#there was so much there to explore!!! and yet!!!

[flqwerjo]

─── 𝑻𝑜𝑜 𝑴𝑢𝑐ℎ ?

˚.❀𝑷𝐴𝐼𝑅𝐼𝑁𝐺 ─── Bf!Riki x Reader

˚.❀𝑺𝑌𝑁𝑂𝑃𝑆𝐼𝑆 ─── your boyfriend is just so big :(

˚.❀𝑮𝐸𝑁𝑅𝐸/𝐶𝑊 ─── smut drabble(mdni), belly bulge, size difference/reader implied smaller than him , unrealistic fictional smut (!!), first time having sex together, size kink, protected sex ˚.❀𝑾𝑂𝑅𝐷 𝐶𝑂𝑈𝑁𝑇 ─── 0.9k

                               𝒄ℎ𝑒��𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡ᵎᵎ (˶˃⤙˂˶)

Today was the night , the night you and your lovely , caring boyfriend were going to try and have sex again. Yes , again. The two of you had been dating for around 4 months , having promised to each other to take things slow — that already failed within the first month when just kissing turned into a heated make out session . Your boyfriend was just too irresistible and his kisses always had you yearning for more , plus , he was a very good kisser. You soon figured out that he wasn't only good with kissing your upper lips , but your other lips too.

Yes , again , the two of you had promised to take things slow — but some promises were just meant to be broken. Around the second month mark , the two of you decided to slowly explore each other's bodies to see what the other likes and doesn't like — in the sexual aspect , now he knows your body like the back of his hand.

But there was one promise the two of you stayed to without breaking it — having sex together when the both of you were ready for it and wanted it. You were ready and so was he , he just forgot how much smaller you were than him and so did you — you were barely able to handle two of his fingers at once when he fingered you for the first time :(

You've tried once , twice, even thrice — but it never worked whenever he tried to put his cock past your tight hole , the furthest he had managed to go was the tip of his cock barely inside you.

"Are you sure Princess ? We can try another time , I can just eat you out again if you want ?", the palm of his hand was warm against your cheek as he gently caressed it , his eyes focused on your face instead of your pussy that was hovering right above his cock. It was one of those times again where the two of you tried to have sex , try to fit his cock inside of your tight little pussy — you were starting to get frustrated , you really wanted him , no , you needed him.

So , you've decided to try and be on top. "No.. I want to try again...", you mumbled under your breath as you grabbed the base of his cock , his eyes closing upon feeling your touch on it before he opened them again to look at you , his eyes studying the expression on your face — you were so frustrated that your eyebrows were furrowed , lips formed in a little pout. Your boyfriend didn't spend at least an hour stretching your pussy out with his fingers and making you cum a couple times with his tongue just for it to not work again.

You lowered your hips a little until the head of his cock was pressing against your entrance , rubbing the tip between your sticky folds to lubricate his latex covered cock with your arousal before you took a deep breath and pressed his tip against your entrance. You bit your bottom lip slightly as the small burn started to make its appearance , the head of his cock slowly stretching your hole as it pushed inside of you. The stretch was bearable and the pain hadn't hit you yet so you kept going until the head of his cock has disappeared inside of you.

Riki's eyes were watching you like a hawk , his breath hitching when he saw the tip of his cock slowly go inside of your tight heat. Your hands rested on his chest now to brace yourself as you continued to lower yourself down , a quiet wince out of pain leaving your lips as the stretch was starting to burn and sting the more you took of him.

"Almost there Princess... you got half of me inside you..", Riki encouraged as he put his hands on top of yours , rubbing his thumbs into the back of your hands gently. And you kept going , your nails scratching his chest slightly as you finally bottomed out , a whimper coming from you as you felt just how deep he was pressing inside of you. "You did it Angel... did such a good job for me", Riki mumbled as he gently grabbed the back of your head and pulled your head down to him so he could kiss your forehead gently."It's so... big...", you breathed out , your voice breathless and trembling as your words came out as a whisper.

His other hand grabbed your waist just to hold you , slowly caressing from your waist to your stomach which made him pause in his tracks. You didn't pay much attention to it and slowly started to move your hips as you got used to the stinging pain that slowly started to feel good the more you moved — rolling your hips back and forth before you leaned over and placed your hands next to his head as you slowly started to lift your hips up and down.

Your movements confirmed what he was feeling , the low moan of a curse vibrating in his chest. "Fuck... angel , I can feel myself inside you whenever you move... I'm all the way up to your stomach", his words made you pause and move back , hands resting on top of his thighs so you could take a look at your belly and there it was — the subtle bulge showing through your belly and fuck , it was just making you wetter and feel more aroused , the feeling of arousal was mutual for Riki. He had to collect all the self restraint in his body to not slam your hips up and down just to see his own fucking cock move inside of you.

"Fuck.... cover my eyes , If I'll keep watching you ride my cock like you own it and watch myself move inside of you , I'll cum too early."

[redlinespeedster]

A FAMILIAR TOUCH !! ☆

lando norris 𝒙 best friend fem!reader

[summary] You like taking risks, you crave danger, yet he is your everyday routine… and somehow, that excites you too. You’d been friends for so long that his touch on your skin feels like a familiar whisper: his hands steady on your shoulders, his fingers slowly tracing your hips. You can recognize the warmth of his body from a distance. But when he finally slips between your legs for the first time, all that familiarity shatters into a rush of new sensations — an intense, addictive pleasure you never expected to feel with him.

[warnings] Smut !! car sex, oral sex & fingering (fem receiving), dirty talk. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes. (2.5k)

[notes] Just writing this ‘cause I know deep down Lando would be the kind of friend like “you’re my best friend… but I’d totally wreck you if I got the chance” 🙃

He wasn’t in love with you, or anything like that.

Or maybe he was? He wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that he’d wanted you pretty much since the day you met in school. Even back when his preteen brain couldn’t fully grasp what desire or attraction even meant.

He didn’t know if it was your personality, how kind you were to everyone, the sun-kissed blush on your cheeks, or just how pretty you were—but he wanted to be close to you. And maybe that alone was enough to make you inseparable. Best friends. Almost like siblings? No, that was something your mom said once, and it made Lando’s stomach turn with disgust.

What truly mattered was that it wasn’t until his desire began to awaken that he realized what he actually felt for you. Intense fantasies and lust-filled dreams ambushed him at all hours, and you were in every single one of them—whether you were riding him in desperation or lying beneath his body, utterly surrendered. The position or place didn’t matter; what drove him mad was having you there, so vivid in his mind, pushing him to the edge even in the moments he tried hardest to stay composed… especially when you walked around in that summer pajama that barely covered the essentials.

You didn’t even try to make it easier for him. You’d sit on his lap, brushing up against him without realizing it, as if he weren’t a man, as if he couldn’t feel every one of your movements or sense what they were stirring inside him. For years, you never understood why he had to distance himself from you—you thought maybe you were crossing a line, taking advantage of his trust. But as you got older, you remembered it clearly and finally understood.

Still, you never spoke of it again.

It had never crossed your mind that he might be attracted to you—not even after everything that had happened. Sure, you��d noticed that constant need he had to hug you, to cuddle you, to run his fingers through your hair. You also remembered the times he’d move you off his lap because he was getting hard and his pants were too tight—but you figured it was just a natural physical reaction. Maybe his body just responded to the slightest touch, because in adolescence it’s common to get aroused from something as simple as a bit of contact. You were a complete idiot for not realizing what was really going on.

Because as you grow older, things become clearer—and the sexual tension between you becomes unbearable. To the point where neither of you really knows what you’re feeling… or how to define it.

Lando can’t stop imagining himself inside you, losing himself between your legs. And you’ve started to crave his touch—the one that used to be just warm and friendly—hoping he lingers longer, hoping his hands start to explore you with more intent and desire.

But despite it all, the two of you keep pretending in front of the world that you’re just best friends, both convinced that you’ll never be anything more than that.

That discomfort resurfaces every time you’re alone with him again. Even now—coming back from a party you didn’t want to go to and he didn’t want to leave, but did anyway, just because you asked him to. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly you can tell even without looking at him, because your eyes are lost in the car window.

He looks at you like he’s undressing you with his eyes, shamelessly, staring especially at the part of your thighs you left exposed. You feel that gaze—heavy, filthy—and a chill runs down your spine. Because you know he thinks you don’t notice. Like you’re naive. And that’s what pisses you off the most: that he’s such a coward. That he doesn’t have the guts to look you in the eye and admit he’s dying to fuck you.

You squeeze your thighs together just because you know he notices. You do it slowly, deliberately, like a silent challenge. What used to be an awkward tension between teenagers is now a game you play to perfection. You can almost hear him clench his jaw, feel his whole body tighten. And the best—or the worst—part is, he knows you’re doing it on purpose. To provoke him. To drive him insane.

His eyes don’t leave the road, determined not to get distracted—though the temptation you represent is nearly unbearable. He tries to convince himself that the sexual thoughts consuming him now are just a consequence of the alcohol he had earlier at the party. But he knows that’s not true. Those burning, forbidden desires have always been there, every time he’s with you. And not even alcohol can justify all these years of obsessive fantasies, of the deep urge to hold you in his arms.

“Aren’t you gonna say something?”

But Lando pretends not to understand. He thinks you’re talking about the party you just left, or about the fact that he’s driving at a snail’s pace after a few too many drinks.

But it’s clear that’s not what you mean.

“What d’you want me to say?” he asks. The car stops across the street, and he lets go of the wheel to focus all his attention on you.

The tension between you is almost unbearable.

You stare at him intently, and he notices a different sparkle in your eyes, something he had never seen before, almost as if it were new. He doesn’t know how to describe it because he was never used to you looking at him that way. It’s a gaze full of desire, intense and almost tangible, as if you longed to have him so close that you wanted to move until you were sitting on his lap, in the driver’s seat, invading his space and his skin.

His pupils dilate. Only he can decide when to kiss you, how to do it, and how much he’s going to leave you trembling afterward. Maybe that’s why his hand grips the back of your neck tightly, forcing you to lean in until his lips crash against yours with fierce need. The kiss is anything but gentle: it’s intense, clumsy, desperate. He bites you, licks you, invades your mouth as if it were his own. As if he had been holding back for years, when in reality it was only half a lifetime.

No one had kissed you like that before. No one had made you feel that a kiss could leave you breathless, without pride, without control. He kisses you as if he wanted to mark you, break you, tear your soul out with his tongue. As if with that kiss he could devour you alive and still be hungry.

You want to move toward his seat, but he’s the one who lunges at you, pinning you against the closed car window. His body presses against yours urgently, and your hands clutch his jacket, squeezing it hard to pull him even closer. He kisses you hungrily, as if what’s making him drunk isn’t the drinks he had but the taste of your mouth, your tongue, your hot saliva mixing with his.

His hands roam over your clothes with a slow touch that gives you goosebumps, as if he wants to memorize every curve through the feeling. He kisses you with desire while his fingers explore the sequins on your dress, stopping intentionally at your neckline. There, he strokes firmly and precisely, and for a moment, you feel your breath catch, as if his touch could ignite you from within.

Your heart pounds hard, almost painfully fast. Every brush of his hands against your skin sends a shiver down your spine, and the heat pooling low in your belly becomes an urgent need. You’re so wet you can feel it clearly, soaking through the fabric between your thighs. Lando notices—he drinks in the sight with his eyes. Without hesitation, he pushes your dress up to your waist, leaving you exposed to him. A desire-filled smile spreads across his face as his fingers trace the edge of your underwear slowly, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail before taking it off.

“Look at you…” he murmurs, voice rough. “So fucking wet for me.”

And then he lowers his head, dead set on tasting you.

His lips press against your pussy, still covered by your clothes, licking and kissing with an intensity that seeps through the fabric. His hands grip your thighs firmly, forcing you to open up for him, exposing you, wanting you vulnerable beneath his mouth. You feel him move right where you need him the most, his tongue tracing slow, teasing circles, but everything is still filtered by the fabric, and it’s driving you insane. You want him with nothing in between—raw, skin to skin—but he just smiles against you, savoring the power of making you beg without a single word.

“Why are you so fucking desperate, baby?” he whispers. “You want my tongue to ruin you? Drive you insane?” He lifts his head slightly, and his eyes burn with a lust that mirrors your own, igniting the fire between you.

You nod desperately, and Lando leans back down until his warm breath grazes your underwear again. The fabric slides to the side with a single movement of his fingers—not taking it off, just shifting it enough. Your legs tremble on either side of his head, open, exposed. Then his tongue begins to slowly glide over your pussy, tracing soft, deliberate lines—so slow it feels like sweet torture. Each stroke pulls a muffled moan from your lips, while he clings to your thighs like he has no intention of letting you go.

And then, when he hears you moan with a broken voice, writhing beneath his tongue and begging for more, he sinks between your legs with an almost feral devotion. He sucks you, licks you, devours you like the world ends there—like your body is the only drug capable of making him lose control. His tongue moves with precise rhythm, soaking in you, savoring every part of your sex, stopping to suck your clit until you’re trembling. He doesn’t let up: he spreads you open with his fingers, explores you, takes you to the edge again and again. Your back arches uncontrollably, your moans fill the car, your legs shake and your fingers tangle in his hair while your hips move on their own—seeking more, demanding more. You’re completely his, undone with pleasure, lost between his mouth and your gasps.

“Lando… fuck,” you whimper through sobs, voice trembling and your body utterly given to him. You’re so on edge that every touch, every thrust of his fingers, pulls you closer to the brink. You feel them pushing in and out of you with a steady, deep rhythm, then curling inside, rubbing that spot with a precision that makes your back arch and his name fall from your lips like a prayer. The heat between your legs is unbearable, and every move he makes leaves you wetter, more desperate, more his.

He hadn’t realized just how long he’d craved having you like this—completely surrendered. It didn’t matter if it was in the car, his place, or your bedroom. He had only dreamed of seeing you like this: breathless with every lick, moaning with pleasure while his eyes glazed over with desire—never stopping, tracing every inch of you with his tongue until you were trembling, soaked, and drained of all strength.

He could spend hours between your legs, but he knows you won’t last much longer. Not like this—not with his tongue plunging deep inside you, exploring every spot with shameless hunger. There’s no resisting it. He feels the way you shudder and twist beneath him, right on the edge, seconds away from coming all over his face. His grip tightens around your thighs, ready to take the heat of your complete surrender.

