Instead, you settled for a simple nod of your head and a foot of space between your bodies.
“Miss Lee, what a blessing to stumble upon you here.” The underlying tone of amusement did not go unheard.
“Certainly it is, Mister Song. Have you finally come out of your cocoon to find the perfect eligible lady or are you still running from them?”
“The world would not be spinning if I was intending to marry.”
You broke out in a fit of giggles, uncaring for the weird stares and whispers set off around you. At the end of the day, everyone dear to you knew of your and Mingi’s sturdy friendship. You harbored a love that was frowned upon considering your closeness despite being of opposite genders.
There was a point in your lives where both pairs of parents considered Mingi to be a perfect suitor and you to make a wonderful wife. You were perhaps five years of age and they considered the blooming friendship to grow past the platonic stage and into something more romantic, but with your father’s passing and Yunho taking over the role as viscount, your brother abolished the arrangement. The Songs did not take kindly to that and nearly burned the bridge you and Mingi built since childhood. Yet more than a handful of years later and you were still as close as ever. Besides, Mingi was not like the other boys you knew of. He was kind and soft and genuine, despite his big build and long legs always making him the most fearsome in the room, he could never spread evil onto anybody, even if he tried to. Mingi was the purest form of life you had ever seen and you could not understand what others saw in him to picture anything, but a shield of comfort and warmth.
The idea Mingi proposed after your thirteenth birthday — that if neither of you were married after your twenty-fifth year alive, you would marry each other mainly for the purpose of survival and an easy life — was proof of his kind nature and good willed heart. Though, to say you were appalled was an understatement. You immediately declined his proposition despite him providing you with a further explanation. It was first when he revealed the secret tucked far away in his chest, hidden behind his many ribs and lungs, and locked in the depths of his pumping heart, with the thought that it shall never see daylight that you allowed him to speak. In the end, perhaps you only agreed to it because he admitted you were the only woman he could consider himself to marry. The pact was sealed with a handshake and your promise to keep secrecy until soil covered your putrefying body.
A love with Mingi was not horrifying compared to a long life with a stranger because a love with Mingi could never go beyond that of a friendship as he did not fancy women.
“Mister Song.” Yunho stepped out from his place behind you, arms behind his back and a soft smile on his cupid lips.
“Luh… Lo– Lord Je… Uhm! Lord Jeong,” Mingi stuttered out a response. All of the blood in his body gathered beneath the skin of his cheeks as if the sun kissed him in the morning and left him cursed for all of eternity. It was painful to witness, but it was even harder to watch as your brother was oblivious to the flushed mess standing before him, barely keeping his wits together.
“I admire your suit. You shine everyone else down.”
Mingi’s eyes were so devoid of expression you could see the light reflecting in them as he held Lord Jeong's gaze, then glanced down at his clothes and back up at Yunho. Could it be that the viscount was indeed attempting a most audacious flirtation?
“What?”
Yunho chuckled at his dumbfoundedness and had to cover his mouth to avoid garnering too much attention from the people around them. He and Mingi were nothing more than acquaintances tied together through you. They never had the opportunity or perhaps interest to form a friendship and it was mainly because of their different ranks in society. While Yunho became a viscount at an unimaginable young age, Mingi was still in line for the title and had no real task beside scouting his father and gathering as much information as possible. Mingi was undoubtedly still a child in Yunho’s mind and the thought was bitter on his tongue, like the coffee grounded from the beans imported from India.
The elder said nothing more. He pressed his lips into a taunting smirk, eyes relaxed and focused on Mingi despite everything moving around them in a haste enough to have their heads spinning of nausea.
Sensing the air thicken and turn warmer around the men, you gingerly moved without disturbing their quiet conversation conveyed through the windows of their souls. It was not encouraged to venture into an event without a chaperone as whispers quickly traveled around the ton, especially concerning a lady who made her debut not twenty-four hours ago. Walking with your head still on the tall pair, you did not see the figure standing in your way until a collision occurred.
“Pardon me–” The words died in your throat as icy eyes belonging to no other than the duke cut into your core. Scrambling to restore your dignity, you swallowed the thick clump of anxiety and sputtered out an apology. Meeting the duke by carelessly bumping into him on the first ball of the season was not on your agenda. Making a fool of yourself was certainly not an achievement you fought to attain either. “Your Grace, pardon me for my inattentive behavior!”
A hum, dare you say not of disgust, reached your ears. You looked up and came to view with a dazzling smile that spread an assuring warmth through your body. The fear sticking its claws into your back melted and you straightened back up again.
“It is quite alright, Miss…?”
“Ah…" You curtsied perfectly, "Miss Lee, sister of Viscount Jeong.”
It may have been the stark light of the chandelier or one of the many cherry tarts you consumed through the night, but you were certain a spark of recognition flashed across his face. You would not name it eerie, but it was on the edge of being unsettling how long he was staring at you. On cue, the orchestra played another song and people gathered in pairs to participate in the dance. Seonghwa cleared his throat and let his palm face the ceiling, steady and determined. Everyone kept their sights on the duke, and as he was standing in front of you, a promising position that could only mean one thing, it made you be in their center of attention too. A sudden dread settled in the pit of your stomach. Taking a quick glance around the room, you meet the burning glares of mamas and their daughters, as well as the disappointed looks of various gentlemen. The feeling of being perceived was uncommon and your thoughts simmered and eventually began bubbling erratically with questions of what-ifs. You were ready to take your leave, to excuse yourself and run to a place secluded from everyone and their prying eyes and judging whispers.
“Miss Lee,” Seonghwa started and brought forth a pencil from his breast pocket. You were by no means a fortune teller, but there was no doubt in your mind he was going to ask you for a dance. The question leaving his mouth seconds after made you consider opening a magic shop on the other side of London. “May I have this dance?”
If Yunho was anywhere near you and not distracted by Mingi’s cute, rambling mess, he would have pushed you straight into the duke’s arms. To your relief, Yunho was occupied with Mingi’s questions about being a viscount to even consider what his dear sister was up to. The consent was expected to roll off your tongue and disappoint the gentleman, but anger the ladies.
“You must excuse me, Your Grace! I seem to hear my brothers calling for me!”
Your legs moved faster than your sight, and you nearly bumped into an elderly couple. Flustered and sweaty, you whispered out a hasty apology and ran toward a room you deemed to have the least amount of people in it. Seonghwa managed to utter as much as a breath before you were gone, lost between the sea of people and walking in the opposite direction of your brother. While he was supposed to feel irrevocable annoyance at your dishonesty, he could not stop the amused smile from lingering on his face. You were quite a peculiar lady, he thought and exhaled a strong gust of wind. If the duke was charmed by your beauty earlier that day, he was more than intrigued now.
Running around unchaperoned on your first night as an eligible woman was not appreciated by the mamas standing uncomfortably close to their sons. Their judgmental glares stemmed from a place deep within, from a place of concern over what kind of woman their sons would take interest in. It said plenty to see you alone, neither of the Jeong brothers nor that mother of yours that married twice by your side. They do say the apple does not fall far from the tree. No one wanted to welcome a woman carrying the curse of death in her purse with open arms only to later bury their son six feet underground.
Out of respect for your family’s name and honor, but also to protect your own feelings, you stumbled up the big beautiful staircase by the entrance and turned left and right until you were alone with the walls and striking interior to keep you company. If Yunho got a whim of what you were doing, he would be beyond furious. Instead of socializing downstairs, you opted to hide out in one of the many rooms upstairs. You could already hear his patronizing voice in the back of your mind, asking you how you thought to be courted if you were out of sight for the majority of the night. Would you expect a suitor to fall through your bedroom ceiling?
🎼 Yunho’s nagging came to an end as a faint melody filled the silent hallway and sailed your thoughts elsewhere. Caught in its waves, you followed the mellifluous notes. If you were a sailor, then the player was a siren guiding you to your demise with their lulling melody. The further you walked, the louder the sound became and you recognized it as piano notes. Each press of their fingers on the keys was a chord striking along with your heart and your own fingers itched to dance along the white and black surface. The long hallway led to many different rooms, all of them shut except one with its door ajar and a string of light cutting across the tiled floor.