“Bet you fuckin’ love my tongue inside you, huh? Didn’t even stop to think this shit might be wrong—that maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”

You feel his eyes locked on you, unblinking, as his fingers drive into you without mercy, going deep until you can’t take anymore—until the pleasure overwhelms you and you have no choice but to give in.

His smile is wicked, not a trace of guilt in sight, fully enjoying the mess you’ve become under him. He loves how you let go, how you lose your mind with every touch, whether it’s his fingers or his tongue in control.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess—all wrecked and humiliated, you know that? Yeah, you fuckin’ know it. And you love every second of it.”

His fingers thrust into you with a steady, deep rhythm, until pleasure overwhelms you and your vision goes blurry. You gasp, breath ragged, back arched against the seat, heart pounding. It’s too much. More than you thought you could take. More than anyone had ever made you feel.

You can’t understand how something so spontaneous —fifteen minutes in a car, half-drunk, on an empty road— could make you lose control like that. It’s beyond any previous experience, beyond anything you ever expected sex to be.

And it’s with Lando. Your best friend.

Even thinking about it feels unreal… but the heat between your thighs and the trembling in your body are far too real to ignore.

“Hey, you good?” It’s the first thing he asks.

But you can’t even speak clearly; your body is still trembling from the orgasm, from the shiver that ran through you and hasn’t completely faded. It felt fucking amazing… and at the same time, something inside you twists, because you both know exactly what just happened, even if you didn’t technically have sex. It was just foreplay, sure—but it felt like something more.

His fingers—the same ones that were buried deep inside you just minutes ago—still glisten with the wet trace of your pleasure. His mouth, the one that devoured you like he was addicted to your taste, is still marked with your desire. Your legs are shaking uncontrollably, like your body has completely surrendered, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to stand up anytime soon.

You’re satisfied. Not completely full… but deliciously sated. Though you know you’d need much more from him—more of his body, more of his strength—to feel truly complete.

You nod with a faint smile, and barely manage to whisper, “Yeah.”

Lando tries to put his clothes back in place with slow, almost distracted movements, because his eyes never stop watching you. His hands keep roaming over you, but no longer with the urgency from before. Now he caresses you calmly, with a softness that feels almost reverent. And in that touch, you recognize something familiar, something your body hasn’t forgotten. Because he has touched you like this before, and the way he does it still lingers on your skin like a living memory.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as he lets his fingers gently sink into your sweat-damp hair. “I want you to keep touching me like you did today…”

He doesn’t answer with words, only nods with a slight smile, heavy with desire.

And you know he will. That he will touch you again with that same devotion every time you let him, until your body belongs to him by memory.

[ellewritesx]

explore me slowly

(part two of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: Firsts aren't always easy. Lucky for you, Harry's got patience— and a plan.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, lots of talk about virginity and sex, fingering, brief oral (f!receiving), sexual guilt (it's so common and it's time we start talking about it)

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! sorry this update took foreverrr. i've had a rough week, but i'm back now and working hard on creating new content for you guys :) i'm so happy to see the love i received on part one of this, thank you all sososo much. series tag list is open x

Word Count: 4,319

...

You're nervous.

Not the jittery, wide-eyed kind of nervous, but the quiet kind. It simmers just beneath the surface, where your stomach feels light and fluttery, and your thoughts are buzzing too fast to catch.

You're sitting with Harry on his couch, tucked beneath the blanket that always smells like him, like fresh, warm laundry and cedarwood and something a little sweeter underneath. The movie he put on a while ago has turned to static now, background noise, barely audible under the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Your mind keeps drifting back to last Friday night, to that first conversation you and Harry had about your virginity, turning it over in your head, trying to decide what you want.

But now you know.

You pull back a little, tilting your head to look at him properly, and your voice is smaller than you mean it to be when you speak up. ''I think… I want to try something tonight.''

That gets his attention.

His arm, which had been draped along the back of the couch and absentmindedly stroking your shoulder, stills. He turns to face you, scanning your features with those sharp, observant eyes like he's trying to understand everything you're not saying. ''Try something?'' he echoes, but it's not teasing. It's curious. Encouraging.

You nod. Your fingers curl in the hem of your shorts, anchoring yourself. ''I don't know what exactly. I just… I trust you. And I want to explore. Whatever you think is best to start with.''

He stays quiet for a beat, his thumb brushing the side of your thigh under the blanket. ''Are you sure?''

You nod again, firmer this time. ''Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. I'm not trying to rush into anything I'm not ready for. And I'm not ready for... everything, but we could do something else, right?''

Harry's expression softens into something tender. You can see it shift, the subtle change in how he's holding himself. The way he sinks a bit deeper into the cushions, like the weight of your blind trust, and his responsibility for it, slowly settles onto his shoulders.

''Okay,'' he says. ''We'll go slow. If you're okay with it, I'd like to understand where you're at. What you're comfortable with. What you like, what you don't like, y'know?''

You inhale deeply, your shoulders relaxing at the sound of his calm voice. You hadn't realized how much tension you'd been holding until now. You hum in response, heart thudding steady in your chest.

Harry's eyes flick to your lips, your eyes, your hands in your lap. He shifts slightly so he's facing you more directly. ''So… when you say you want to try something, what does that look like for you tonight? Is there something you've been curious about?''

You chew your lip. ''I don't know, really. That's the thing. I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know where I'm supposed to start, what I'm supposed to explore. That's why I'm asking you to... I don't know, lead. To tell me what to do.''

''I can do that. Is there anything that's off-limits tonight?'' he asks carefully, his hand moving to rest lightly on your bare knee.

You think about it for a moment, then shake your head. ''I don't want to… you know. Go all the way. Not yet.''

''Okay,'' he smiles, squeezing your knee softly in reassurance. ''What about me touching you? With my hands, or my mouth?''

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks. The words make you squirm, but you manage to give him a curt nod, forcing a tight-lipped, nervous smile. ''Yeah. I think I'd like to try that.''

He smiles gently, fingers brushing your neck, waiting for any sign of hesitation. When all he sees is curiosity etched onto your features, he dips his head under yours, pressing soft kisses to your neck.

Your heartbeat pounds under your skin as Harry caresses your arms, rubbing them up and down soothingly. You gasp when he sucks lightly on your skin, taking his time getting you in the mood.

''Do you want me to show you what feels good? Or do you want to tell me what to do?'' he murmurs, his lips brushing your collarbone.

You bite your lip, throat dry. ''I… I want you to show me.''

He stands up, then holds out a hand.

''Come here, love.''

You take it, and he tugs you to your feet, pulling a huffed laugh from you. He puts his hands on your waist and begins slowly walking you backward, firm and deliberate, toward his bedroom, not breaking eye contact once. Something about it, the effortless confidence he exudes, the air of nonchalance, makes your breath hitch.

And when your back hits his bedroom door, he pauses. He leans in, foreheads touching, his breath mingling with yours.

''You're sure?'' he whispers.

You nod. ''I'm sure.''

And then he kisses you, deep and passionate, his hand fumbling for the door handle behind you. He chuckles against your lips when he clumsily opens the door, and you both stumble in with a laugh.

Harry's bedroom is dim, the lamp on his bedside table painting the room in a soft yellow. You turn around, taking in his space. It feels intimate. It's simple, minimalistic, but so Harry.

There are sticky notes attached to the small notice board above his desk, filled with hasty scribbles like yoga pushed to 7 this Thursday!!! and pick up mum from the airport!!! and a nonsensical jumble of random words and phrases. Lyrics for new songs, you think.

The door clicks shut behind him and you feel his presence behind you, steady, unfaltering, unlike the beat of your heart. For a second, neither of you speak. You're not sure when the room got so quiet, but your pulse thrums in your ears, the sound of your shallow breathing seeming to mute everything else.

Then his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back into the solid heat of his chest. He dips his head to your height and presses a kiss just behind your ear, then another one to the slope of your neck, and you melt into him by instinct.

His fingers find the hem of your hoodie, his hoodie, technically, the navy one you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. It still smells faintly like his cologne, the way his clothes always do when he forgets them on your couch. He gathers the fabric, lifting it inch by inch until it bunches beneath your waist, right above your grey shorts.

It had felt a little silly when you put it on after your shower this morning, but his mouth twitches into a smile when he recognizes it, his fingers toying with the material. ''This mine?''

''Yeah. You were outgrowing it anyway,'' you tease, turning around in his hold and playfully squeezing his biceps. He's been frequenting the gym increasingly more often, and it shows. You assume it's his way of blowing off steam now that he's not performing.

''Hm. It does look better on you,'' he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hands trail lower. He gently tugs at the hem, waiting for your approval. ''Can I take this off?''

You hesitate, just a second, but it's enough to make him pause, watching you closely. It's not that you don't trust him, or don't want to, but you can already feel the air on your thighs, your stomach, the dip of your lower back. And the idea of being completely bare under his gaze, no barriers, no fabric, no layers to hide behind, suddenly feels a little too exposed. Too vulnerable.

Your hands catch his quickly, wrapping around his palms, though you know that Harry wouldn't move an inch without your consent.

''I… would it be okay if I kept it on? Just for now?'' you ask, cheeks burning. ''I don't think I'm comfortable being fully naked yet.''

There's not even a beat of silence before he nods, brushing your hair back behind your ear. ''Of course. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You look beautiful like this, too.''

Your hesitation doesn't frustrate or deter him. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulls it up over his head and carelessly tosses it aside.

Your breath catches. He's so close that you can see the faint freckles adorning his collarbone, the gold cross nestled between his pecs, the trail of ink curling down his strong arms.

You reach out before you can second-guess it, fingers brushing across the small tattoos above his heart, the ones you've only ever seen half-hidden beneath his clothes. Your hand grazes the tattoos that trail down the skin of his left shoulder, his bicep, his arm, like a river that meanders delicately through a forest.

He watches you, quiet and confident, as your palm flattens over his chest. His skin is warm under your fingers, smooth and solid and real. You trace one of the swallows across his collarbone, then dip lower, brushing your knuckles down the line of his sternum. The ridges of his abs flex slightly beneath your touch.

''You're so…'' you trail off, suddenly embarrassed by your own awe.

Harry gives you a lopsided smile, like he knows what you mean without needing to hear it. ''Thank you, baby. You can touch me as much as you want,'' he says, voice thick with something more tender than lust. ''Take your time, darlin'. I'm not going anywhere.''

You lean up to kiss him, and when your hands settle around his hips, he presses forward just enough to guide you backward toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress and you land with a soft thud. Harry follows, kneeling between your legs, one hand curling around the back of your thigh to pull it around his waist.

You shiver when his knuckles graze the edge of your shorts, and he catches the reaction immediately.

''Still okay?'' he murmurs against your lips.

''Yeah,'' you whisper. ''I just… don't know what I'm doing.''

''You don't have to,'' he insists. The sheets are cool against your skin, grounding, while Harry hovers over you, broad and warm and impossibly gentle and patient. ''That's what tonight's for, yeah? You tell me what feels good. What doesn't. I'll listen.''

His fingers stroke over the outside of your shorts first, featherlight at first, then with a little more pressure. Just enough to let the heat pool low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively at the unfamiliarity of it all. You let out a soft, shaky breath.

He looks up at you, lips curved, eyes kind. ''That feel alright?''

''Mhm.''

''Use your words for me, baby,'' he teases lightly, but there's no pressure. Just playfulness.

You swallow. ''It feels… really good.''

That earns you a kiss, warm and sweet, and this time his hand drifts over your stomach, fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie. He doesn't try to lift it again, just slips his palm beneath the fabric, splaying it over your skin, stroking your bare side.

His hands don't rush. They just keep tracing the shape of you, mapping the curves and valleys like they're sacred terrain. Then his fingers slide down past your navel, knuckles grazing your skin, brushing the waistband of your shorts.

You draw in a shaky breath.

''Still good?'' he asks, watching you.

You nod. ''Yes. Please.''

He smiles reassuringly and continues his trail down your shorts. His fingers move over the cotton, just the faintest pressure, barely there. But even that is enough to send a jolt through you, hips twitching in surprise when he brushes against your clothed clit.

You're more sensitive than you expected. Everything feels heightened: his breath on your cheek, the press of his fingers through the fabric, the weight of his gaze on your face.

''Feels good?''

You nod, unable to speak.

He strokes over the same spot a little more firmly this time, slow and rhythmic. ''You're already wet,'' he groans, almost like he's in awe. ''I haven't even done anything. Fuck, that's so hot.''

You flush, turning your face into his shoulder, and he chuckles softly. ''You don't have to be shy with me,'' he whispers. ''Nobody's around. It's just you and me, yeah? I've got you.''

You nod bashfully. His hand slips under the waistband of your shorts and slides your panties aside with a gentle tug. For the first time ever, someone else touches you where you've barely explored yourself, the pad of his finger dragging softly through your folds.

You tense instantly, just from the unfamiliarity of it, but he doesn't push. Just keeps it slow, gentle, careful, learning the way your body responds, noting every soft whine and every stutter of breath. It's a different kind of touch than your own. More assured. Confident, but not cocky. He's paying attention to every shift in your body, like your pleasure is a language and he wants to be fluent.

He finds your clit and circles it with the pad of his finger, light and teasing, until your hips lift from the bed with a choked whimper, and his pace quickens. You didn't know it could feel like this. Every nerve is lit up, like your skin is catching fire in the best way.

''Oh,'' you breathe out, your body sinking into the mattress as you sigh contently, the tension in your muscles melting away.

Harry smiles. ''Yeah?''

You nod, eyes fluttering shut, head thrown back against the pillow.

Harry glances up again, pride flickering in his expression. ''That good?''

''So good,'' you whisper.

He grins, but it's soft, not smug. He eases you further back onto the bed, and you go willingly, your legs falling open around his waist as he crawls down your body, pulling your shorts down with him as he goes, just enough to expose your panties to him.

Then he leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. And another, closer to the edge of your underwear. He hums low in his throat, like the scent of your arousal has undone something in him. His hand is still between your thighs, and he pushes a finger inside, just one for now, testing, studying your reaction, while his thumb keeps stroking your clit to keep you relaxed.

Your breath catches at the stretch. It's not painful, just… new. Unfamiliar. Full.

But it feels good. Better than anything you've ever felt on your own.

Harry leans his cheek against your inner thigh, watching your pussy accomodate to the stretch of his finger with awe etched onto his face. His eyes flick up to your face, searching your expression for any discomfort or pain. ''Too much?''

You shake your head. ''No. Feels… good.''

Then he kisses your thigh again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his hot breath against your cunt, and you realize what he's planning.

But when you feel the first swipe of his tongue, it's too much.

You gasp and your hand flies to his hair, not tugging hard, just enough to pull him back. ''Wait. Sorry. That's... a little overwhelming.''

He pulls back instantly, looking up at you with such gentle understanding it nearly makes your heart burst out of your chest. ''Don't apologize. That's totally okay.''

''I don't know why,'' you say, cheeks warm. ''It's just… a lot.''

''It's okay, love. This is all brand new to you,'' he soothes, pressing a kiss to your thigh. ''We can save that for another night, yeah? We have all the time in the world to go slow, baby.''

There's no disappointment in his voice. No pressure. He's just... here. With you. For you. The realization tugs at your heartstrings.

You nod, and he climbs back up your body, propping himself up on one arm, letting you catch your breath as he hovers over you. The warmth between your legs lingers, building slowly as his hand starts to move again, hushed praises falling from his lips.

His touch is focused, fingers slow, right where you need them. This time, you relax into it. Let the tension coil in your belly, growing tighter and tighter with every slow circle of his fingers, every kiss he presses against your shoulder, your jaw, your temple.

Your breathing stutters. Your thighs clench. Your fingers dig into his forearm, making him groan. He curls his finger slightly and your back arches with a sudden, gasping moan.

''Harry, fuck—''

''There she is,'' he breathes. ''There you go, darlin'. That's it. Let go for me. You don't have to think. Just feel. I've got you.''

He keeps the rhythm steady, his thumb circling your clit, his finger curling inside of you. Your thighs tense, your hips stutter, and then your whole body locks up with a choked sound as the pleasure spills over all at once. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, sharp and sweet and overwhelming in the best way. Your fingers grip the bedsheets, and you can barely hear yourself moaning his name like a prayer, your breath stuttering out in broken gasps.

Harry's voice is low and tender as he eases you through it. ''That's it, baby. So good. So fucking good. You did so well for me.''

You're shaking while he helps you ride it out, only pulling his hand out of your shorts when you whine quietly in overstimulation, your chest heaving. His attention shifts to you immediately, cradling your face in his palm, brushing sweaty hair from your temple.

''You okay?''

''Yeah. Just…'' you swallow, blinking up at him, dazed. ''I think… I think that was my first real orgasm, Harry.''

He stills, his mouth curving into a slow smile. ''Yeah?'' he says, and he sounds so proud you could cry. ''That was your first?''

You nod again, cheeks hot. ''I thought I'd already had one, but it's never felt like that before. Not even close.''

He leans in to kiss you, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he's ever laid his hands on. ''Fuck, baby. Thank you for letting me be the first. That means more than you know.''

He rolls over and plops down on the mattress with a content sigh, one arm falling over his eyes. You rest your head on his heaving chest, heart still pounding, and his other arm instantly wraps around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

Your body feels weightless, boneless, like you've melted into the sheets completely. The air around you is warm and still, the silence only broken by Harry's pants beside you.

The hem of his hoodie is still bunched around your thighs, and you're vaguely aware of the dampness between your legs and the faint throb in your muscles. It doesn't hurt, it just lingers, like your body is still catching up to the memory of being touched.

Harry presses a kiss to your temple, then leans up on one elbow, brushing your hair back gently.

''Stay here,'' he whispers. ''Gonna get you some water and a towel to clean you up, alright? I'll be right back, promise.''

You nod, dazed. His voice is so soft. So safe.

A few minutes pass while he moves around the room. You hear the faucet turn on in the bathroom, the clink of a glass against porcelain, the shuffle of his feet across the floorboards.

Everything is ordinary. Normal.

But the longer you lie there, the tighter your chest becomes.

It starts slow. A little whisper in the back of your mind. You did that. You let someone do that to you. You gave it away. It's over.

Your thighs are still damp. You feel the stickiness on your skin and suddenly you can't breathe quite right. Your heartbeat starts to pick up. A sour kind of shame crawls up your throat, thick and hot, choking you before you can swallow it down.

You shift in the bed, curling your legs up to your chest. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, knuckles turning white from your grip.

It was good. He was kind. You wanted it. So why do you feel like this?

The door creaks open again. Harry enters quietly, carrying a glass of water and a warm washcloth. His eyes go to you first, always to you, and the second he sees how you're curled in on yourself, his face tightens, his brows furrowing.

''Hey,'' he calls out gently, setting everything on the nightstand. ''What's wrong?''

You try to speak but your throat closes up. The tears come suddenly, a choked sob leaving your chest. One moment your eyes are just stinging, the next they're spilling over, silent and hot, streaming down your cheeks faster than you can wipe them away.

Harry's at your side in an instant.

''Baby…'' He kneels beside the bed, cupping your face in both hands, eyes scanning yours like he's desperate to read your mind. ''Talk to me. Did I hurt you? Was I too rough?''

You shake your head, but your voice is caught in your chest.

''Do you… do you regret it?'' he asks, and you hear the break in his voice. ''Did I do something wrong?''

''No,'' you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracked. ''No, it's not you. You didn't, Harry. You didn't do anything wrong. You were perfect.''

His brows pinch together, eyes searching, lips parting like he wants to understand so badly, but can't. ''Then what is it? What's hurting you, love? Please talk to me. Tell me so I can fix it.''

You swallow hard, wiping your tears in silent frustration, your voice small and scared. ''I just feel… gross. I feel dirty. I don't know why. I wanted it, and I don't... I don't regret it, but now that it happened I...'' you hiccup a sob. ''I feel so fucking ashamed.''

The words are like acid in your mouth. Saying them aloud makes them more real.

Harry's eyes soften instantly, his whole body folding toward you. He takes a seat next to you on the bed, pulls you into his arms gently. ''Oh, baby,'' he breathes out, cradling you against his chest. ''I'm so sorry, love. I should've realized how you were feeling sooner.''

You press your face into his shoulder, fists curling in the fabric of his sweatpants. ''It's not your fault,'' you whisper. ''I promise. I just… it's me. Something's wrong with me.''

''Nothing's wrong with you,'' he says, kind, but firm. Definitive. ''Nothing. This is so much more common than you think, baby. Especially when it's your first time.''

''Really?'' you ask, timid.

He pulls back slightly to look at you. ''Yeah, love. You can want it, and it can feel amazing, and you can still feel overwhelmed after. It's okay to feel both things at the same time,'' he gives you a pained smile, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ''It's not because you did something bad. Not at all, baby. It's because we're taught to feel shame around sex. Especially women.''

You sniffle, the words loosening something in your chest.

''I just feel like I lost something,'' you say quietly, shame sinking into your bones. ''Something I can't get back. And I know I chose it. I don't regret it, I really don't, but it feels... sinful, almost. Like I should've saved it longer, or done it differently, or just… I don't know.''

Harry kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there. ''You didn't lose anything, darlin'. You shared something. With someone who loves being trusted by you. You didn't lose anything.''

Your eyes blur again at the softness in his voice. ''But it feels so wrong, and I know that doesn't make sense. You were gentle, and I wanted it, I loved it, and I still feel like I did something wrong.''

Harry wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you close like he can protect you from your own insecurities. ''It makes perfect sense,'' he says. ''You're not wrong for feeling this way. You're human. You're taught that virginity is something that gets taken from you. It's not. It's an experience you share, but nothing fundamental changes.''

You bury your face in his neck, your voice muffled. ''But why do I feel so small?''

''Because it was a big step,'' he says simply. ''Because it mattered. You've built this up in your head for so long, and maybe part of you started to think doing this would change you forever. But you're still the same person you were yesterday, baby.''

Your breath shudders and you collapse into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, and he just holds you, rocking you softly and murmuring sweet reassurances and praises into your hair.

Eventually, the tears ease. The ache in your chest dulls. You feel whole again, grounded. And you stay there, in his arms, breathing in the safety of his skin, until the world feels quiet again.

Harry kisses your hair and whispers, ''Wanna try that water now?''

You sniffle and nod, still tucked against him. ''Yeah. Thank you.''

He reaches for the glass and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours. You bring it up to your lips and gratefully take a few sips before handing it back to him with a shaky smile.

''You okay to stay here with me tonight?'' he asks as he puts the glass back on his nightstand.

You nod again, taking in a shuddering breath. ''Please.''

He helps you under the covers and slips in beside you. You curl into his chest and he strokes your hair like it's second nature. Like holding you is something he was made to do.

''I think I'm in love with you.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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teach me slowly series tag list

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...

[angelx]

Get Even - Chapter 4

word count: 2.2K

cw: frat prez!katsuki x fem art student!reader, mention of light consensual sexual exploration, loss of innocence (consensual), light power dynamics, angst, emotional manipulation, betrayal, deception revealed, verbal confrontation, emotional fallout, heartbreak, desperation, minor character being an accidental snitch

Three weeks. That’s how long it took.

He could’ve ended the game then—hand over the receipts, claim the win, drive off in his beloved Porsche with the smug satisfaction of victory. But Katsuki Bakugou wasn’t thinking about bets anymore. Not when you were sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, soft skin flushed and vulnerable beneath his calloused hands.

You were always there now. In his room, curled into his side. At his place, stealing clothes you’d never return. Even in the quiet hours while he worked on his mechanical engineering assignments, you were there—sitting cross-legged on his bed, scribbling ideas for your next art project, occasionally sketching him in your sketchbook when your mind wandered elsewhere. The same guy who cornered you at a frat party last month, with a cocky smirk now pressed a kiss to your cheek when you said goodnight, traced circles on your knee while driving, held your hand like it was his lifeline.

And he was always around now.

Studio drop-offs. Post-class pastry runs. Sitting beside you as you finished a charcoal draft while he cranked out engineering formulas, muttering to himself and reaching blindly for the drink you'd gotten him.

It wasn’t official. No one said it out loud. But you were his, and Katsuki didn’t correct anyone who looked at you that way.

He should've walked away. After all, he’d already "won"—in less than a month, no less. But every time he looked at you—really looked—that old smugness cracked, and something softer bled through.

Something guilty. Something real. But you didn’t know that yet.

What you did know was that your body didn’t feel like a stranger’s anymore. Not with the way Katsuki touched you, taught you. Whispered encouragements when you were shy about asking for more. He’d started slow, guiding you through your own pleasure like you were something sacred. He taught you everything.

But the more he gave you, the more you wanted. Craved. Demanded.

It started with soft kisses that turned filthy. With your fingers buried in his hair, your thighs trembling. He would whisper in your ear, telling you how good you were doing, how much he needed you.

Then you changed. bolder. Hungrier. Katsuki taught you everything. Patiently. Obsessively. How to arch your back and press your hips against his to feel just right. How to use your hands, slow and deliberate. How to kiss like a promise and moan like a prayer. How to open your mouth for him—eager, breathless, desperate.

And now? You whispered back, filthier. You learned how to tease him. Torment him. You bit his lip when he teased, you whispered filthy things in his ear that made his cock twitch under his jeans. You’d ride him slow and steady just to watch his composure crack. You’d rake your nails down his chest, then soothe it with kisses, grinning when he gritted his teeth and growled your name. You started talking him through it like he used to do to you—telling him how good he felt, how hard he made you come, how you’d never get enough of him.

One night, you edged him. Pushed him to the brink with your mouth and your hands and your voice, and stopped—just before he could fall. You looked up at him with those wide eyes, lashes wet, lips swollen, your tongue tracing the corner of your mouth like the fucking menace you were becoming. And Katsuki just stared down at you, jaw slack, chest heaving, one hand tangled in your hair like he didn’t know whether to pull you in or push you away before he lost his mind.

He’d created a monster—a pretty little succubus that lived to ruin him. And he was so okay with it.

“Fuck,” he gasped one night, sweat slick between your bodies. “You’re a fuckin’ succubus, y’know that?”

You giggled, all sugar and mischief, brushing your fingers down his abs, and Katsuki was gone. Under your spell. Addicted.

He should’ve stopped. Should’ve told you the truth. But how could he? You smiled at him like he built you a second sun. And maybe… maybe he wanted to be loved like that. Even if it was built on a lie.

The days blurred sweetly after that night.

It wasn’t love—no one dared to say it out loud—but whatever it was, it bled into everything. The way he kissed you like he needed it. The way you leaned into him like he was home. You were always near now, a fixture in his space and mind—wearing his hoodies, curling up on his lap while he worked on a thermodynamics worksheet he half-understood, sneaking bites of his snacks like you had the right.

He still hadn’t told you the truth.

And sometimes, when you smiled too wide or kissed him just because, that guilt threatened to crack open in his chest. But he stuffed it down. Kept pretending. Because pretending felt good. It felt real.

Then came the night of yet another Sigma Vex party.

You didn’t even argue this time. When he offered to pick you up, you said yes. When he threw his varsity jacket over your shoulders before walking into the frat house, you smiled at him so sweetly that his teeth could rot. And when the music thrummed through the walls and neon lights painted your skin, you didn’t leave his side once.

It was like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

You sat curled in his lap on one of the leather couches, your legs draped across his like it was the most natural thing. He had one arm slung over your waist, thumb stroking absent-minded circles into your hip. Your head leaned against his shoulder, warm and light and so real it made his breath catch.

He didn’t care that his brothers watched. Didn’t give a damn about their smirks or side-eyes. You were his. Whether it was fake, temporary, or tangled in lies—right now, it felt true.

You brushed your lips against his jaw. “Need another drink?”

He gave a lazy hum. “Only if you’re gettin’ one too.”

“I’ll be right back,” you teased, slipping off his lap with a soft smile, the weight of you leaving his legs like losing warmth.

And then you were gone—just for a minute. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d come back, sit in his lap again, maybe he'd sneak you into the upstairs bedroom later. That’s what he thought.

But the universe had other plans.