You moved slowly, afraid to accidentally touch the door or disturb the mystery musician, and peeked through the tight opening. Out of all the impressive things you had witnessed that evening, this room would forever be engraved in your memories. In the center of the room by the big window sat a man in front of a dark oak piano, breathing life into the silence. All you could see was his back, a suit the color of snow, and caramel hair reaching his shoulder blades. What a peculiar style for a gentleman, you thought.
Instruments were placed into every nook and cranny of the room. Guitars, violins, cellos, the pianoforte. This was everything you could ever ask for. You were not aware of His Grace‘s interest in music, perhaps your brother could formally introduce you to the duke later. Looking past the expensive equipment, you took in the room for what it was. The walls were a deep red contrasted by the champagne-carved details on the tapestry and rosewood furniture filled the room, everything from bookshelves to uncomfortable-looking desks and chairs, even a few sofas here and there. As every room of the Park manor seemed to have, even this one was lit up by a chandelier — albeit smaller than the one in the main hall — in the center, right above the pianist.
He was on the last segment of the melody and you slipped into the room quiet as a mouse stealing cheese from the pantry, but stayed close to the door where the man could not see you until he had turned around. The song was beautiful, far better than anything created by the professional orchestra downstairs. This man was a proficient player and you wondered if you too could have been this talented if your mother had not established the foolish rule in the Jeong Household.
As the man pressed his fingers on the keys and let them linger until the last notes vanished to silence, your feet got caught on the end of your dress, sending you tumbling forward. Blessed be the chair in your way as it saved you from falling in front of the pianist. The screech of its legs was so thunderous and sudden that it had the man jumping from his seat as if physically burned by the keyboard. The clash of your eyes froze you in place. Not only was his playing enchanting, but his appearance deserved a place amongst the many portraits hanging on the walls. The pianist you had yet to learn the name of was the most handsome man in all of London and you believed he even challenged the duke for his looks. The silence stretched on and your face burned hotter than the fireplace in your living room. Upholding your image, you brought forth your hand and cleared your throat just enough for you to hear.
“Eh– Excuse my intrusiveness, Mr…!”
Despite the fear swimming in his eyes and his heart thumping louder than the music downstairs, Hongjoong schooled his expression into that of a relaxed man. You did not seem to have any ill intentions in mind, but he could not take his chances. For all he knew, you could be of great relation with the duke and have him arrested for trespassing. His music playing was not meant for anyone to hear or see. He did not think anyone would be as foolish or brave as him to explore the second floor in spite of it being a restricted area for the evening. Hongjoong hid his sweaty palms in the smooth pockets of his trousers and slipped on a — hopefully — charming smile.
“You may call me Hongjoong.”
An unchaperoned lady in the presence of an eligible man in a secluded area far from the party downstairs was a risk you could pay for the rest of your life. A barque of frailty, cyprian, doxy, a light-skirt were only some of the vile words that came to life anytime Ireum stepped out of the confines of your home after the passing of your papa and you wished not to know what insults you would be addressed with. Although you did not witness it, you knew it weighed heavily on her. To hear the other mamas speak poorly of her and criticize her parenting, all for being brave enough to search for another love. It was unfair. Ireum’s past was fresh in your memory, but apparently you gave it no heed as you did not run from the man standing in front of you, his hair wild and uncommon and eyes carrying a gleam of adventure. To call a stranger by his name was no better than shaking hands with the devil and your brother would have your head for it, but what Yunho did not know could not harm him.
Pulling your lips into a polite smile, you scribbled your name on the imaginary paper and handed it back to the red figure with sharp horns and a pointy tail. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Huh–” You cleared your throat and ignored the flare of your cheeks. “Hongjoong. As I mentioned, I apologize for interrupting. You play a divine tune on the pianoforte.”
Hongjoong turned scarlet at the compliment. Praise was foreign to his ears. Yes, he was constantly showered with love and gratitude from San, but it could not be compared to hearing the words come from a pretty lady of presumed high status.
“It is alright… Thank you, Miss–”
“Miss Lee. You may perhaps have heard of me, I am the sister of Viscount Jeong.”
It was no surprise all members of the ton were the same, they bled arrogance more than anything else. How pompous of you to think he would know of your name or origin, if only you would have known how many foreign faces Hongjoong had set eyes on. His lips set into a thin line and the fear swimming in his eyes was swallowed by sheer annoyance. “I cannot say I have… To be frank, I am not from this part of the country, nor am I familiar with the duke either.”
“Oh…” You squeaked, only then realizing how improper that sounded. “Well, please, pardon me for my pretentiousness. It was quite naive of me to assume such a thing.”
In the span of less than five minutes, you managed to surprise Hongjoong three times. The simmering emotion threatening to bubble over calmed within him and he did not understand why. Perhaps it was your sincere apology or the way you cowered in on yourself, or it was simply Hongjoong’s mind taking pity on pretty, young girls. Nonetheless, he could see himself on the same podium as the gentlemen in the longhats chatting shit and sipping wine while doing nothing but sit on their rears all day. He was in the vicinity of a lady for all of five minutes and he already managed to sour the mood. Noticing you had not budged from your spot since entering the room and began fiddling with your fingers, he decided to play nice for once. Who knew, maybe it would bring him good fortune?
“Are you familiar with the pianoforte?”
“Hm?”
He jutted his thumb out over his shoulder. “The pianoforte? Do you play it?”
The smile taking over your features could be described as the sun on a winter morning doing little to warm the earth, but enough to brighten the cold season. “Not precise, but I was very keen on learning it.”
A caramel brow shot up. You were? When did you manage to find and lose the interest in learning the piano? Musicians were one of the few who kept their hobbies alive for most of their lives. Not that Hongjoong had much knowledge on the way things worked in the ton, but was it not better for a lady to have more talents for a better chance of getting married?
“And it is safe to assume the interest died… because?”
“It is quite the story.”
“I believe we have time.”
You heaved in a sigh and ran your palm along the front of your dress. “My papa had a big love for music and I, wanting to be just like him, harbored that same passion… He passed shortly after my seventh birthday and never got around to teach me…” You avoided Hongjoong’s heated gaze by bouncing your eyes all around the room. “The piano was a means for me to stay connected to him, but the melodies became unbearable for my mother. It brought her great pain just to see it in the common room every day. So… she decided to ban all and any music in the house…”
“My apologies, Miss Lee. I should not have asked–”
“It is not a difficult topic, so rest assured everything is alright. On the contrary, I am delighted you asked. I do not remember the last time I spoke of both my papa and our passion for playing.”
Overthrown by the feeling of guilt settling in the pit of his stomach, Hongjoong rounded the stool and occupied the left side, leaving a vacant spot on his right. He beckoned you over with a wave of his hand.
“You will not leave me waiting, will you now, Miss Lee?”
The teasing tilt to his voice was an enchanting spell pulling your feet further into the room that you could not disobey and it sounded louder than the slow church bells in the back of your head. The heedless caution of leaving a safe enough space between you died faster than a daylily. You had already crossed every line drawn to protect your innocence from staining and it was still clear as a day. What harm could it bring to sit by a handsome pianist? Taking the seat beside him would leave no room for defense if anyone were to catch sight of you.
Hongjoong noticed your reluctance and turned his torso facing you. “You are to do as you please, Miss Lee. I can not and do not wish to force you into anything… I do apologize if I am crossing any boundaries, it was not my intention.”
“See it as– as– as you asking me for a dance! I will even allow you to sign my dance card, if you will.”
Pushing the worry of being the main talk of the season to the back of your mind, you occupied the vacant seat and tried, with all your might, to ignore the burn of his thigh pressed against yours and the slight caress of your elbows. A heat warmer than on a summer afternoon grazed your bare arms. Picking your head up from the peculiarly interesting spot on the piano, you gazed into the wide eyes of Hongjoong that eventually creased as his lips curled cutely.
“That would be more than alright. May I?”
As his left hand reached for the pencil lying on the music stand, the other faced the high ceiling of the room. His slender fingers were far from elegant and soft, but rather rough and calloused, reminding you of the elderly men tending to your garden. Nonetheless, you let the dance card fall in his palm and watched as he in one long stroke signed the last vacant row.
“Shall we?” He played a major chord and you let a giggle slip past your lips.
You did not touch the wooden instrument or breathe during his performance. It was a melody too beautiful to do anything but bask in. You simply allowed the uplifting and bright sounds to wrap around the two of you, separating you from the party downstairs. Hongjoong was a different person while behind the piano, you noticed. He closed his eyes and relaxed, becoming one with the music. For a minute you got lost in the beauty of his passion and sensed his love for the instrument emerge from him like sunshine escaping the confines of a cloudy sky. As the last notes spilled out in the room, you quickly reverted your focus elsewhere, but unbeknownst to you, he felt your eyes on him throughout the whole song.
“If I may ask…” You broke the silence, hands intertwined and resting on your lap. “Who taught you to play the pianoforte?”
Hongjoong pressed down on a random set of keys and hummed along to the notes. “No one. I am… self-taught.”
The mystery man was leaving you shellshocked once again. The dozen pianists occupying the dance floor in the main hall were skilled players because of the money in their fathers’ pockets, but Hongjoong was not in need of a teacher.
Talent could not be forced, was what your papa used to say as you sat in his lap before the big instrument while your mama diligently fiddled with an embroidery frame on the other side of the room, her belly round and ready to welcome the growing baby any day. Your papa refused to pay for tutors. He claimed talent and passion ran in your blood and you were too good for a teacher even at the ripe age of three. The late Viscount Lee did not withhold the truth, but before your talent was given the chance to bloom it was put to rest alongside him in his coffin. However, listening and witnessing Hongjoong handle the piano with care and expertise rekindled the flame that died out years ago, and perhaps with the help of another, it could be polished and restored to what it once was.
Scooting closer to the gentleman and pushing your already accentuated chest between your arms — a manner you had witnessed Ireum do countless times while in disagreements with your father to get what she wanted — you executed the mischievous plan with gentle swats of your eyelids. “Such remarkable talent you possess, Hongjoong.”
Honey to go with his tea was not an option for Hongjoong at the breakfast table, but he imagined it to taste as sweet as you sounded. It was almost hard to swallow his thickened spit as you beamed that sugary smile of yours. The bare night sky bore witness to your intimate moment and promised no rain pour for the foreseeable future, and Hongjoong could erase the thought of handing you his suit jacket — a means of protection from the droplets threatening to melt you at contact. Forgetting himself, Hongjoong hastily averted his attention back to the big instrument and cleared his throat, but could not hinder the stutter from latching onto his words.
“Th– thank you, Miss Lee.”
Darting your tongue over your bottom lip as you contemplated your next move — a gamble that could set off Mingi’s proposition five years too early — you reached out and put your hand on his forearm closest to you. The man stiffened beneath your feathery touch and his fingers froze above the keys. This was not the outcome you expected. Hongjoong did not fall under the spell as the gentlemen did for Ireum’s vixen eyes and seductive touch, and your consciousness was halfway down the hole of regret and anxiety before you could play it off as brushing dust off his clothes. The fear of being reduced to nothing but a woman of easy virtue loomed over your head and you forced yourself to proceed with the plan.
“I must confess, a twinge of jealousy arises within me hearing you play. It would be marvelous to possess the ability to play the piano as you do…” The finishing touch was to slowly retract your hand and leave a tingling trail on the wake of his arm, and end it with a big, mournful sigh.
“If it pleases you,” he slowly started and you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. Being in that close vicinity of a man not belonging to your kin set off a wildfire spreading throughout your whole body. It did not help that Hongjoong was a very attractive gentleman who, thus far, had only shown you kindness. The layer of clothing suddenly became uncomfortable and you longed for a glass of water or a change of clothes, if not both. “...I would be delighted to demonstrate a few simple melodies.”
The act of a dejected woman disappeared and Hongjoong could bask in the light emitting from your bright smile and twinkling eyes. Perhaps it was the very reason he did not inquire about the sudden alteration in your demeanor and gave you a sincere smile of his own.
“Your kindness is most appreciated!”
The late Viscount Lee stood correct as your sponge of a brain absorbed every word Hongjoong uttered and mimicked his motions with utmost perfection. Playing the pianoforte was in your veins and it was a shame Ireum forbade it. Though if the circumstance was different, it would still not change the possibility of playing in public. If one woman did not stoop in your way, then your own female features would. A man with your talents would thrive in high society, but you would only be allowed to play in the confines of your home and even that you were not allowed. The human mind was a peculiar thing. When you finally got around your family and achieved the one thing making you happy, it was still not enough.
Hongjoong’s chuckle brought you out of your blue stupor. “You are a swift learner and possess notable talent at the pianoforte as well, Miss Lee. A most natural talent, if I may declare.”
“Thank you…”
Greed and envy hid in the cracks of your gratitude, and had you gone beneath a knife your insides would bleed a poisonous green. The three melodies he taught you were certainly not enough to quench your insatiable desire, on the contrary. Having tasted a speck of your dreams made it hard to resist the yearn for the entirety of the feast. The youngest of the Jeong Household was not usually bold, but one might attribute it to Hongjoong’s welcoming nature and dazzling smile. Had the circumstances been different, if he had turned the other cheek and ignored your stumbling presence, you would have excused yourself and returned to the safety of your brothers. But he did not. Hongjoong entertained your curiosity and pointed out a branch of excitement you had no prior knowledge of.
“Shall… “ You began quietly and cleared your throat. “Shall you be kind enough to teach me the art of playing the pianoforte?”
The grandfather clock ticking in the corner could barely be heard over your thumping heart. If you thought you crossed Hongjoong’s boundaries before, then you were certain you had done it now if the look of his wide eyes and parted lips were anything to go by.
“I do admire your eagerness to learn, Miss Lee, but it would not be an ideal situation. You are a débutante and I am but a simple gentleman. Our gatherings would certainly garner unwanted attention and be in the way of you finding a suitable husband.”
“It would not be done in public!”
Because if either of your brothers got whim of your absurd idea, you would not be allowed to leave the foyer of your house, let alone accompany him to more balls in search for a partner.
Hongjoong still showed apprehensiveness, but you knew that the one thing no man could turn down — except ladies of the evening — was money. Everyone was always eager for more gold and you prayed Hongjoong was not an exception, as he had shown to be multiple times this night.
“An– And your services would not be free of charge, of course!”
The proposition was not bad, Hongjoong thought and raked his mind weighing the benefits and disadvantages. Teaching a presumptuous lady how to play the piano equaled pockets full of money, less dirty floors to scrub and him getting to practice on a real piano every once in a while. The downside of your brothers having his head on a platter would only come true if you were caught which did not sound too bad of a gamble.
“The question remains of how we are to do this, Miss pianist?”
Too happy to care about the heat attacking your face, you held your hand out for him to shake. The warmth of his fingers burned through your glove and kissed the skin on your palm, a feeling that you soon would find reminiscing for days on end.
“Meet me at the town's square two days from now and we shall further discuss our arragnement.”
With a nod of his head, the pianist waltzed straight into the agreement blinded by the shimmering coins floating before his eyes. The celebration was cut short as an eerily creak broke you apart. Both snapped your heads toward the sound only to witness one side of the double doors opened as if given a little nudge from the other side. Fear coiled around your feet and up your legs. You could not remember if you had closed the doors properly or not and your uncertainty did not calm the storm brewing in your abdomen.
“Perhaps it is merely the wind,” Hongjoong suggested feebly, his words taking on the form of a sword and sliced the snake crawling further up your waist. What possible wind he could be referring to was beyond you, but it was easier to deny reality than fall into a spiral panic. Besides, who in all of London would prefer being upstairs than enjoying the presence of the duke down below?
Time scurried on without your knowledge, yet the loud clash of the grandfather clock striking midnight was not the cause of you parting ways. The harmless scare was enough of a sign to reclaim your designated position next to Yunho and not bat an eye at Hongjoong’s figure sliding through the crowd of guests seconds after your return. The forty-eight hours of waiting began as of now and it may have been the longest forty-eight hours of your life.
© HONGJOONGSPOETRY 2024 - All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting or translating my work is not allowed.
#[🐿️] hongjoongspoetry#kim hongjoong x reader#hongjoong x reader#kim hongjoong#kim hongjoong fanfic#ateez x reader#ateez#ateez fanfic#bridgerton#bridgerton au#bridgerton fanfic#kpop#kpop fanfic
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Hollup damn just realized it was a whole ass flip smdh. They basically completely zeroed out what Black people wanted for democratic interest at large w the way they went out and voted. They leveled the shit, dude. And then the conservatives among Latinxers and other races practically delivered Trump to victory. They helped white people secure this hellish shit lmao. No one's woes about this are more played upon and self victimizing than white women "grieving" it tho.