You slipped into the kitchen, fingers curling around two red cups. The music was duller here, muffled behind thick walls. The party felt far away. You poured the drinks without thinking, still smiling to yourself.

Then a presence stumbled up beside you, reeking of cheap tequila and sweat.

“Heyyyy, you're kinda hooot” the guy slurred, squinting. “You’re from the art department, right?”

You turned slightly, confused but polite. “Yeah?”

He blinked. His eyes lit up like he’d just solved a math problem with crayons. “Wait. Wait, wait—you’re that girl. From the last party! Holy shit.”

You froze.

He grinned like this was the funniest thing in the world. “Prez actually did it. I can’t fuckin’ believe it.”

You frowned, your stomach dipping. “...Did what?”

“Oh, y’know—the bet. Back when you ran outta the first party like your ass was on fire? He was gonna lose that fancy-ass Porsche if he didn’t hit it by midterms. But he did! He won! Got in there fast, too—less than a month!”

Your hands shook. Your mouth went dry. The words didn’t compute at first. They sat there, echoing, buzzing around your brain like static. But they didn’t make sense.

“What… bet?” you asked, the words catching in your throat.

Before he could dig the hole any deeper, Kaminari appeared in the doorway like a lifeline. “Oi! Kimura. Shut. Up.”

But Kimura didn’t notice the sharp edge in his tone. “What? I’m just sayin’—it’s crazy, right? Prez really went all in. Said he’d make her beg for it—”

The drink slipped from your hand and crashed to the floor. The silence was immediate.

Kimura blinked. You stood there, the world around you slipping sideways. Kaminari’s jaw was tight, his eyes full of panic, like someone just pulled the fire alarm and everyone else kept dancing.

“Oh, shit-” Kimura muttered. “I fucked up.”

Your vision blurred.

There was a bet. There was a bet. You were the punchline. The game.

And suddenly, every sweet thing he ever did, every kiss, every look, every whispered promise—it all felt like poison sinking into your skin.

He played you. He chose to. And worst of all—you had no idea how much of it had ever been real.

You didn’t mean to storm out like that. But your legs are already moving, fueled by instinct. By betrayal. By the cold slap of reality that hit you like a freight train in that fucking kitchen. The hallway blurs. Laughter and music fade behind you. The buzz of the party becomes background noise to the pounding of your heart.

And then—You pass the living room. He’s still there.

Katsuki sits on that stupid black leather couch like he owns the room, like he owns the night. But when his gaze catches yours—when he sees the fire in your eyes, the betrayal carved into every line of your face—his whole world tilts.

His body tenses. He knows. No, you knew.

And you don’t even stop. You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You just walk past him like he’s nothing—like he never meant anything. And that? That hits harder than any slap could’ve. You slam open the front door.

“Wait—!” his voice tears through the air like thunder.

Then footsteps. Fast. Heavy. You don’t even get two steps into the driveway before he catches up. A warm hand wraps around your wrist, desperate, trembling with panic.

“Baby, wait—let me explain—please—”

You stop. And then you snap. You whirl around, eyes blazing like wildfire, and rip your arm from his grip. The motion is sharp. Violent. Final.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice splits the night. He stares at you—shell-shocked. He’s never heard you yell like that. Never seen you this raw. This hurt. You’re trembling. Not from fear. From fury. From heartbreak. Your voice cracks but you don’t fall apart. You refuse to fall apart in front of him. Not him. Not now.

“You think you could play me?” you breathe, voice shaking as tears finally sting your eyes. “You think you could lie to my face, touch me however you want, make me feel things—only to laugh about it later with your frat brothers?”

He tries to speak—his mouth opens, closes again like he’s drowning. “No—no, that’s not—baby, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off. “Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that.”

"After everything... You did all of this for what? To get back at me for rejecting you once? What? Your shitty pride and reputation got the better of you?"

And then the tears start. Hot and slow, streaking your cheeks without permission. You’re not sobbing. You’re not even making a sound. You just look at him like he set fire to everything you’ve ever built.

Like you don’t recognize him anymore.

Like you wish you never met him.

“Was taking my virginity also part of your bet?” You asked him, but he couldn't give you an answer.

It was impossible for you to believe at this point. “Don’t fucking follow me,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse now. Wrecked. “Just… don’t.”

You turn. You leave. And this time, he doesn’t stop you. He stays there on the pavement, frozen, winded like you just punched him straight in the chest. Because watching you walk away like that—seeing the light go out in your eyes when you looked at him—hurts more than anything else ever has.

Later that night…

Katsuki sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, phone clenched in his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to this damn world. His thumb hovered over your contact—again.

Call Ended.Missed Call (30).

He tried again. Straight to voicemail.

“Fuck,” he whispered, dragging a hand through his hair, chest rising and falling with a panic that refused to quiet. He keeps on spamming your phone with messages you won't even see.

baby, pleaselet me explainplease answer my callsfuck, i'm sorry. i didn’t mean it like this please baby let me explain i didn’t mean for this to happenbaby, please answer the call

Delivered. Delivered. Delivered.

Your phone sat abandoned on your nightstand—screen facedown, volume turned off. You didn’t even glance at it.

You were curled up in bed, blanket pulled over your head like it could shield you from the ache in your chest. Your pillow was already wet with tears. Your fists were balled against your chest, throat raw from sobbing until your voice gave out.

You weren’t ignoring him. You were just too heartbroken to care.

And in that silence, Katsuki was left to sit alone in his room, fingers clenched around his phone, jaw tight, heart sinking lower with every minute you didn’t pick up.

You didn’t need to say a single word.

Your silence screamed louder than anything else ever could.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Part 5 is in the making! will be finished and posted as soon as possible!

Check the full series here: Get Even

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

EMERGENCY WRITING COMMISSION OPEN

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[thetrasha]

He Smells Like...

feat. ZORO, BROOK, LAW, ACE, SHANKS, MIHAWK, CROCODILE

ZORO

…agarwood/jinko/oud, patchouli and black amber.

MOOD: masculine, traditional and earthy

Zoro smells like a forgotten temple that has been taken over by nature. A structure so imposing that the vines running along its architectural design seem insignificant in comparison, but every cut into the finely cut stone tells a story, every blemish reminds the visitor of years of pain. Nonetheless, the temple is still here, having overcome every invasion.

Just like Zoro, who piles other people’s burdens onto his own… just to protect them. He offers security, and only accepts sincere gratitude as payment, nothing else. He cannot change the world, but he would die trying if it came down to it – for his beliefs, his friends… and for you. You care for that abandoned temple of his like a priestess would, never once thinking of leaving it be. Really, you… are his saviour. You wouldn't let him succumb to the elements.

BROOK

…tea leaves, rain and cashmere.

MOOD: unisex, nostalgic and deep

Most people would say that they find the smell of rain comforting, but most people would also much prefer a sunny day. The scent is a circumstance of life – or the absence of it, depending on who you might ask. Standing next to Brook, thus, reminds you of… simpler times, times where happiness was so palpable and so real, more easily within your grasp, when the pressure of life didn’t get to you yet. It doesn’t surprise you at all that he naturally mirrors his soul’s gloom despite having such a joyous and accessibly kind personality.

Brook is beyond glad that you were at peace with his being. He doesn’t quite believe you when you tell him that he doesn’t smell like death at all, but he’d take the compliment with a hearty chuckle. He trusts your judgement more than he trusts his own. Besides, how can he turn you down when you look at him like he's all you've ever dreamt of?

LAW

…books, common sage and lavender.

MOOD: unisex, herbaceous and comforting

Tranquil and calm with a sharp minty tang that vaguely reminds you of medicinal properties, that’s how you’d describe it. It’s so soothing that it might even make some people deliriously sleepy – but again, deeply refreshing. It’s also a bit of an ancient smell, fitting for his old soul that’s been through so much. For someone so disturbed by himself, you think it’s delightful what a calming effect he has on others. Always the voice of reason, always ready to utter a wise word…

So you nurture him when he’s had enough for the day, the week, the entire year. When the noise gets to be too much for him, you enter the room with a fresh cup of tea or coffee – just how he likes it – and talk to him about happier things, things that take his mind off of his demons. Now you’ll never miss that steady presence in your life, just like how he will never miss yours, for you have each other now.

ACE

…common jasmine, honeydew melon and smoke.

MOOD: feminine, light and delicate with musky undertones

A scent that reminiscent of heady spring nights that end up around a barely glimmering bonfire. A marking of new beginnings and scorched earth alike – Ace smells cheerful, innocent and floral with a hint of depth to it, like a secret that’s never been lifted, a cry nobody ever bore witness to… Well, until you came along. You always thought the smoke was the strongest note within that concoction and not just because he ate the Flame Flame Fruit, no, because… still waters, ironically, are very deep. At first, you didn’t detect that smoky musk at all, yet once he’s let you in, the smoke overpowered the lighter, more cheerful parts. He was an enigma worth exploring, worthy of being seen and being offered a shoulder to lean on. He’d never thought that crying in your arms would appease the flames within him, but… well, he didn’t think he’d ever love someone this truthfully either.

Every spring follows a dark winter.

SHANKS

…rum, cedarwood and raspberry.

MOOD: masculine, balsamic and playful

It’s a surprisingly grounding scent. He smells like an adventure and feels very warm and approachable because of it. How funny that Shanks – Shanks! – smells approachable when he’s prone to burying his problems and keeping his heart under lock and key. He’s so… so silly, so fun, so him, but he’s also quite the introspective thinker who craves harmony and everlasting peace. Very well aware of his legacy and the laid-back nature he projects to ease other people’s worries, he tries not to think about the missing arm, the loss of strength that came with it, the phantom pain, the… problems; he tries to forget that he’s almost lost an eye, and that it all amounted to nothing. The world is still rotten, evil still runs rampant… it makes him chuckle wistfully. You’re always there to catch him when the mood turns sombre, holding him close and telling this living legend that he’s done well, that you’re proud of him and that his sacrifices changed the world.

If he’s balsam for the soul, you’re his much needed anchor.

MIHAWK

…black lily, sandalwood and wine.

MOOD: feminine, mysterious and elegant

Very much a complex, sophisticated scent. Nothing ever seems like it is on its surface level, and you have to dig deep to perceive the base note, because Mihawk doesn’t let people in on his... life most of the time. He’s fleeting and evasive, rarely ever blossoming. He keeps people at an arm’s length, deeming most people a liability, or shooing them away because they'd just annoy him… but somehow, you stuck with him.

You’ve seen the good, the bad and the ugly, but let him keep his air of secrecy, never pried once. Your own independence kept you busy. He... appreciates it. Like a good red wine, his trust needs time to age properly. Once he’s decided to keep you, though, there’s no going back. The slow burn has erupted into an open fire and his loyalty is indeed forever. He’s your sword and shield, and you are his heart.

CROCODILE

…tobacco, leather and burnt amber.

MOOD: masculine, domineering and warm

Crocodile smells like he could take over any room, that deep aroma keeps dominating the senses. The spiciness of the tobacco has permanently seeped into his luxurious clothes, and every cigar lit between his fingers just adds to the sensation. It’s a rich scent that is truly inevitable, just like he is. His frame is imposing, his intimidating appearance undeniable and yet, and yet… there’s this warmth in there, something leathery, something raw. You often interpret it as anger – anger at the world, at himself, at friends and foes alike… it’s easy to stoke the flames, but you’ve come to realise that Crocodile has never once been unreasonable in his anger.

His dismissiveness would be almost impressive if it weren’t for his other side; possessive, domineering… irrational. For a man of his calibre, he sure seems to have a problem with you trying to sever your ties to him by finding a job with a better work and life balance... He claims that he cannot find anyone who could do your job, but you knew that that’s a horrible lie.

Neither of you acknowledge what's happening out of pride.

[neutron-stars-collision]

You know what would be nice? If Nicola solo stans got off their high horses and stopped treating indie productions like a lowly job, highlighting the fact that in their mind Luke has fucked up his career.

Because if that were the case, then half of actors/directors would be out of business.

[theblacklewinsky]

Note: it's been awhile. so many things in the vault. congestion's to me, you, and all the other wonderful 2025 graduates 🎓! May you succeed and reach all your goals ahead. Also, fuck ICE, & fuck Donald trump. I hope you enjoy <3

BUNNY & HER MAN. | AARON PIERRE.

Part Two.

Gentleman!Terry Richmond x Black! Female Reader.

Warnings: MDNI!! this story is 18+ with depictions but not limited to; sexual content ( oral sex (f receiving) fingering, water sports), extreme language (cursing, use of b-word and others.) slight daddy kink if you squint. Reader referred to affectionately as Bunny.

Summary: in which Terry is head over heels for his girl.

let's reconnect on the jet on the way to an island.

give you a second to get ready, then we right back in that action.

Grace Bay was beautiful.

Unless that's what Bunny heard. She hadn't been allowed to explore the island, or much less relax. It was well into the afternoon at this point, and the only thing Bunny had seen was the resort and the four lavish walls of their hotel room.

Terry hadn't laid off yet. Was it possible for a man to be this feral? To want you this bad? It was definitely possible for him.

A guttural moan slipped past Bunny's lips as Terry continued his assault on her pussy, fingers wedged inside of her wet walls, his own lips latched onto her clit in sloppy, slow sucks.

"Oh shit," she huffed, a small whine following after, her hands reaching out to firmly push against Terry's forehead, "stop, stop, stop..” she trailed a since of urgency in her tone. She was about to cum again, and she couldn't keep starting over. They'd be here all day fucking with Terry.

"Mm-mm," he hummed in defiance knowing fully she'd have a fit of he actually did stop, lips latching and unlatching onto her puffy clit, his fingers constantly curling up into her, he knew what he was doing, he knew what he was hitting. He pulled back, pulling his self up to his knees, he watched her expressions intently, that familiar frown setting upon her lips as her brows furrowed.

"You better fuckin' not," he muttered, voice flat, his eyes never leaving her face as he working his fingers inside of her in such a calculated way, curling them so often to continuously nudge against that spot he always seemed to find.

Bunny's breath seemed to come back to her in one big gasp, her chest heaving erratically as she tried to control her breathing once again, her hands blindly reaching out for some type of steadying or support.

Terry seemed undeterred by that, his own brows furrowing as he looked down at the juices he was pulling out of her, fingers soaked, a small puddle forming in his palm. The sounds of her juices clashing around his fingers seemed to overpower her uneven breathing and whimpers of overstimulation.