You bitches wrote this dead dove fanfic lmao. You contributed more than any other race of women to the usurping of women's rights y'all whine about being stripped over just about anything nowadays. Just to literally turn around and hand women's reproductive rights to the antichrist damn near all by yourselves. And not for the first time, either. Enjoy your new limitations worldbuilding in your irl handmaiden's tale then, ig. Y'all failed every woman in this country — and your daughters deserve to inherit the suffering and animosity for it.
Cannot fucking believe you people lol.
Lol
#black tumblr#black twitter#white women#us politics#us elections#donald trump#2024 election#white feminism#white tears#ao3#ao3 fanfic#archive of our own#wanna make sure I use tags yall romanticize this kind of dystopian shit in#lmao#y’all are so creative#look at what horrors you’ve subjected others to irl :)#dead dove do not eat#dead dove fic#dead dove roleplay#white people
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yfw you try to go comment on fics posted not so long ago and find out comments have been locked ....... :c
Sigh. I'm about to say something that I'll likely regret because it'll come off preachy and guilt-trippy and it isn't meant to be, I swear:
I feel like HL fandom has been kind of bad about commenting after season 4 aired (I include myself in this, in case that's not perfectly clear) and it's been discouraging to the writers, ones who came in recently and not so recently. How are we expecting to have stuff to read if we don't acknowledge that we enjoyed something? We are a really small community, so it's not like there's 100 other readers behind each of us, 10 of whom will comment. An earlier post vaguely on this subject had someone asking "what about kudos". I mean, kudos are definitely great. I would say essential. But they alone are probably not going to sustain a thriving ao3 fandom.
"Not you, Black Noir X Reader, you've been great." Or maybe not perfectly great either, but it looks better than canon pairings, at least from the outside looking in.
I'm not sure what I'm advocating here exactly. Maybe what I'm saying is sticking an emoji reaction in a comment might be better than nothing for those who post a bunch of oneshots into one space, where you've kudosed once and then never again. Just so the people writing it know that someone read it and found something that resonated. Some of these are damn good fics and have literally zero comments, and I'm sure people have read them and enjoyed them but there's nary a trace of it letting the author know.
#i really noticed this week when RL is being an ass and I sought refuge in fandom#is this even real life? doesn't feel real#this isn't meant to be a guilt trip!#maybe just like... a nudge to support your faves on ao3?#i'm going to go practice what I'm so annoyingly preaching here#should i tag this homelander#is this going to annoy people#fuck it#homelander#the boys#the boys tv#ao3
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lend an arm
summary: you’re a mechanic who sevika refused to work with until one day she comes back with her arm ripped off
a/n: idk if the title makes sense but it’s a play on lend a hand but yk,,, she lost her whole arm😋
tags: fluff, banter, mention of hooking up, less spicy than i thought it was gonna be whoops
ty anon for the request!!!
ao3 version
when you were hired as silco’s handyman, you imagined you would be working with sevika a lot to add upgrades to her arm, fix her arm after combat, etc. etc.
nope.
quite the opposite. you were met with the cold shoulder every time, a gruff out ‘i can do it myself’ before she stomps off to the corner of silco’s office to tinker with her arm. you’re sure there’s a masturbation joke there somewhere, but you haven’t quite thought of a clever enough one to say aloud.
did you hook up with her a few times? yes. was it your proudest moment? no, but damn was it good.
given that, most of your time was spent with jinx, albeit sometimes more than you’d like. you love the girl to bits, but sometimes she can be a bit… much. still, you liked her music taste and you got on well enough, not to mention her inventions were quite clever, not that you’d ever say it to her; she's already got quite the ego.
still, the blue haired girl was still family or whatever you’d call it. you knew she was still sneaking into her lab and pretended to be none the wiser, but you’re pretty sure that she knew you knew.
although sevika refused your help, you couldn’t help but notice how she’d glance up every time she tweaked something on her arm, as if she were searching for approval from you. you’d make eye contact with her and glance down at what she’d fixed, giving an approving nod or shaking your head depending on what she did. each time you nodded, you’d swear you saw a blush creep up her ears. if you shook your head though, she’d scowl and vigorously undo her work and redo it until either she was satisfied with it or look to get your approval again. it was a cute little game you two would play, but you knew you’d be able to make the fixes about 10x faster if she would only let you.
and the silco died.
with nowhere else to go and determined not going to join any side in the turf war for the lanes, that left you the last drop where you’d been sleeping on the couch in his old office. damn, you still couldn’t believe that he was gone. sure he was an asshole most of the time, but he was one of the people and at least tried to keep give shithole of the undercity some sort of organization.
whatever, at least his couch was comfy.
you were tinkering with one of jinx’s old chompers in silco’s office when sevika came barreling in. you jumped a bit from the slam of the door and looked at the panting figure in the doorway. she had her poncho covering the front of her body, but the lumpiness under the cloth alarmed you that something was wrong. she wordlessly walked past you and threw her poncho off to the side, revealing her flesh arm holding her mechanical arm under her armpit. the gears sticking out of the stump of her mechanical arm told you that someone had ripped it out, and she was pissed.
she slammed her arm on the table and grumbled to herself, grabbing a flathead screwdriver from the table of her former boss’ desk. she stabbed the head in and cursed under her breath, muttering something about a ‘pink haired brat’ as she attempted to fix her mechanical limb. she spent a good 10 minutes trying to fix the arm with her one good hand. you minded your business and kept your eyes on your book, studying about the latest technology in the upper city, hextech.
until you heard it. she sighed and turned around, leaning her back against the table, saying something quietly in your direction. you lifted your head and tilted it questioningly to the side, “what was that?”
sevika huffed and dragged her hand down her face, “can you fix my arm?”
a small grin crept up your lips, oh you were gonna have fun with this, “what’s the magic word?”
sevika deadpanned at you and rolled her eyes, but was too tired to argue, “…please.”
you clapped your hands together and happily stood up, “yes! i’ve been waiting for this!”
you basically pushed her aside as you quickly got to work on her arm, trying to undo as much damage as you could. after about an hour, you were able to restore basic function in the arm, but one good punch could make the whole thing fall apart all over again. you straightened up and looked around the room to see where she had gone, you really fell into your own world as you worked. looking around, you saw her on the couch fixated down, the same area where your ass had been only moments before. you cleared your throat which seemed to snap her out of her trance, her head snapping up to meet your eyes.
you held her arm up and gestured for her to come over. she scrambled up to meet you at your side, holding her arm out expectantly. brushing past her, you attached her arm back on with a satisfying ‘click’ at it latched into place. you took a step back to let her adjust to it again. she clenched her hand into a fist and turned her hand over, admiring your handiwork. she hummed in approval and looked down at you with a glint of respect in her eyes that you’d never seen before.
“that should do for now, but you’ll probably need a new arm if you don’t want to get your ass beat,” you smirked as you dusted off your hands off on your pants.
“thought that you fixed it?,” she said with a raised eyebrow. her tone was meant not in an attacking manner, but more curiosity on the actual damage of her arm.
“i’m a mechanic, not a miracle worker,” you chided, crossing your arms over your chest.
sevika raised her arms in relinquishment, a half smirk gracing her lips, “easy princess, ‘meant no offense to your skills.”
“uh huh,” you responded sarcastically, rolling your eyes as you patted her shoulder.
she sighed and looked down, glancing back up at you in reluctance, “what i meant was… thank you.”
you raised your eyebrows in surprise, but smiled at the sentiment, “you’re welcome, i just wish i could’ve helped more earlier.”
“earlier?” she asked in a neutral tone, taking a cigarette out of her pocket and putting it in the corner of her mouth, lighting it with one hand while she cupped around her mouth with the other. she took a quick drag and blew the smoke away from you, letting the cigarette rest lazily between her fingers.
“y’know, before silco died. if you had let me work on your arm and upgrade it, it probably wouldn’t have broken in the first place,” you said matter-of-factly, plucking the cigarette from her fingers and taking a puff, purposefully blowing it towards her.
“my arm was fine, it was just this one time,” she responded gruffly, taking another drag from the cigarette. you shrugged and glanced over her arm, subconsciously making sure that every part was working as it should.