If he thought she was thinking before, he had to know her mind was empty by now.

"Pretty pussy wettin' me the fuck up," he hummed, eyes staring intently at her pussy in adoration, slipping his fingers out of her and landing three soft slaps to her sensitive core. Her body slightly jerking as he leaned down to softly kiss her lips. His lips traveling to her chin, "you did so good for me, pretty girl."

Bunny nodded in response, her low eyes, empty mind and slightly trembling figure didn't allow her to form words. Heavily sighing in response to the heated kisses he had trailing down her neck. "Buy you anything you want. Spoil you," he stated, voice muffled against her soft skin. He smirked hearing the small moan in response. If it was one way through Bunny's bratty heart, it was gifts.

"You want that, yeah?" He hummed against her neck, not allowing her time to respond before he drew himself back, both of his calluses hands gripping her calf's and roughly flipping her onto her stomach, a short burst of excitement and adrenaline coursing through her, going right to her pussy. It was so hard being a slut.

Her continued silence made him furrow his brows in mock confusion, his hands gripping either side of her hips and pulling her ass up to meet his pelvis, landing a sharp slap to her ass he prompted a light gasp from her.

"You hear me talkin' to you, bitch," he mumbled, "open yo' mouth."

"Can't," Bunny whimpered her face pressed against the white sheeting of the bed. Her eyes nearly closed, lips parted, and she could feel the roots of her knotless braids puffing.

And if nothing else hadn't inflated Terry's already swelling ego, that sure did. He loved that he could have her mind numb before he even penetrated her, his foreplay was a force to be reckoned with. It was even better that he knew how Bunny liked to be treated, she was a bratty princess anywhere else except when it came down to the bedroom. She liked to be fucked. Manhandled, degradation there for her was a slight heaven. And he understood that completely.

He hadn't responded to her claim, instead, his eyes staring into both of the pretty holes he admired so much as he spread her apart. The ache in his own boxers becoming too much to handle. Like always around her.

He used one hand to free the tent in his pants, his pointer and middle finger trailing lazily up and down her clit, sending little shivers through you, before slowly slipping them inside of her again, gathering whatever else he could get from her, "fuck," he uttered, watching his glossy fingers as he slowly retrieved them from her. He wasted no time in using that, to stroke into his member. He was so nasty.

The resembling moan the both of them shared once he had finally bottomed out into her, was in perfect harmony. If Bunny felt anything in this moment, it was completely full. Terry's hand gripping the fleshy skin around her hips as he worked his dick in and out of her, the slight burn from the stretch she felt perfectly complimented the overwhelming amount of pleasure she'd been experiencing since they'd touched down on the island. His other hand had a vice grip on the braids, wrapped securely around his hand, her head tilted back just so he could watch her intoxicating expressions.

The short gasps, and constant labored breathing brought nothing but a smile to Terry's face, able to see all of her overwhelming facial expressions as he filled her to the brim. Her broken moans and whimpers introduced the deep chuckle that fell from his lips.

"Oouu, fuck!" Bunny bellowed, her hands fisting the heavy comforter underneath them for stability as he drilled into her, the leverage he had on her hair and hips giving him just enough ammunition to thrust in her the way he did. Hard, deep. Everything was just so much. "Just like that, daddy!" She slurred through a series of lewd moans.

"Yeah? Like that?" Terry hummed in response, biting down on his lip at the sight of her withering right before him. It was some of his favorite shit to see, her falling apart had to be number one. He dropped both of his hands from their previous positions just to spread her open, spitting down onto that second winking hole he loved so much, his strokes undeterred as he used his thumb to rub it in lightly poking at it until he was able to slowly push it in. "You such a fuckin' slut. Look at you, been gettin' fucked all day just cause you don't know how to listen," he breathlessly mumbled in between a series of groans and moans.

The way Bunny fit around him was perfect, each time it was the most snug fit. So perfect that the reservations they had at that high-scale restaurant on the island went completely to waste.

[n4gin4gi]

SWEET LIKE CANDY!

contents; yuuji itadori x male reader, gentle sex, reader and yuuji are virgins, reader and yuuji are both of age.

rinuu says; waaahhh im so sad abt my other acc . . idk what i did to have it goneeee :( all my moots are gone :(

“yuuji…” your voice was the softest whisper, hair splayed out on the pillow of yuuji’s bed, calling out to your boyfriend within the depths of your heart. yuuji’s fingers, calloused yet soft, slick with lube, pressed to your hole and slipped past. he kept his fingers still, keeping his eyes on any sign of discomfort, and once he deduced there was none, slowly pushing deeper to feel the innermost parts of you.

yuuji let out a soft curse under his breath when you let out the prettiest moans he’d ever heard from you. he wanted nothing more than to kiss you and swallow them down and feel your pleasure as if it were his own. and that he did. yuuji pressed his lips—chapped and dry from how nervous he was—to yours. he took note of every throaty whimper, every twitch of your leaking cock, everything. he wanted to make his first time, your first time, as special as it could be.

his fingers slowly pumped out of your lube slicked hole, pressing and prodding your soft gummy-like walls, and you couldn’t think of anything you wanted more. you arched your back, leaning your hips against his fingers just to feel the pressure yuuji put on you. your bodies were slick with sweat built up from the heat, the pleasure, the need and lust to explore each other’s bodies until there was nothing more to explore. so this is what love truly was?

yuuji’s fingers— slightly pruned and glistening—pulled out of your heat and you were left with a burning sensation. your hole was just beginning to get used to the sensation of being full with something, and now that it was gone, it was begging for it to return. you called out yuuji’s name once more, met with the sound of a wrapper crinkling. you glanced to your boyfriend—a condom packet was held in his hand as he pulled the rubber out of the silver packet.

a bashful grin dusted accompanied with pink blush painted yuuji’s face. “gotta be safe, y’know. cant have you pregnant.” he joked, pulling down his sweatpants to roll the condom on his cock. you’ve seen yuuji’s dick before (by complete accident. he was changing, you walked in without knocking), so it wasnt that big of a shock, but now that it was… closer, you couldn’t help but take in the details of it all. yuuji was a little above average, soft pink tip, girthy. nothing that you hadn’t seen in porn, yet it was special, because, well, it belonged to the your one and only yuuji itadori.

“you ready?” yuuji kissed your forehead, slowly pushing in. the pressure was intoxicating, suffocating you in the most delicious way.

you couldn’t get enough, and you wanted so much more.

[pegasus-omega]

Picture source: @jocks--in--socks

Anonymous requested story via DM

Jackson found his new neighbor Trey extremely attractive. He would sneak a peek every time he saw him go out for his morning run. The prevailing thought in his mind was that he was so jealous of the socks he wore. The thought of absorbing all his sweat while he wore him gave him a hard-on each time. The thought of surrounding Trey's feet for hours haunted his mind like an agonizing thought that could not become reality. He so wanted to experience being his socks.

Jackson one day decided to stop dreaming and make it a reality. He downloaded the TF Pro Max app onto his phone. He went over to his neighbor's house and knocked on the door.

Trey came and opened his front door. "Oh, hey Jackson, what's up." He asked. He always thought his next-door neighbor was so nice and friendly.

"Nothing much, I just wanted to ask you something. Is it alright if I came in to ask you?" Jackson asked him. He was happy when Trey said yes.

Trey led him to his den. "What you wanted to ask me?" He was curious.

"Well, you see I have had this fantasy of being a pair of socks on your feet for a while now. I know that sounds strange, but I, really do want to." Jackson paused as he showed him the app on his phone. "With this, you can change me into your socks. I would be grateful if you do me that favor." He finished, waiting on his response.

Trey saw it as a rather strange request. He had never had anyone asking to, literally be his socks. Yet, to show the proof that it can be done was also bold enough. He thought himself a nice guy. There was no way he could turn his neighbor into a pair of socks and wear him on purpose. "I don't know if I could do that to you. My feet can get sweaty, really bad. Also, most of my shoes have a strong odor. Being a pair of socks might not be as enticing as you think. Just being honest." He tried to dissuade his neighbor from the notion.

"I still want that, please. I want to know what it feels like to be wrapped around your feet. I won't mind the sweat or foot odor, I promise." Jackson pleaded his request.

"You sure you, really do want this?" Trey paused. "If you were my socks, I would have to walk on you. It might not be as enjoyable." He continued to try and dissuade him again.

"Please! Please! Do this for me." Jackson pleaded even harder than before. He wasn't accepting no for an answer.

Trey saw that his neighbor wasn't changing his mind one bit. "Okay, but only for a little while. If I don't feel right about it, I am changing you back. Agreed?"

"Yes and thank you." Jackson handed the phone over to Trey.

Trey explored the app, getting used to how to navigate it. He then turned the phone camera at Jackson. "You asked for this, so don't complain about it." He hit the flash option. Jackson was instantly reduced to a pair of light grey socks on the floor. He picked them up. It was strange seeing a human being, literally turned into socks right before his eyes. He tried them on his feet. He saw the level of comfort was different from normal socks. They felt good on his feet. He didn't know whether it was because of the human factor or something else. He decided he would wear his neighbor for a little while at least.

Jackson was in heaven. It was just like he had imagined. He was tasting every inch of his neighbor's feet. He could smell with such intensity. Having his dream become reality was so perfect. He loved being wrapped around his godly feet. He wanted nothing more than this in his life.

TWO WEEKS LATER.....

Trey sat on his floor in just a t-shirt, underwear, and his favorite pair of socks. His former neighbor had been the best pair of socks he owned. They were so comfortable and durable at the same time. He no longer felt guilty for wearing him so much. If Jackson wanted to be his socks, he was fulfilling his dream. There was no harm in that. He honestly didn't know if he wanted to turn back to human again since socks can't speak or move. That choice was in his hands. It was also an easy choice. Jackson was the best pair of socks ever, and there was no way he was changing him back whatsoever.

Jackson loved his owner and master even more than when he was first changed into his socks. It was the greatest pleasure to support his feet and weight despite the pain he had to endure with each step. As for the foot sweat and odor, that was the best part in his opinion. He loved smelling like his owner's feet day in and day out. He didn't even miss his human life. As far as he was concerned, he was where he needed to be, wrapped around Master Trey's feet.

[michanvalentine]

Astarion’s quotes that make my heart race!

Ok, maybe you’d expect something extremely romantic—but that’s not quite it. Or at least, not just that. There are moments when this vampire spawn truly drives me crazy—and not in a sexy way. Let’s just say that part is the cherry on top! But let’s not waste any more time…

"You deserve something real. I want us to become something real." Can we talk about this? This is the very first time Astarion truly opens up. Willingly. Officially. Even at the risk of being kicked out of the group, even at the risk of being told to fuck off—because yes, everything he did before was purely out of self-preservation. He used Tav/Durge and paid for the favor with his own body. And yet, he takes a risk. He puts everything on the line—even the very mechanisms that have protected him for centuries, allowing him to keep going without stopping, without thinking, without letting himself get emotionally involved. Because if he hadn’t dissociated, it would have hurt too much. But this time? He’s done pretending. This time, he really wants to try. He wants to take a chance—for the one person who managed to crack through his armor, who lowered his defenses. He wants to be real and experience something real, for the first time in over 200 years—with everything that comes with it. For someone who has always worn a mask, this is a massive, deeply important concept. Especially because, as I said, this confession goes against everything he’s ever believed—about love, about sex, about relationships. It goes beyond control. Beyond using emotions and feelings as weapons. Beyond self-preservation, which is what pushed him to act like a piece of shit so many times throughout Act 1. Here, Astarion takes a step away from selfishness and toward altruism—toward the other, beyond himself—and spits out the truth. He shows himself, stripped bare and flawed, and braces for the consequences. He takes responsibility for what he’s done. He makes himself vulnerable. And that’s an even more powerful, meaningful act when you remember just how hard that is for someone like him—someone who’s made fear his primary driving force for so long.

“This is a gift, you know. Thank you. I won’t forget it.” What can I say? It begins in Act One and ends at the conclusion of the Pale Elf’s quest in the “good” ending. The callback is incredibly powerful—revisiting the concept of the gift shows just how much he’s grown, how he’s come to genuinely appreciate what is offered to him. Even when it’s not what he expected, or what he claimed to desire. And in this case, we’re talking about trust. He is grateful for the trust he’s been given. Just like in the bite scene, where those words are first spoken. Trust in him as a person, not a monster. Trust in his qualities—the ones lying beneath the bitter, hardened, sarcastic façade. Trust in his potential. In the depth of his soul, where something much more profound is hidden. Something more delicate and vulnerable, too. And trust—or rather, certainty—that all of this has immense value and is worth nurturing. And for this, for the opportunity he’s given to finally explore that side of himself in his future, he is grateful. He considers it a gift. And that’s something that quite literally melts me.

“I did it. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” I’ve never experienced it in my playthroughs—I always freed the vampire spawn. Except for one time when I damned them, lol. But here, you can clearly see Astarion's growth and sensitivity. Not only that, but it also emerges in a context that doesn’t involve Tav/Durge, the safe harbor who has accompanied him on his journey so far. Instead, it involves the Gur tribe, with whom Astarion has a history that’s nothing short of turbulent: the law enacted against them, his own death, the kidnapping of the children. All violent and terrible events that left a mark on him—marked by hatred, anger, and shame. In this scene, there’s everything: forgiveness, reconciliation, redemption, leaving the past behind, and facing the future with a stronger, more determined spirit. Here, Astarion opens his mind and heart to someone he once despised, hated, and hurt. He acknowledges and embraces their pain, grief, even their resentment, and does so with compassion and newfound maturity. What else can I say but that I’m so proud of this mischievous little bastard?

“Even I deserve something better.” This is a moment I absolutely adore. I never cheated on Astarion with Mizora—just to be clear—I’ve only watched the cutscenes on YouTube. The she-devil just doesn’t do it for me, unfortunately for her. Lol. If I have to throw myself at someone with horns, I’d much rather pick Wyll or Karlach! <3 But back to why this scene makes my heart race… This is where you can see all of Astarion’s growth. All of it. This isn’t about jealousy—he makes that clear right away. We know very well that the spawn isn’t against open relationships; he’s even open to including Halsin in the mix. This is about betraying the trust of your partner—something he’s only just begun to claim for himself. To trust someone, and in turn, to be worthy of their trust. It’s a deep and incredibly important concept. If Tav/Durge attacks him with the idea that he would’ve been the first to jump into such situations and betray others, Astarion quickly replies that maybe, once, yes, he would have. But things change. People change. Another powerful concept. And the most beautiful part of all this is when spawn Astarion chooses to leave Tav/Durge, because he finally has enough self-respect and strength not only to keep going on his own, but to fight for himself. To say “No, thank you.” He’s no longer willing to settle, to bend, to swallow the bitter pill—even if that means parting from the person he loves more than anyone else in the world. Because yes, damn it, he deserves something better than that! And because, in that moment—just as he himself says—Tav represents everything he’s trying to escape from in order to become better: someone who only thinks about themselves, without caring about the consequences or who gets hurt along the way. Simply beautiful. Especially when compared to the tragic words of Ascended Astarion, who—when Tav/Durge suggests they had a bad night and regret it—responds by telling them not to dwell on it and to just focus on the next conquest. He doesn’t face anything. He runs. And deludes himself that next time, it’ll be better.

“You. I want you.” Okay, this is where my heart just can’t take it. Awwww. I mean—finally, after everything we’ve been through in the game, after all those times we’ve asked him “What do you want?” and all the times he wasn’t able to answer… At last, Astarion gives voice to his own desires and replies: “You.” Not power. Not control. The relationship. That deep connection with another person, without any more doubts, masks, roles (master, slave, vampire, human), or ulterior motives. Pure and simple, from one soul to another. It’s a conscious and free choice. From someone who, not that long ago, couldn’t even put a name to what he had with Tav/Durge—“What are we, to you?” “I don’t know. But isn’t it nice not knowing?”—I think he’s now fully realized how warm, comforting, and fulfilling it is to know. To be able to give a name to what binds him to another. And the “I love you” that follows not only warms our hearts—it shows us just how far this small, desperate vampire spawn has come. He’s achieved the unthinkable: reclaiming his shattered identity, freeing himself from the curse of vampirism—not physically, but spiritually—and rediscovering his right to be, to choose, to express himself, and to feel something real. But most of all, he’s found the ability to recognize it and name it, without fearing the consequences anymore.

I think there are more, but I’ll stop here for now. Every single line from Astarion deserves to be analyzed, if you ask me! I have a feeling my next list will be about the Astarion quotes that piss me off. Lol

[awionetka]

❝ 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐨 ❞ ft. 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛

with loyalty unmeasurable, strength unheard of and restraint hanging by the thinnest of threads, Sir Caleb falls victim to the simplest curse in the world – the forbidden fruit.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫: fluff, suggestive (they want each other so bad it's making them look stupid). knight!Caleb x princess!reader. forbidden love. for the sake of the plot, Caleb is around ten years older than reader (who is, naturally, of age).

𝐜𝐰: mentions of weapons. flirting upon flirting with a sprinkle of some veiled seduction. all is fair in love and war.

𝐰𝐜: 3.1k

He seemed to be there always, lingering on the sidelines, observing from afar as you lived through what was meant for people like you.

When you lost your way in the garden maze outside the castle back when you were fourteen, he calmly guided you out of it, kindly allowing your hand to wrap around his forearm, knowing just how anxious you must’ve been. Or when you decided to begin riding horseback, it was him who followed you during your forest explorations, trailing behind at a respectable distance, not daring to invade your privacy. Even at the royal balls, oftentimes held in your honour, where you danced and drank freely, enjoying the good-natured fun – probably somewhere near the spiral staircase, body still clad in a full set of meticulously polished armour, with one hand placed firmly on the hilt of his sword. Silent. Solemn. Unreachable.

Yet still, always, always there.

Some would find that rather unnerving, how wherever you went, he followed, however for you Sir Caleb had always been a comforting presence. It was worth pointing out though that he was never appointed to you, not directly. He simply served under the King – your father – who treasured his sole daughter dearly, caring for you so wholeheartedly, you knew that you could ask him for anything in the whole wide world and he'd give it to you, no questions asked.

Anything except for one, gravely important matter – to marry.

In your father's eyes there hadn't yet been a candidate suitable for you – wise, doting, loyal, brave. The king believed you to possess all these qualities in magnitude and so many more, so why would he willingly give you away to those who had barely enough wit to make it to your Kingdom without falling off their horse? Such a thing could not be, not as long as your father was still alive and breathing.

Therefore, forbidden from any kind of adoration which could had been thrown your way, you spent your time with the ladies-in-waiting, practicing swordsmanship, playing with your most beloved puppy dog and, what had quickly become your absolute favourite, constantly bothering Sir Caleb with your presence.

"Will you be there at tonight's great ball, Sir Caleb?" you drawled, fidgeting with one of the arrows you'd pulled out from his quiver. "Truly be there, I mean. Not just standing menacingly in the shadows."

You'd managed to catch him during shooting practice at the training grounds near the pond and refused to let the chance slip. It was midday, the sun was partly covered by the most lovely of clouds and Sir Caleb's shirt was drenched in sweat, clinging onto his arm muscles with every precise move.

"I will be wherever I'm needed, Your Highness," he replied evasively, making you roll your eyes.

"Isn't all that just a fancy way of saying no?"

The knight didn't respond this time, focusing on his aim instead. Not like he needed much concentration anyway, you noticed. So far, each and every arrow hit the exact spot he intended it to hit. Truth be told, you preferred to observe him during hand-to-hand combat, as that seemed far more intriguing. Naturally, the fact that it usually made him much more worked up than archery had little to do with your preferences.

"What if I say I need you, then?" you said coyly, enjoying the falter in Sir Caleb's step as your bold words reached his ears. "Would you come then, Sir Caleb? I've been aching for a dance."

Hiding his fluster behind a dry cough, the knight resumed the practice, aiming for yet another target you could barely make out in the distance.

"I am more than sure that there will be many respectable gentlemen willing to dance with Your Highness this fine night."

You sighed ostentatiously, hopping off the ledge you'd been sitting on. "That I've heard, I admit..."

He just hummed, effectively avoiding your gaze as you made your way to where he stood, taut as the bowstring in between his fingers. The heat radiating off his body was palpable, even from a step away, and you couldn't help but wonder how Sir Caleb's skin would feel underneath your palms, bare and lifeful.

"But I." Tiptoeing, you leaned in, locking eyes on his current target with a wicked grin. "I wish to dance with you.

Walking away, not without a certain sway in your step, you noticed with unconcealed delight that his next shot was the first one you saw Sir Caleb miss.

Caleb was an honourable man.

At least he believed himself to be; patient and unyielding, reliable in both strength and sharp wit. He trained daily, cultivating skills of all sorts possible, raging from those used in combat to those needed elsewhere, spending hours upon hours reading and studying all that he'd deemed necessary. Caleb's social competency, conversational skill and gentlemanlike manners could be described only as perfectly immaculate, earning him a reputation of a dependable and fairly pleasant knight to His Majesty.

And yet, all those admirable qualities, accompanied by years of rigorous training and schooling could be diminished in less than a mere second, reducing Caleb to a man led by desires so carnal, he could barely acknowledge them without exiling his own damn self from the face of the Earth. For as soon as this Kingdom's most beloved princess stepped into the room, step light and playful, an epitome of joy, all he could think about was how it would feel to press you against the nearest wall and hike up your marvellous gown while confessing the most horrid, absolutely vile things right into your ear and watching as you squirmed in his grasp.

Oftentimes, he'd wonder, lose himself in all of the abominable daydreams which gnawed at his very soul each and every time you passed by, your aura enveloping him entirely, until there was no part of him that didn't belong to his delectable, brilliant princess. You were always so pristine, so impeccable. Even during combat practice, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, hair tied back revealing the lovely shape of your face, you looked positively magnificent, just as much (if not more) as caught mid twirl in the middle of the ballroom, all dolled up and giddy from excitement.

Caleb was an honourable man. However tonight, his restraint was beginning to run thin, your coy request (or demand? an order...?) from earlier echoing around his head as he grabbed another glass of wine from the table next to him.

Usually, he didn't drink much, if anything at all. Knighthood required him to stay as vigilant as one could humanly be, therefore alcohol was mostly off the table for Caleb, even during such grandiose events as this one. His mind stayed sharp always, observing the surroundings, so the others, so you, wouldn't have to. It was his duty, after all, and Caleb held great pride in knowing he could be relied on in such a way.

However tonight, he was in desperate need of some liquid courage, if he was truly to ask you for a dance. Especially tonight, when you looked just so ravishing, his eyes could barely steer off your silhouette to maintain at least some semblance of composure. And, the worst of it all, if he were to guess, he'd say that you knew of it all already.

Of course you knew. How could you not? With a mere gesture, a flicker of your finger and a promise of a smile, you could have Caleb as you wished, heart ripped out of his chest solely for your amusement. He'd kneel at your feet, go completely silent for years or speak exclusively in poetry, steal for you, lie for you, kill and die, if it only meant keeping you content. The rest was of no importance to him when you weren't present to witness or benefit from it.

And amongst these benefits, unluckily for Caleb, was a few minute waltz you wished to experience with him out of all people gathered that night in the royal ballroom. However, whatever his princess demanded, she would receive, so he uttered a brief prayer and made his way to where you stood, joking halfheartedly with your ladies-in-waiting.

"Your Highness." The cheerful chatter dimmed in an instant when he approached, bowing with precise deliberation. "If I'm allowed to be this bold, may I be granted the pleasure of a dance in Your Highness's company?"

One of the women squealed excitedly, tugging at the sleeve of your exquisite gown, as you pretended to consider his offer with an undoubtedly mischievous glint in your eye.

"Mmm, very well, Sir Caleb." Your gloved hand reached forward in a wordless invitation. "You may."

Caleb had touched you before, briefly, yes, and never in such a direct manner, but he considered himself no stranger to the weight of your palm in his. He'd aid you while exiting a carriage or help you hop on your mare of choice, skin burning underneath all the layers of cloth and leather, just aching to breach the barriers and graze your flesh.

However nothing in this world could have prepared Caleb for such a prolonged and intimate contact with the sanctum of your body, arms aligned with his own and fingers mingling as the two of you glided across the floor. He'd foolishly believed that he'd be able to endure it, this delectable torture of your proximity, but his godlike restraint had already begun to wear thin, with every step and move.

"Is my dress to your liking, Sir Caleb?" Batting your eyelashes, you smiled sweetly, clearly basking in his utter embarrassment.

Keeping his gaze as far away from your figure as possible, he attempted to swallow the growing lump in his throat. "I fear… Uhm, I fear I do not know enough to be a judge of Your Highness’s choice of garment this night."

Even with his head turned, Caleb could sense your smile grow, causing a grin of his own to flourish unwittingly.

"Well then, I suppose we’re lucky that beauty is subjective after all, no?" Your hand squeezed his a bit tighter as you toyed with him, seemingly enjoying his internal torment. "You do not need to be a seamster to have a taste in gowns. So? What would it be?"

If he were to be truthful in that moment, he'd say that he couldn't care less about the damned dress, for you'd look just as lovely without it, stripped of all the flimsy ribbons and tulle, basking in the moonlight like a nymph.

However those who love are tricksters and deceivers by nature, so he only bit back his reply and said something insignificant instead, still, somehow, managing to make you chuckle. Caleb's heart stuttered painfully in his chest at the sound, so bright and carefree, just as you were. It was then that he'd begun to truly enjoy the dance, anchoring himself in the moment and savouring these few minutes of being the one you held in your arms. And perhaps... he could get used to this after all, the feeling of your hand in his, the occasional witty comment and feisty look you'd cast his way.

Caleb knew well that he should not, by any means, allow himself to drag you down to his level, for you were so much more than he could ever possibly become, even at such a young age. But then you grabbed his arm a little rougher, squeezing in between the guests and leading Caleb somewhere far, far away from all the festivities which were taking place. Still giggling at something he'd said, something he couldn't even properly remember, and oh, so charming and full of life and whimsy, he was beginning to feel lightheaded just by looking at you.

How could he ever refuse you...?

"I am so glad you finally asked me for a dance tonight, Sir Caleb!" Clasping your hands together, you sat on the intricate wooden bench underneath one of the windows overlooking the gardens. "I must admit, I did not expect you to do so."

Encouraged by a simple nod from you, he moved closer, feeling the evening breeze on all the exposed bits of his skin.

"I go where I'm needed, Your Highness," he replied curtly, observing as you stretched out your exhausted limbs in a manner quite similar to a particularly lazy feline.

"Quite lovely, however I must say untrue," you drawled, gazing his way unapologetically.

Caleb's brows furrowed. "How so...?"

"Oh, well..." Placing your chin on your hand, you looked the knight up and down. "It is just that I need you, often, and yet... you fail to come to me, after all. Do you not hear me calling out to you, Sir Caleb?"

It was as though a dagger laced with the deadliest of poisons was held at his throat, just waiting for yet another foolish decision he would inevitably make. Backed into a corner, a delectable one, no doubt, yet a corner nonetheless. Caleb's body trembled with the sheer strength it took him not to lunge forward, falling right at your feet just to beg for forgiveness for what he was about to do to his princess.

"Come, now." Your voice was quiet, barely audible, and so entrancing he didn't even notice he began to move before he was already situated by your side like some dog.

He gulped, looking up at you from where he sat on the stone cold floor, ceremonial cape long forgotten somewhere down the corridor, hands shaking fervently at his sides.

"This… Your Highness, this is highly improper. If anyone were to see Your Highness with me, in such a compromising position–" His voice failed him then and he had to force himself to come back to his senses. "I’d be executed on the spot for tarnishing Your Highness’s innocence."

"Is that what you fear then?" you scoffed, rolling your eyes at his explanations. "Death?"

The way you looked at him then, brows furrowed and lips quivering with disappointment, forced him to reply without further thought, closing the distance growing between you at once.

"No," he uttered, fingers wrapping around the hem of your gown. "No, never. Not if it could prove to be of any use to Your Highness."

"And yet you hesitate still. You wish to look however that is precisely where your advances end!"

Before Caleb could process what you had just told him, he recoiled, as though burned, much like a kid caught misbehaving.