“…where the hell should i get a new arm?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could, but a little more waiver of worry still came through in her voice.
you looked up at her and grinned, pointing up, “the answer is closer than you think.”
she looked up and jumped a little seeing the blue haired girl, “jesus jinx.”
nothing made sevika jump, she must’ve really been on edge with silco’s death.
jinx giggled and shook her head, “fine, but i want complete creative control.”
sevika sighed defeatedly and looked at you for any sort of help, which of course you gave none.
“fine.”
#arcane#arcane jinx#arcane sevika#sevika x reader#sevika#reader x sevika#sevika fluff#arcane season 2#arcane fan fic#strawberrykidneystone writes#strawberrykidneystone
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🖤Guitar Face || Hozier x Reader🖤
FULL FIC ON TUMBLR AFTER CUT || READ ON AO3
Rating: 18+ - Smut
Tags: Pre-Debut Hozier, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, vaginal sex, teasing, protected sex.
Summary: Andrew teaches you how to play guitar while you both try to ignore the very obvious and overwhelming sexual tension between you.
Word count: 5.4k
A/N: I’m back after a month of not posting (sorry lol) with a long fic to make up for lost time (yay) and to take our minds off of everything, really. When will I post my next fic, you ask? I don’t fucking know man, I’m just vibing. I do have a few ideas that I want to start, including a multichapter fic that will get written someday. Love you all, enjoy this pre-debut hozier fic💙
💙FULL FIC UNDER THE CUT💙
You needed a hobby, urgently. It was your second semester of your first year of university at Trinity College Dublin, and you had yet to find something to occupy your time that wasn’t studying, working, or just doing nothing with the group of friends that, despite your nervous and introverted nature, you had managed to form in your first semester. You were desperate for something new to do, a new skill or pastime to occupy you when all your friends were busy or simply when you felt like doing something other than hanging out with them.
The idea of learning guitar came to you after talking to one of your friends about your newfound need for a hobby, she mentioned that you had a great sense of rhythm and that you already really liked music, so why not pick up an instrument. She didn’t tell you to pick up guitar specifically, but it seemed like a good choice for learning in your spare time, and it’s not like you had the money to buy a keyboard or drums, much less a more classical instrument like a violin, a cello or a harp, and you already knew that you didn’t have the lungs for wind instruments.
You asked around your friend group if anyone had any suggestions for cheap guitars to buy, you got one that was moderately good and within your budget. You started to learn by yourself, the only thing was that you sucked, you barely understood the tutorials you found on youtube and didn’t even know if you were really doing it right, your fingers were sloppy and uncoordinated and you only angered yourself more and more with each note you got wrong. So, after two weeks and a half of frustration, you decided that maybe a guitar teacher wasn’t a bad idea, and that if that didn’t work you’d sell your guitar and pick up photography or something that didn’t require you to use your fingers as much.
It was Friday evening, and some members of Trinity Orchestra were having a small rehearsal/get together, and you knew your friend would be there since she was a pianist in the orchestra, so maybe she could help you learn guitar or at the very least find a teacher. You arrived at the get together when it was almost finished, you didn’t want to interrupt them, even if it wasn’t really a rehearsal, you felt out of place just by being there. Miranda, your friend, spotted you from her bench and beckoned you over to her, she’d been expecting you since you told her earlier that day that you’d go see her at the rehearsal, she was leaning on the closed piano, a half eaten bag of crisps sat on the cover of its keys. “I thought you’d come sooner, you missed the little concert.” She smiled.
“Nah, I’d rather not interrupt.” You smiled back, “anyway, what I wanted to talk about before you ran off today because of your horrible time manage skills-“
“-They’re not that bad, come on.” She pouted playfully, faking indignation.
“Bullshit.” You argued back, trying to hold in a laugh. “Now, do you know how to play guitar?”
“No, just piano, and the organ, kind of. Why?”
“I’ve been trying to learn how to play on my own but I can’t get the hang of it, I need a teacher or something.” You explained, trying to be quiet enough so that no one else would hear.
“Teacher for what?” A masculine voice asked from behind you, making you jump slightly in surprise. You turned around, a lanky guy with dorky glasses and a blonde fringe stood there, looking at you as he tried to guess who you were. “Have we met before?” He finally asked.
“I don’t think so,” you answered, a nervous smile on your face
“I’m Alex,” he smiled back to you, but his smile was more welcoming than anything else. You told him your name, and that you were a friend of Miranda, which prompted her to speak up.
“They’re trying to learn guitar,” she joined in. “Maybe you could help them?”
“Can’t, I’m drowning in coursework already, sorry,” Alex said earnestly, seeming genuinely sorry that he wasn’t able to help you learn how to play.
“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure I’ll find someone to teach me.” You assured him, relaxing a bit more now that you had spoken the slightest bit more to him.
“Andy could help you, though.” A smirk grew on his face, “he’s always looking for an excuse to not do his work.”
“Andrew’s a vocalist though isn’t he?” Miranda chimed in again.
“He does more things apart from singing, you know.” Answered Alex.
“I didn’t know he played guitar though, I’ve never seen him play it.” She argued.
“He does! He’s self taught though, so his has this weird way of playing where he-“
“Sorry, but, who’s Andrew?” You interrupted, needing some clarification as to who they were talking about.
“Right, you don’t know who he is,” Alex chuckled, “he’s that one over there.” He said, pointing over to a group of about five guys all chatting while standing around a table.
“Which one?” You asked, still not knowing who to look at.
“The tall one.” Alex and Miranda said in unison. Your eyes focused on him, a pale, lanky guy with dark, shaggy curls on his head and a 3 day stubble on his face and neck, he was at least half a head taller than the second tallest man in the conversation circle. He was smiling, his cheeks a rosy tone from how much he’d been laughing, his front teeth were slightly crooked from what you could see from a distance, and you noticed a pair of glasses in his left hand as your eyes trailed down his body, you assumed that they were his glasses with how he was holding them so close to his body. He was so cute, you thought to yourself, a bit of a nerd maybe but it’s not like you weren’t into it as well.
“Andy!” Alex’s call broke your train of thought, and maybe that was for the best, who knows where you were going to end up with those. Andrew turned to look at Alex, noticing Miranda sat on her seat, and then you, you could’ve sworn you saw him look you up and down as a small smirk formed on his face. Alex moved his arm to call him over, and he approached without hesitation, quickly walking over to the little group you were in.
Alex introduced you to each other and quickly explained your situation to Andrew, who agreed to teach you. You agreed on payment, how many times a week you’d meet, the whole thing, really, and then you exchanged numbers.
“If you want we can meet up tomorrow and we can start with the basics,” he suggested, putting on his glasses as he put your number in his phone. Fucking hell, he looked adorable with them on, you felt your cheeks heat up as you looked at him.
“Yeah, that’d be good,” you agreed without thinking, “I’ll send you my address and we can meet at my place if you want.”
“Sure,” he looked at you with a small smile. You decided on a time to meet and then went home for the night after saying goodbye to your friend.
You felt a nervous knot in your stomach as you laid down in your bed, the worry of making a fool of yourself in front of a cute guy was catching up on you. You shook those thoughts off, putting on some faint music before finally going to sleep.
You woke up the next day, looking at the clock on your bedside table only to find that it wasn’t actually morning, but past noon, almost 1pm in fact. You got ready for the day and had what could best be described as a big brunch before deciding to clean your apartment before Andrew arrived later in the day, something that you only remembered when you saw a message from him confirming that he had your address right. Why did you agree to this again? You cursed yourself as you cleaned up the small space you lived in, it was an attic converted into a studio apartment that was way too cheap for how big it was, but it’s not like you were going to complain.
Time passed as you finished cleaning your apartment, having just enough time to shower before Andrew arrived. You had just finished dressing up when your phone rang, you picked up to find Andrew on the other side of the line, asking you to open since the doorbell wasn’t working, so, taking your keys in your hand, you ran downstairs to open the front door for him. He was carrying a guitar case and what you assumed was a small amp, he wore a very simple outfit, a shirt and jeans with a brown leather jacket and some old tattered converse, but no glasses. “I like the jacket.” You said while guiding him towards the elevator.
“Thanks,” he smiled shyly, “I brought my electric guitar, I hope you don’t mind, my acoustic one has a broken string and I still need to replace it.”