"Truly?" you laughed then, brief and mocking, sounding eerily akin to pity. "You cannot be possibly surprised that I’ve taken notice of your wandering gaze, Sir Caleb. You are not the only one who can observe."

"Your Highness, I–"

You leaned towards him, tugging at your skirt in frustration. "Who do you think I do all this for? Allowing them to dress me up like some doll! All those corsets and petticoats, sleeves so long they dip in wine and peacock feathers stuck in my hair, all of it in hopes of you granting me a single comment! And yet, you do not care at all!"

"Princess…" He reached forward, allowing his hand to ghost somewhere next to your cheek in the faintest of attempts to console you. "If you knew the extent of my care, the amount of thoughts that plague my mind each day, hour and minute, you would tremble. For they’re all of you, for you, each and every one, from the sweetest and gentlest to the most shameful, deprived desires you could possibly think of. You’re haunting my very soul, day and night, even when you’re not present. I dream of you, irrevocably, with such burning passion I can barely hold it in. You have consumed my whole life, for it has no meaning if it’s of no use to you. I beg of you, my heart, my all, allow me to keep lingering, to devote my entire being to you, do as you please, I do not care. There is no other meaning of my miserable existence than being of service to you, surely… Surely you must know that. Till the end of time itself, I will adore you with all my might, as long as you let me."

In his whole life, he had never witnessed you at a loss of words. His most beloved princess had a proper response to everything, trivial or crucial, it mattered not. Your wit was outstanding, mind nimble and admirable.

And yet, in that moment, with his fervent, pitiful confession, Caleb had rendered you absolutely speechless.

In the utter silence that enveloped the dim corridor, he could hear you swallow thickly.

"Is this…" Your voice was trembling faintly. "Are you being truthful?"

He nodded solemnly. "Wouldn’t dare to lie to Your Highness."

"Show me then."

It was Caleb's turn to be taken aback at the extent of your boldness.

"Your Highness…?"

Grabbing the front of his shirt, satin gloves tickling at his bare chest underneath, you leaned in, eyes pleading and ardent.

"You say you live to be of service." Caleb swore he caught you sneaking a glance at his parted lips. "Grant me a kiss then, my dear knight. Let us test the depths of your devotion. I wish to feel those thoughts you speak of."

He opened his mouth yet again, however no word dared to come out, only huffs of air and desperation.

You angled your head, nose grazing his in the sultriest of ways.

"A kiss," you whispered. "Don’t be gentle. No use for courtesy anymore, not when my body craves yours so. Even... even princesses have deprived thoughts."

Honourable men showed restraint. They never faltered in their duties and beliefs, serving loyally under those they had once swore to aid and protect. Their needs came last, always, as they were of no real use to anyone else other than themselves and to desire was to be filthy.

Caleb knew that, all of it, remnants of his oath echoing around his head each and every time you looked at him as though it physically pained you to stay away. Yet it appeared to be of no importance in the very end, for he fell for it, entirely, and no matter what the final outcome would be, he'd still do it all over again if it only meant keeping his princess thoroughly satisfied.

Perhaps Caleb had never been an honourable man.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn't need one in the first place.

Allowing his hands to sneak around your waist in a makeshift promise, he basked in the feeling of your body trembling underneath his touch.

"Let us see if our thoughts are a match, then." His breath enveloped you whole as he spoke, eyes locked firmly on yours. "Your Highness."

[hamilton-here]

Heyyyy ! how are you doing? Feeling better? I hope the move went well. 🥺

I know your orders are closed, but I had to ask you before I forgot, lol

Please don't rush or feel obligated to write anything yet 🙏🏻 Get yourself together first, take your time, and feel better. ❤️‍🩹

I was wondering if you could write a story about what Lewis and the reader's first time together would be like. Something like they've just officially started dating and are starting to experiment and discover what they each like in sex, and Lewis unknowingly hurts her.😅 I honestly feel that Lewis is too (too😮‍💨) experienced a man🤭😂. And for that reason he gets a bit carried away.

If you don't feel comfortable going into sexual detail, that's fine, no problem. It's more how Lewis makes the reader feel, always thinking only of her well being and fulfilling what she likes.

Thank you in advance and I hope you make a full recovery very soon. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Thank you so much for all the kindness. I’m still sick somehow (it’s been rough), but the move went well. Don’t worry at all about sending this request in, I’ve been working on something else but I was more than happy to do this. This is my first ever smut hopefully it’s okay! Lots of love, xx

Summary: A tender, emotionally charged exploration of intimacy and trust unfolds between you and Lewis.

Warnings: sexual content, swearing

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The rain doesn’t just fall it cascades, a silver veil wrapping the city in a liquid hush. From this rooftop vantage, the storm feels alive, each drop a whispered secret against the sharp edges of vents and antennae.

You watch the slick pavement below glisten, neon signs blurring into long, trembling streaks of electric colour. Somewhere beneath this watery curtain, the city breathes: engines roar, muffled cheers rise, but up here, the sound is a distant pulse, a muted heartbeat beneath the storm’s symphony.

Inside the suite, a sanctuary from the storm, the glow is soft and golden. A single amber lamp casts a pool of warmth, spilling honeyed light across the deep grey sofa you sink into. The walls, glass and steel, reflect the lightning’s dance each flash setting the rain-dotted windows aglow like tiny stars caught in a prism.

The low hum of a vintage record player fills the room with cherry-red jazz the breathy wail of a muted trumpet, the sultry scrape of a stand-up bass like a lover’s heartbeat just beneath your skin.

The air smells like cedar smoke from the fireplace mingling with the subtle tannins of the Cabernet resting in your glass. It’s rich, dark, and alive - an anchor in your hand, cool with beads of condensation that you trace absentmindedly as you steal a glance at Lewis.

He’s across from you, relaxed but alert, a study in contrasts. His white tee clings damply to muscles you’ve come to know, and his posture - legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the back of the sofa exudes casual confidence.

But his eyes don’t rest. They study you in that quiet, intense way that makes your skin tingle, like he’s memorising the subtle curve of your smile, the way your fingers wrap around the glass, the slight dip of your collarbone when your cardigan slips just enough.

“This is nice,” you say softly, the words almost swallowed by the soft percussion of the cymbals in the jazz track.

He smirks, a slow, knowing tilt of his lips. “Nervous?”

You laugh a sound a little too sharp, breaking the spell. “A little.”

He swirls the wine with a lazy flick of his wrist, watching the liquid catch the light like a small galaxy. “Me too,” he admits, voice low. “Not usually. But this - you, it’s different.”

You blink, surprised by the bare honesty.

“Usually, I’m all control, all calm,” he says, voice dropping further, like a secret meant only for you. “But with you... I want to be honest. I want you to know the real me, not the guy behind the helmet or the headlines.”

The space between you seems to grow, but it’s a good space a breathing space.

You curl your legs under you, your cardigan slipping from one shoulder, exposing warm skin. The wine glass feels heavier, grounded, steady in your hand. “I’ve been thinking about this night. About us. What comes next.”

Lewis nods, inviting you to go on.

“I want it,” you say, voice stronger now. “But I’m scared too. I haven’t…done this before. Not like this. Not with someone I care about.”

He reaches out, his hand brushing the cushion near yours an unspoken offer. You place your glass down, your fingers trembling just slightly before you slide your hand toward his. The space between your hands shrinks, knuckles brushing. His palm is warm, steady, reassuring.

“Let’s be honest,” he says, eyes searching yours. “No pressure. Just truth.”

You draw in a deep breath, letting the words fill you.

“I haven’t been with many people,” you confess, voice barely above the rain’s rhythm. “And when I was, it was always rushed, never real. I want slow, discovery. Connection. I want to feel every moment.”

His gaze softens, the tension easing from his frame.

“I’ve had partners,” he begins carefully, “but it never felt like this. I want to know you. Not just your body, but your mind, your fears, your desires. I want to give, not take.”

His fingers twitch lightly, as if craving the connection.

“I like to lead, but gently,” he continues. “Like steering a dance, not forcing a step. I want to hear your breath catch, see your skin flush, feel your heartbeat quicken. I want trust, the kind that makes you forget everything else except us.”

Your pulse quickens. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, cheeks warming. “I like kisses that take time slow and searching. I like being touched like every inch of me matters. And I like hearing what’s happening. Words keep me present.”

He smiles, a tender, knowing smile. “Noted.”

You study the faint scar near his eyebrow, the curve of his jaw dusted with stubble, the veins along his forearm. Your fingers itch to explore, to memorise.

“I don’t want to rush,” you say. “I want to explore. Feel everything, every whisper, every heartbeat.”

His hand moves to yours, fingertips barely grazing skin but setting your nerves alight.

���Me too.”

The silence between you thickens, full and alive.

He asks, voice barely more than a murmur, “Is there anything you don’t want?”

The respect in his question wraps around you like a shield.

You breathe out, steadying. “Nothing too rough. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise me you will,” he says, eyes locking with yours.

“I promise.”

“I’ll stop the moment you say,” his voice firm and gentle. “Tonight is about you - your comfort, your pleasure.”

His sincerity breaks something open inside you. You lean in, lips brushing his soft, tentative, tasting of wine and something new. His hand comes up, cradling the back of your head, thumb tracing your hairline.

The kiss deepens, slow and patient, every movement an invitation. You feel the heat of his body draw closer; your knees part, settling on either side of his hips. One arm encircles your waist, pulling you gently against him: the other anchors behind your back, fingers spreading like roots.

Your cardigan slips further, baring your collarbone to his lips. He trails a feather-light kiss there, breath warm against your skin. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs.

A thrill races through younot fear, but raw, aching anticipation.

“I want you,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead to yours, breaths mingling, unspoken promises passing between.

“Then let’s make this ours.”

Outside, the rain continues its endless dance. Inside, the world contracts to this moment of soft lamplights, jazz notes curling around you, two hearts learning to move as one.

Time stretches, slow and pliant, as you explore every new inch of trust, every whispered yes, every soft boundary met with care.

This was not the kind that crashes over you in a rush or sweeps you away in a wild storm. This was a slow unraveling, deliberate and controlled like he was reading your body’s every secret, peeling you open breath by breath, layer by layer.

You’re still perched on his lap, his weight steady beneath you, your fingers tangling into the tight braids at the back of his neck. His hands rest on your lower back, spreading wide, grounding you, even as your pulse quickens under the weight of his touch.

His lips move over yours with a softness that holds so much promise not frantic or desperate, but deep, filled with intention. The way he kisses you makes your breath hitch, your heart stutter, and every nerve ending scream. He’s here. Right now. And it’s enough.

Your thighs squeeze instinctively around his hips, a silent plea, a signal that you want more - want to feel him fully, close, pressing into every inch of you. He’s hard beneath you, the proof of his own restraint and need.

When he pulls back, the flush on his cheeks is unmistakable. His eyes are heavy-lidded, lips swollen and parted, as if savouring the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

“Bedroom?” he asks, voice low and rough, a quiet question that doesn’t need answering because you’ve already nodded, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it might betray you.

He lifts you carefully, wrapping his arms around your waist, and the warmth of his body against yours makes your breath catch again. The door shuts softly behind you, sealing out the rest of the world, leaving only the two of you, suspended in this charged silence.

Once inside, something shifts not in the mood, not in the respect he shows, but in the weight of the moment. He sets you gently on the edge of the bed and stands, looming just in front of you, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants, eyes dark with anticipation.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that seems to wrap itself around you like silk and fire all at once.

“Undress for me.”

It’s not an order, not a demand. It’s an invitation soft, intimate and threaded with something raw and magnetic you can’t quite put into words. His gaze holds you captive, burning with quiet reverence and desire.

Your fingers tremble just the slightest bit as you reach up, your pulse thrumming through your veins, a mix of anticipation and shyness tingling across your skin.

You pull the hem of your shirt slowly over your head, savouring the way his eyes follow every movement, tracing the lines of your body as the fabric slips away. You catch the way his breath hitches subtle but unmistakable and it makes you want to pull back and forth between boldness and vulnerability.

His hands hover near your hips but don’t touch. He’s letting you own this moment, this act of revealing yourself to him, piece by piece, in your own time. The power is yours. The control is yours.

You let your bra come next, your fingers deft and gentle as the delicate lace slips down your arms and falls away, exposing the soft swell of your breasts. You catch the almost inaudible intake of his breath, and your skin flushes, warmth blossoming low in your belly.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and thick with emotion, a reverence bordering on worship that sends a shiver sliding down your spine.

His lips find yours again this time rougher, hungrier, more insistent. His mouth presses against yours with a fierce need that ignites a wildfire in your chest. His hands slide up your waist, cupping your breasts with care, thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin, sending sparks of heat swirling low and wild.

Your knees weaken, breath hitching, every nerve screaming for more. More touch, more closeness, more of him.

“Lie back,” he says softly, voice a command wrapped in velvet.

You obey without hesitation, sinking into the cool, soft sheets beneath you, every inch of your body alive with anticipation. Your pulse races, heart pounding against your ribs like a wild drumbeat as his body leans over you, the heat radiating from his skin a contrast to the fresh chill of the sheets.

His lips trail a path of fire down your throat, soft and teasing, each kiss a spark that sets your skin ablaze. His fingers find the waistband of your shorts, gentle but purposeful, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and searching.

“May I?” he asks, breath warm against your cheek.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice barely audible, but no less certain.

Slowly, reverently, he pulls your shorts down, following the curve of your hips with his lips. Kissing every inch of skin exposed - the delicate lines of your hipbones, the tender inner curve of your thighs, the sensitive crease where your body already begins to burn with need.

He settles between your legs, his eyes locking with yours, intensity shining like a beacon in the dim light.

“If at any point it’s too much, you stop me. Okay?” he murmurs, voice soft but unwavering.

You nod, voice fragile and small but sure: “Okay.”

His mouth descends on you with a worshipful tenderness that steals your breath away. It’s slow, deliberate with each movement filled with purpose, reverence, and a hunger that’s more than physical.

His lip's part to reveal the warmth of his tongue, which traces delicate, teasing circles along your sensitive skin, mapping out every curve and hollow as if you were the most precious secret in the world.

The first gentle flicks of his tongue send jolts of pleasure rippling through your body, spiralling from your core to your limbs, setting nerves alight with electric fire.