“It’s fine, mine is electric too.” You smiled back.
You went into your apartment, he commented on the fact that it was a studio, and on the absence of a sofa. “The TV’s over there so I usually just put all my pillows on my bed and use it as a couch.” You explained, pointing out the TV on the wall next to the bed. Andrew laughed to himself, he mumbled something under his breath that you thought sounded like “that’s so fucking cute”. He sat on your bed, taking out his guitar and tuning it without even plugging it in to the amp.
You took out yours, tuning it as well with an app on your phone. You and Andrew talked for a bit, making jokes and breaking the tension before he explained the basics of guitar playing to you. You listened attentively and asked questions about the things you didn’t understand, he was a great teacher so far, and you could honestly listen to him speak for hours, his voice was lovely, no wonder Miranda said he was mainly a vocalist.
The time came to finally plug in the guitars, yours was already plugged to your amp, you just needed to turn it on, which you quickly did while Andrew set up his, he plugged the amp to the wall, grabbing the cable to plug it into his guitar, he wasn’t paying much attention to it though, his mind was somewhere else. While his head was, in fact, pointing down towards the guitar, his eyes were mostly looking up at you through his brows, using his curls as a shield so you wouldn’t notice him staring. His hand faltered, the jack circled the plug it was supposed to go in, making some magnetic noises come from the amplifier, you smiled at his dorkiness, finding it adorable. “Trouble putting it in?” You asked, not fully realising the other possible meaning of the question until it was already out of your mouth, he looked up at you with a quizzical look before you both burst into laughter at the question.
“I’m good, thanks,” he said between laughs, getting the jack into the plug once he finally stopped looking up at you. “‘trouble putting it in,’?” He echoed your words with a lovingly mocking tone, trying not to laugh again.
“I wasn’t thinking!” You tried to defend yourself while suppressing more laughter.
“Clearly,” he giggled.
The real, practical, lesson finally began, you spent the next hour and a half learning to play a couple chords and how to transition between them. It was hell, your hands were oddly shaky and very uncoordinated, so you asked for a break before you threw your guitar out the window. “Tea?” You asked, already thinking about making some for yourself so you could have an excuse to wander your apartment for a bit.
“Sure, I’ll have whatever you have.” Andrew nodded, standing up and stretching a bit and walking over to your bookshelf.
You went over to the kitchenette to put the kettle on, your thoughts wandering to how Andrew looked, he was so pretty, and you were definitely embarrassing yourself with your horrible guitar skills, but he had to have expected that, right? You did tell him that you knew basically nothing about playing guitar after all.
He walked closer to you, leaning on the kitchen island. “You’re not as bad as you told me you’d be yesterday, you know.” He said with a kind look in his eyes.
“I’m not?” You asked as you turned to face him.
“Yeah, I mean, your fingers are a bit uncoordinated and all but that’s just getting the hang of it.” He explained. “You picked up the chords and their positions on the neck of the guitar pretty quickly, though, that’s a good sign.”
“Oh, well that’s good at least,” you chuckled, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get the hang of it, though, I have horrible hand-eye coordination.”
“It can’t be that bad, come on,” he scoffed playfully, walking over to you and almost-sitting on the counter closest to you
“It is.”
“I think your hands are just fine, you just need to practise, and maybe learning guitar will help when you do other things with your hands, it did for me.” He winked, you felt your face heat up.
“What other things?” You tilted your head to the side as you smirked.
“Just… things, you’ll see what I mean.” He chuckled, he pressed his thumb into his palm. His eyes looked you up and down slowly, but you pretended not to notice.
“Oh I’m sure.” You laughed.
The water boiled and you made the tea, you lost the track of time as your conversation went on, it was ever so slightly flirty, just some comments here and there that made you both blush coupled with a few lingering touches. You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t want to do more than just learn guitar with him, but you didn’t want to be too forward, so you waited.
/#/#/#/
You met with Andrew for guitar lessons every other day for the next four weeks, slowly improving on your skill while also getting to know each other more and more, to the point that you’d hang out with him even if you weren’t practising, you’d gone to the pub with him and a few more friends a couple times and would just randomly message each other every so often throughout the day just to check on one another. It was nice, and, even if your crush on him had only gotten stronger as the days passed, you were glad to have a new friend. He was so sweet and just the right amount of dorky nerd that you couldn’t help but love him, you only hoped he felt the same way about you.
It was a Saturday evening, Andrew had been over at your apartment since lunch, you’d started the lesson right after he arrived at 1 and it was now 6:30pm, he’d been teaching you a song, or more so trying to. It wasn’t even a hard one, your hands just were not collaborating today and both you and Andrew were growing increasingly frustrated.
You were standing next to your bed while Andrew sat down on it, the guitar was strapped around you, you were considering making it against the ground in frustration. “You look angry, darling.” He pointed out, his expression unreadable.
“I’m not,” you lied, “just frustrated, I don’t know why I can’t get it right.”
“Maybe your hands are just tired, rest a bit and try again later.” He suggested.
“No.”
“The guitar won’t leave if you stop playing for a second, you know?”
“I just want to get this part right, just to hear how it sounds and then I’ll rest.”
Andrew scoffed, the smallest smirk forming on his face, he rolled his eyes before standing up and walking over to you, his frame towering over yours. “Let’s hear it then.” He ordered.
You swallowed air nervously, slightly intimidated by the combination of his height and the more strict and dominant tone his voice had taken. Your fingers moved on the guitar, clumsily playing the song and restarting it every time you messed up a note. After a few failed attempts, he moved behind you, grabbing the guitar even though it was still on you.
He pushed himself flush against your back, his hands playing the instrument as if you weren’t there. You felt the vibrations of the guitar against your abdomen and his body against your back, and, thanks to your height difference, you could perfectly feel his crotch pressing against your lower back. You felt your face heat up and a few whimpers escaping your mouth as he played, and he was definitely getting a bit into it as well, thrusting his hips into you as the song went on, the worst part was that you weren’t even sure if he was doing it because of the song or to rile you up, but that was the effect it was having anyway.
He stopped playing before he got to the chorus of the song, taking the guitar off you before he finally stepped away. “Heard it. Now, rest.” He instructed, throwing himself back on your makeshift couch.
“What the hell was that?” You asked dumbfounded, a nervous chuckle escaped you.
“Sorry, I just… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, it was weird.” He mumbled, his eyes focusing on your pillows instead of on you.
“I didn’t think it was weird,” you stretched the truth lightly, you had thought it slightly weird when he did that, but you also couldn’t ignore the burning between your thighs and you needed to know if he was feeling the same way you were right now. “You could’ve just taken the guitar off me, though.”
“It wouldn’t have worked, you would’ve gotten mad at me.” He bit his lip to fight back a smirk. “I wasn’t really thinking, anyway, and you said you wanted to hear how it sounded so… yeah.”
Your eyes wandered to his crotch for a second, he looked like he was at least slightly hard. Quickly focusing back on his face, you giggled and threw yourself on the makeshift couch next to him, you laid on your side, looking at Andrew with a small, loving smile on your face.
“What’s the smile for?” He asked, turning to his side so he could face you as well.
“Nothing,” you continued to smile. “It’s just funny that you’re kind of beating yourself up about it when I actually kinda liked it.”
“Oh?” His eyes widened for a second as he scooted closer to you. “And what about it did you like?”
“I like how the guitar felt against me. The vibrations of it, you know? I play so slow that I don’t usually feel them like… that.” You bit your thumb lightly, trying to appear a bit more innocent so he wouldn’t guess what you were really thinking about.
“Yeah, they’re nice,” he looked at your lips as well, then scooted even closer. “Anything else you liked?”
“Well… I liked how you felt… against me.” You admitted, only to see Andrew’s smile widening. His hand moved to your cheek, silently encouraging you to keep going. “I liked how you were thrusting against me, it felt nice.”
“Just nice?” He teased, caressing your cheek.
“It was kinda hot, too.”
“I thought so too, maybe we could do something about it?” He suggested, his hand moving to your hip.
You nodded weakly, your lips parting ever so slightly. Andrew lunged in to kiss you, his mouth crashing against yours as you kissed him back passionately. Slowly he moved to be on top of you as you kissed, his right leg moved between yours, pressing against your core. Your hips moved against his legs, desperate for any kind of release. His tongue darted into your mouth, exploring as it pleased while your hands tangled in his shaggy curls.
You deepened the kiss, it became sloppier and more desperate as the seconds passed by, Andrew pulled back, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths to each other’s. His breathing mirrored yours, ragged and irregular even as you tried to calm down slightly. His glasses were slipping off his nose, so, as one does, you moved your hand from his hair and adjusted them, making him chuckle softly. “I feel like a fucking teenager.” He laughed, leaning in to plant small kisses on your jaw and neck.
“You’re twenty-two, not that far from it.” You teased while quiet moans escaped your lips.
“Shut up.” He laughed, his kisses on your skin turning more demanding. His hands snaked under your shirt, slowly pulling it off you until he could finally throw it on to the floor. He grabbed your breasts, moving his face between them before starting to kiss and lightly bite them, you arched your back into him, more moans escaping you.
“Fuck! Andy… please,” you moaned loudly, he hummed against your chest.
“What is it, baby?” He asked with a wicked smile, looking up at you through the rim of his glasses. You whimpered and rubbed yourself against his leg as a response, making him chuckle once more. “So needy… I’ve been wanting you for a while, let me at least play a little before I ravage you.”
“Play faster, I want you now.” You whined again, pulling him in to kiss him. He happily obliged, kissing you back while his hands made quick work of your jeans.
Your jeans and underwear quickly joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on your floor, leaving you completely bare. Your hands moved from Andrew’s hair as he pulled away from your mouth, instead trailing kisses down your neck and collarbone once more, your touch moved to the hem of his shirt, pulling at the cloth to try and pull it off him already. He quickly caught onto that and pulled his own shirt and undershirt off himself, uncovering his torso. He was still as lanky and thin as he was with clothes on, but he was a bit fuller than you had imagined, the slightest bit of pudge gathering on his abdomen. Your gaze turned him slightly shy, his cheeks reddening as he looked away for a second.
“I know this probably isn’t what you imagined,” he said sheepishly, a nervous tone in his voice, “I’m s-“
“You’re so pretty,” you interrupted him, still staring at his body.
“You really think so?”
“Yeah, I do.” You smiled, your hands grazed his skin. “You’re very hot, too.”
“Flatterer.” He smiled back, leaning in to kiss you again. You felt goosebumps forming on his skin the more you caressed him.
“I would never, I’m only saying what I think.” You kissed him back.
He hummed happily into the kiss, his hand travelling lower and lower on your body until it reached your core. He gently caressed it with two fingers, smiling darkly when he felt just how wet you were. Slowly, he played with your clit, making you whimper and buckle your hips against his hand, silently begging for more. He obliged, moving to push two fingers inside you and making you gasp at the intrusion, he slowly pumped them in and out, his thumb moving to play with your clit.
“Is this something that playing guitar helps with?” You teased while trying to suppress your moans.
Andrew chuckled, his fingers quickening. “Yes, actually.” He kissed along your jaw. “It helps a lot, makes it easier to fuck you.”
You moaned more, holding onto him like a lifeline as he played with you. His lips moved to your neck again, leaving passionate kisses and hickeys as he memorised every inch of your skin. His movements quickened even more, his thumb playing with your clit in a way that made your legs shake slightly, his other hand grabbed your hip, his nails digging into your skin. You felt the all-familiar burning-white desire in your lower abdomen, your whines got more and more high pitched until they were nothing more than needy whimpers.
Andrew chuckled, pulling away from your neck to look at your face as you came undone before him. “That’s it, let go for me,” he whispered softly, his free hand now moving up to brush your hair away from your face. “That’s it, good girl. Let me feel you, baby, please.”
You felt something snap within you at his words, pure pleasure running through you as you came on his fingers, covering them with your essence. He smiled at your blissed out expression, taking it in as he fingered you through your orgasm. Once it subsided he pulled out his fingers and licked them clean as you looked at him, a moan escaping him as he finally tasted you.
“Fuck, you’re delicious, I’m going to fucking devour you next time.” He growled.
“Why not now?” You teased breathlessly, still recovering from your orgasm.
“Because I might explode if I don’t put my dick inside you right now.” He teased back, reaching into his wallet for a condom. “Can I fuck you now, baby? Or do you need to recover a bit more first?”
“Now, please.” You begged without thinking.
Andrew smiled at your eagerness, taking off his pants and underwear to reveal his cock, it was as long as you thought, or hoped, it’d be, somewhere above average that was still enjoyable, but his thickness surprised you, he was wider than you’d imagined. You felt your mouth watering. “You’re staring.” He said firmly, rolling on the condom, “does it scare you?” He asked, his tone a mixture of dominance and genuine concern.
“No.” You smiled, opening your legs more. “I was just a bit surprised.”
“A good surprise, I hope.” He smiled back, grabbing your legs and pulling you closer to him. You chuckled at his words.
“A very good surprise, yeah.”
You reached out to touch him once again, his hands catching yours and pushing them to be above your head. He held them in place with his left hand while his right travelled to your thigh, lifting it ever so slightly as he positioned himself between your legs. His cock brushed lightly against your core, making you both whimper lightly at the feeling, then, slowly, he pushed in. Your gasp matched his moaning, soft and quiet enough that it was almost whispered, he was pushing in slowly, making sure it wasn’t painful for you. He bottomed out after a few more seconds, his movements stopping as he let you get used to his size. He leaned in to kiss you, a slow, loving kiss that had you melting into his touch even more.
You moved your hips after a few kisses, signalling Andrew to move. He happily obliged, slowly thrusting in and out of you. Your moans filled the room, making a symphony with his. “You feel so fucking good, baby, oh my god.” He practically whimpered into your ear, interlocking his fingers with yours. His other hand held tightly onto your thigh, his grip almost bruising as he lost himself in you. You shook your hand free from his, moving it to his hair along with your other hand to pull him in for a kiss, muffling your moans.
“Faster, please.” You begged between kisses, Andrew growled in response, letting go of all his restraint. His pace quickened to a brutal one, pistoning in and out of you without a care in the world. Your hands moved down to his back, your nails leaving scratches as you neared your peak just from the feeling of his cock inside you.
He straightened up, getting a better view of you, completely blissed out and moaning like crazy, sweat making some of your hair stick to your face. His hand caressed your cheek lovingly, his thumb pressing on your mouth to pry it open. “Open up, baby.” He ordered, and you obeyed without hesitation. His thumb moved inside your mouth, pressing on your tongue. “Suck.” He added.
And you did, sucking gently on his thumb as a lopsided smile grew in his face. He whispered soft praises as he fucked you, his thumb thrusting slightly in and out at a gentle pace to contrast the one of his hips.
He moved your leg with his other hand so your ankle would be resting on his shoulder, changing the angle in just the right position so his pubic bone would hit your clit every time he bottomed out. Your moans got louder, or as much as they could since your sucking of his thumb muffled most of the noise. Andrew moaned too, quieter, softer moans that could only be audible between your own, but you loved every single one you could hear. You felt his cock twitch inside you.
You felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your own hand moving to your clit to give you the extra friction you needed. Andrew pulled his thumb out of your mouth and moved it to your clit before you could reach it on your own, flicking it rapidly as he moved your leg off his shoulder so he could lean in to kiss you again. You moaned into his mouth and he moaned into yours, both of you nearing your respective climaxes, his cock twitched more inside you, his thrusting becoming erratic and uncoordinated. You felt the pure, unadulterated ecstasy threatening to explode within you once more, your hands moving once more to Andrew’s hair as he kissed you.
“Come for me, baby, come on, let me hear you again pet.” He moaned, pulling back slightly so he could see your face as you came undone below him. “So fuckin’ pretty, come on, love.”
You came under him not long after, pure pleasure flowing through you as your body shook with your orgasm. But Andrew didn’t stop, chasing his own release as his thrusts became even more irregular than before, and, just as you were starting to feel the overstimulation taking over, he came, releasing his spent into the condom and stopping his movements almost completely, savouring the feeling of your walls around him. He moaned loudly, his head going back slightly as his eyes closed and his jaw slacked, you grinned slightly, recognising his current expression as the same one he did when playing a more upbeat guitar solo.
After a few more seconds, you both calmed down, and Andrew leaned in to kiss you once more, slowly and lovingly this time. You kissed back, your bodies still entangled with each other as you savoured the afterglow of your lovemaking. Carefully, and despite how much neither of you wanted that, he pulled out of you, detaching himself from you so he could take off the condom and throw it out. “I’ll be back in a second, stay put.” He murmured before giving you a quick kiss and walking towards your bathroom.
He came back not long after with a damp washcloth in hand, cleaning you up slightly before helping you sit up on your bed. “I should go to the bathroom,” you pointed out.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “go on, I’ll wait here for you.”
You smiled lovingly, getting up and into the bathroom, coming out of it a few minutes later after refreshing yourself. You found Andrew laying on your bed, having put his boxers back on while you’d been washing up. He smiled at the sight of you, opening his arms for you to cuddle into, and that you did, crawling into your bed and hugging him tight. He played with your hair as you cuddled, talking about random things before you decided to be a bit cheeky. “Did you know you have the exact same face when playing guitar that you do when you cum?”
“Shut up,” he laughed, “…do I really?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it at least a nice face or do I look like an idiot?” His face reddened ever so slightly.
“I think it’s a very pretty face, just like your normal one.” You assured him honestly.
“Thank god.” He laughed again, holding you tighter to him. “Can I stay the night?” He added, a hint of uncertainty and pleading in his tone.
“You better stay.” You smiled, nuzzling your face into his chest.
Andrew smiled back, burying his face in your hair and taking in your scent.
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# 𝗢𝗣𝟴𝟭 ─── I WANNA HEAR YOU MASTERLIST⠀REQUEST ME⠀TAGLIST⠀PATREON GUIDE⠀AO3
RACE WINNERS HAVE PRIVILEGES. those privileges don't always apply to their partners though. sometimes they have to earn things to get what they want. sometimes they're too fucking bratty to get anything ────── original prompt req.
PROMPTED DIALOGUE . . . # “You want me to beg? I don't think a winner should beg" PROMPTED TAGS . . . # gender neutral reader, submissive oscar piastri, praise kink, cum play ADD. TAGS . . . # light bondage, tied up, edging, mean reader for a bit, open ending WORD COUNT. . . # 1.1k
────── AO3 VERSION
Every Formula 1 win is special. You know that; the fact has settled in quite nicely when you’re dating such a great F1 driver. When Oscar wins for the first time, you know you need to make it special for him. Even if his team doesn’t think so.
Oscar is sat on the bed, hands bound tight with a red rope. The same rope follows from his hands to the rest of his limbs—forming a nice shape around his chest, wrapped around his hips and to his thighs. The rest is for pure aesthetics, and it's been done beautifully.
He's breathless as he's looking at you, cock red, and eyes glaring in need.
"Don't tease me," he grunts, more sounding like a whimper as he throws his head back.
Your hands act innocent as it's wrapped around the tearful cock—it leaks pre-cum with need. He lets out a silent moan as you play with him. Uncaring of how much pleasure you’re really relieving, you tease him as you believe he deserves.
“Fu-u-ucking~...” Oscar’s thighs shake in it's bounds. “Mmph... You're so annoying—"
"Am I?" you ask, smiling down at him. He tries so hard to fight it off but his hips are moving to your hand. Everytime he thrusts his hips, you loosen your grip. "Am I annoying, Oscar?"
"Yes," he hisses, "So annoying. I just want you- fuck."
"Then beg for it—" your hands tighten on his cock, a silent moan got his jaw to drop—"Beg for it, Oscar. I wanna hear you."
Weeks of edging him (and it's been weeks, you refuse to touch him if he doesn't score you a win again after Hungary) has his body moving feverishly. He can't stop shaking. His skin blushes red and dripping with sweat. Your boyfriend tries to keep himself still but you know all he wants is to fuck your hand.
Shaking his head, he says: "No. I w-won a race. Mmph... I don't need to beg."
Fine. "Have it your way."
You immediately pull away from him. His head flickers up to you, watching you as you stand from the bed. He's calling out to you but you're undressing yourself as you take something from the bedside drawer.
"Since my sweet boy doesn't want to co-operate, I guess I'll just have to make use of myself, hm?"
With your underwear thrown to the floor, you pull out some lube and a vibrator. You saw the moment his eyes cloud with lust; he gulped, stopping himself from drooling; his gaze fell to your sex as you position yourself on top of his face; his arms jerk in its restraints as it begged to touch you.
He calls out your name again. You ignore him. Instead, you pour lube on the toy and turn it on—the whirring of it silences Oscar. He watches as you press it against you, he watches as you moan softly at a toy pleasing you instead.
"I wanted to make you feel good tonight, baby," you say, grinding a little on the wand, "but you just don't wanna play with me."
"I do," he says, his bottom lip pouted. "Just... Don't wanna be teased anymore."
"I asked you to beg- fuck." You press it to you a little harder. He opens his mouth as he sees you drip a little. "You won't listen to me. So I guess I'll have to postpone my gift, hm? Make myself feel good instead."
Desire is etched into his expression. With his mouth agape, cheeks pink, and tongue eagerly awaiting for a single drop of your arousal, he's lost needing you.
But you keep your hands to yourself. He's forced to watch you relieve yourself. You know him. He's itching with the need to touch you. A safe word could be on the tip of his tongue but you know that this is the point where he wants to be good for you.
"Please," his voice is small and almost unheard through the loud vibrations. "I want... I want you again please."
You shake your head. "No, Oscar. You're gonna fucking watch me come all over your face before you get even anything."
He whines. "Please..! Just—If you let me go I'll be so good for you. Please..."
Though you want to hold him, use him, make him feel so special for his race win, you hold your promise. Lowering down to his face, he breathes you in and mouths just below your sex. He needs to put his mouth on you, you watch as it gets him so manic. It's getting a bit pathetic honestly.
"You look so good, baby," you say, finally giving your lost boy some attention. "I know that you can be good for me. Wait for me, okay?"
He whines. You tsk and shake your head. "None of that, baby. Be good for me and stick your tongue out—" he does immediately—"good boy. Good boy, Oscar. See? All you needed was... all you needed was to be shut up for a bit."
"I'm sorry, please, I want you so bad—"
"And you'll get me," you tell him. "Stay like that. I'm so fucking close. Stick your tongue out like a good boy and take me."
It's not long until you feel yourself approaching your end. Oscar lays so pliant beneath you. He keeps begging under his breath, just quiet enough to hope you're not listening. He knows when you're near. He's getting more twitchy—panting as if he's the one about to cum.
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he moans at your words, "I'm gonna cum, baby. You wanna taste me? You wanna fucking taste it?"
He nods. He's getting dizzy as he tries to push his head up to get more of you—yet you keep pulling away. "Cum on me please," he begs, tongue out and anticipating the taste of you.
The sight drives you fucking mad. With a few strokes of the toy on you, you cum all over his awaiting mouth.
Oscar laps up your release eagerly. Your fingers go down to push some splattered cum from his cheeks and drag it down his lips. He thanks you silently as he licks your fingers. Eyes half open, he treasures your taste.
Your dirty fingers trail down his lips and to his chin. Your release makes a trail down and he's only showing you more of his skin. A laugh leaves you as he practically begs to be painted in your fluids.
"Such a good boy for me," you coo. "You wanna get your treat now?"
He's agreeing so quickly that it makes you wanna frame this moment. The moment when race winner Oscar Piastri is begging for you. You smile. "Okay, it's gonna be a long night, baby."
It's not like he would ask for anything more
🗒 𝗣𝗔𝗣𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗟 . . . short oscar piastri fic cuz i was out my entire bday LMAO. anyways, hope anon saw this cuz i </3 am sorry for all these late requests. my next fic is literally a request of a daniel fic during the singapore gp BEFORE it was announced he was leaving... so uh... yeah. mb. anyways, hope ya'll had fun w this cuz i literally edged ya'll too lmao ˎˊ˗ ᝰ. ──── 📨 @Delululeclerc @hiireadstuff @rtorresblog @Jamie2305
you support me best on tumblr with reblogs and comments ! ── by andcars ⟡
#🔖 . OP81#: 🔗 above 1k#: 🔗 fic#oscar piastri#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri x reader#oscar piastri x you#oscar piastri fanfic#oscar piastri fic#f1 imagine#f1 x you#f1 x reader#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#formula 1 imagine#formula 1 scenarios#formula one imagine#formula 1 imagines
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