You clutch the sheets beneath you, fingers digging into the fabric as your hips twitch involuntarily, trying to meet the rhythm of his mouth without thinking. Every nerve in your body hums, alive with sensation sharp, soft, urgent and sweet all at once.

His tongue moves with practiced grace, swirling and flicking in patterns that speak of both deep desire and profound reverence. It’s like he’s learning you, memorising your every reaction and teasing out pleasure with a gentle, almost sacred patience. He explores the sensitive ridge of your folds, the slick warmth that welcomes him, lingering on the places that make you shiver and moan softly.

You arch toward him, pressing yourself closer, breath coming in ragged gasps that fill the quiet room. Your heart pounds so loudly in your chest, so wildly, you’re certain he can hear it beating just for him.

The taste of you sweet, salty, utterly intoxicating fills his senses. His mouth deepens its exploration, lips parting to engulf more, tongue flicking faster now, but never losing that careful worshipful attention.

His fingers slip inside you then, slow and gentle, pressing against the soft warmth that welcomes him. A sharp gasp escapes your lips raw and needy, electric and urgent.

The combination of his skilled mouth and tender touch sends waves of pleasure rippling and building inside you, cresting higher and higher until your whole-body trembles with the force of it.

He holds you through it all, lips soft against your skin, eyes half-lidded and glazed with something fierce and tender at once - a mixture of admiration, hunger, and pure devotion. His hand moves in sync with his mouth, curling and stroking inside you, drawing out every moan and shudder.

Each time you think you can’t take any more, he slows down, grounding you with gentle kisses along your inner thighs, a whispered promise lingering in every touch.

Then he starts again slow, teasing, patient coaxing you back from the edge and up again, higher and higher, until you’re trembling in his arms, a shuddering wave crashing through every fibre of your being.

You’re lost in him, in the way he makes you feel seen, worshipped, utterly desired. You realise there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here, under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his fierce, tender love.

“You taste so fucking good,” he breathes against your skin, voice thick with desire and awe.

You reach up, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.

“Come here,” you whisper, voice rough with want.

He climbs onto the bed, his lips claiming yours hard and hungry, hands cradling your face, thumbs tracing lazy circles beneath your jaw in a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

“Still good?” he asks, searching your eyes for any sign, any hesitation.

“So good,” you breathe back, your voice thick with need. “I want you inside me.”

His forehead presses against yours, breath warm and steady as he murmurs, “Let’s take our time. We’ve got all night.”

You watch him undress with deliberate care, and its torture, the sweetest kind. Each motion is slow, unhurried, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. The shirt is the first to go, peeled off in one fluid motion that reveals golden-brown skin stretched over hard-earned muscle, a body carved by years of control and precision.

And you can’t look away.

Your mouth parts slightly without meaning to not in surprise, but in pure, helpless awe. Your lips go dry, eyes fixed, hungry.

There’s a heat low in your belly, coiling tighter with every new inch of skin he reveals. His shoulders roll back as he tosses the shirt aside and the motion sends a ripple through his chest, through the sculpted muscles of his arms.

That lion tattoo on his pec bold, regal, defiant stares back at you like it knows exactly what it's guarding. You’re drawn to it, to the way it rests over his heart, like a mark of pride and strength and something untamed. Your gaze lingers there too long, and he notices. He always notices.

But then your eyes drift lower, and that’s where your breath catches.

The compass tattoo inked in sharp, clean lines sits just low enough on the centre of his chest that your imagination races to fill in what’s hidden just beneath the waistband of his briefs. It draws your attention like a magnet, like a secret map that only you are meant to follow. The ink is stark against his skin, a piece of him etched so close to where you already burn for him.

You swallow hard. Your thighs press together without thinking.

“Jesus,” you whisper, barely audible.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He heard you. Of course he did.

He steps toward you slowly, and it’s like watching something inevitable come closer gravity itself bending to him. His hands move to his waistband, and you can’t tear your eyes away. You’re practically drooling now, breath shaky, pupils wide with anticipation.

But it isn’t just lust. It’s reverence.

Because the way he looks at you steady, dark, focused makes your chest ache. Like he sees everything. Like he wants everything. And he’s not in a rush. Not tonight.

He drops his briefs and your breath stutters. He stands before you, unapologetic, bare and beautiful and strong. His skin glows under the soft lamplight golden, warm, like sun-kissed bronze and the sight of him makes something deep inside you clench and flutter.

But still, it’s the way his eyes lock onto yours that undoes you. Steady. Focused. Like your hunger doesn’t scare him like it feeds him.

“I can feel you staring,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice like velvet over gravel. “You like what you see?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod. He smiles slow, cock and so achingly warm. He leans in close enough for your breath to hitch against his.

“Good,” he murmurs against your lips. “Because I’m yours.”

He settles between your thighs again, completely bare and slick with heat, every inch of him alive beneath your fingertips. The weight of his body presses down, solid and grounding, yet somehow featherlight in the electric tension that crackles between you.

His lips find yours once more and the taste of him, a little salty with sweat and sweet with longing, floods your senses. When he pulls back just enough to whisper into the quiet space between you, his voice is low, unwavering.

“I’ve got you.”

The promise lands inside you like a steady flame, warm and certain, anchoring you in this moment where everything else falls away.

His arms brace on either side of your head, framing your face like pillars of strength. You can feel the taut muscle beneath his skin, every sinew controlled and ready, yet patient as if his whole being is focused solely on you, on this perfect, fragile moment of union.

His gaze pins you, intense and fierce, but filled with something softer too something that reveres you, worships you, even as desire burns hot in his eyes.

Slowly, reverently, the head of him nudges your entrance, a tentative question without words. The heat of him presses gently against your slick skin, humming through your nerves, waking every inch of your body.

His breath fans across your cheek, warm and intoxicating as he asks quietly, “This, okay?”

Your voice trembles with need and certainty, barely a whisper but full of invitation.

“Yeah…I want you.”

And with infinite care, inch by inch, he presses inside you deliberate, unhurried, the exquisite stretch, memorising the subtle flutter of resistance and welcome beneath him.

The fullness of him inside you is overwhelming, a thick, pulsing heat that steals your breath away and sends an electric current racing through your core.

“Fuuuuck…” he groans, jaw clenched tight, veins pulsing along his neck as he fights to keep himself grounded.

He stops midway, forehead resting gently against yours, eyes squeezed shut as a subtle tremor of restraint ripples through his arms. It’s a raw, aching tension, the kind that screams how badly he wants to lose control but won’t not yet.

He doesn’t want to rush. He wants to give.

The feeling of him filling you is intense and alive warm, pulsing, like you’re both suspended in a private universe where nothing else exists but the breath between you and the press of skin against skin. Your fingers dig lightly into the taut planes of his biceps, nails tracing delicate crescents, grounding yourself as he sinks deeper.

He holds you there, still and utterly connected, every slow breath between you charged with unsaid promises and fierce devotion.

His lip's part against yours again, breath shuddering softly in the space between you, trembling with everything left unspoken.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure. Your hand rises to cup his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his beard in a gentle, grounding caress. “You can move, Lew.”

He pulls back just enough, then begins to move slow, steady, deliberate each deep thrust dragging molten heat through every fibre of your being. Every stroke is a slow, relentless pull that coaxes waves of pleasure to ripple and curl inside you, making your back arch instinctively, skin crawling beneath his touch.

His mouth leaves yours to find your neck, lips brushing, sucking softly each kiss a spark that ignites the fire burning low in your belly. The taste of him, the warmth of his breath, the scent of sweat and something more intimate wrap around you, shrinking the world to the space where your bodies collide.

“You feel…” he moans, voice ragged and raw, nearly breathless. “Fucking unreal.”

His words fall like worship against your ear, soft affirmations that make your heart swell with a tenderness you never expected.

“So beautiful.”

“You take me so good.”

“I’ve dreamed about this…”

Heat coils deep inside, spreading outward in slow-burning waves, making you shiver in his arms. You’re caught between vulnerability and desperate need, the tension between needing to be seen and utterly losing yourself in him.

You move with him legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him closer hips rising to meet every slow, sure stroke, every pull and push. Your bodies speak without words, in a silent language of rhythm, trust, and shared surrender.

The pace builds relentless but patient like a tide rising and falling with perfect, inevitable precision. You feel something deeper than mere pleasure, something forged in quiet moments and whispered promises, something raw and true beneath the skin.

His hands find your waist again, thumbs drawing lazy, teasing circles over slick, heated skin, grounding you even as every sense ignites. His lips trail from your neck down to your collarbone and shoulder, leaving a trail of fire and claim in their wake marking you as his in the most intimate way possible.

You catch his gaze again wild, vulnerable, utterly yours. In that fierce look, you see everything: desire, devotion and the quiet certainty that no matter what comes next, you face it together.

And in the shared heat of that moment, the outside world falls away, leaving only the slow, burning rhythm of your bodies moving as one breath mingling with breath, skin sliding against skin, heart beating wild and sure in the timeless dance you share.

It’s perfect.

Until it isn’t.

You feel the shift before it fully settles a subtle change in the angle, almost imperceptible, but enough to turn what had been a slow, delicious fullness into something sharp, twisting unexpectedly inside you. The pleasure flickers and then vanishes, replaced by a sudden, jarring discomfort that coils tightly around your nerves, making your breath catch in your throat.

Your body stiffens, muscles tensing as a rush of sudden pain flares.

His eyes snap open wide, startled, searching your face as if trying to read the shift in your expression. For a moment, panic flashes across his features, raw and unfiltered.

“Shit. Shit did I—? Are you okay?” His voice is urgent, breath ragged.

Before you can say anything, he pulls out quickly, leaving you feeling empty, aching in a way that wasn’t there before. The sudden absence of him only sharpens the ache.

“I’m okay,” you manage to say, voice shaky but steady. “It just…hit the wrong spot. It didn’t feel good.”

He backs up slightly on his knees, hands hovering uncertainly over you as if afraid to touch, eyes wide and searching like he’s trying to make sure you’re really alright.

“Baby…fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. I thought fuck - I thought you were still okay.” His voice cracks under the weight of regret, thick with frustration at himself.

You reach up, placing your hand gently on his cheek, grounding both of you. “I was,” you say softly, voice tender but firm. “Until I wasn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just didn’t say anything soon enough.”

He lowers his gaze, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, thick with sorrow and self-reproach.

“No. I should’ve known. I should’ve felt it.”

You lean into his warmth, thumb brushing softly along his jawline, soothing the tension etched into his face.

“Hey. You stopped. The second I said something. That’s what matters.”

His whole body seems to sag with relief and remorse mingled together, the intensity in his eyes softening as he leans down slowly to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally the hollow between your collarbones each touch featherlight, as if trying to erase the sting of that moment.

“I never want to hurt you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with emotion. “I never want you to feel like you have to push through something for me. That’s not what this is. Not ever.”

You close your eyes briefly, tasting the sincerity in his words, the steady beat of his heart against your skin. “I know,” you whisper back. “I trust you. I still trust you.”

When you open your eyes again, his gaze meets yours dark, shimmering with unspoken promises and raw, aching tenderness.

You shift beneath the sheets, reaching out to trail your fingers along his collarbone, then whisper, “Maybe we try something else?”

His brow furrows for a brief moment, hesitant, searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod, thumb brushing his jaw once more in a slow, deliberate gesture of reassurance. “Let me ride you. I’ll control the depth.”

The change in him is subtle but profound. The tension that had gripped his body loosens, replaced by a softness that melts into reverence and complete surrender.

He reclines back against the pillows, arms opening wide like a silent invitation, eyes full of nothing but adoration and trust.

“Come here, baby,” he says gently. “We go at your pace.”

You straddle him slowly, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you guide him inside this time with a careful, deliberate tenderness. The moment he fills you again, the sensation is full and encompassing, a contrast to before.

There’s no rush, no jagged edges just a warm, satisfying stretch that settles deep inside you. His breath hitches, a low, guttural groan vibrating through his chest as you lower yourself fully onto him, inch by slow inch.

You feel every inch, every contour, every subtle movement of his body beneath you. It’s intimate, sacred almost, the way your flesh molds to his.

You’re stretched, sensitive, but this time it’s a good kind of full better than good, like the ache of a perfect muscle burn after a long run. The kind of ache that speaks of effort and reward.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers spreading wide to grip you gently. There’s heat in his touch, but no pressure. No urgent need to take over. Instead, he holds you close, his palms firm but patient, steadying you without a word.

“Take what you need,” he whispers, voice low and rough, thick with desire and trust.

You start to move, rocking your hips in small, slow circles a shallow grind that builds heat without pushing, coaxing pleasure in soft waves instead of crashing tides.

The friction between your skin, the slick warmth of your bodies pressed together, sends sparks of fire trailing along your nerves. The scent of his skin, faintly musky and intimate, fills your senses, grounding you in the moment.

You catch the tension etched in his face the tight line of his jaw, the twitch of his fingers that want to claim control but don’t. He resists, letting you lead, and in that surrender, his desire burns even fiercer.

“That’s it that’s my girl,” he breathes, voice raw and reverent. “Just like that. You’re perfect.”

You lean down, pressing your lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palms. The rhythm of your bodies aligns entirely your own. Every movement, every breath, every shared sigh becomes a silent language spoken only by the two of you.

His hands slide to your ass, cupping and squeezing gently, guiding you with a tender insistence. They never force, never rush; instead, they invite you to explore the space between pleasure and patience.

Your second orgasm builds gradually, a deep, pulsing heat blossoming from your core like a slow-burning flame. It gathers strength, radiating outward until your thighs tremble with the tension, your breath catching and spilling into a moan pressed against his mouth.

He holds you through it all steady, unwavering. His lips trace a soft path along your jaw, then your neck, as you come down from the wave, shivering in his arms. When your body stills, he brushes your damp hair back, eyes shining with something fierce and tender all at once. Then, with deliberate care, he flips you beneath him, hands never hurried, every touch sacred.

“I need to come,” he says, voice rough and aching with need. “I need you.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. You nod, breathless but sure.

“I’m ready,” you whisper.

This time is different.

His thrusts are deep but gentle measured with a tenderness that makes every motion feel like a vow. His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked onto your face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every subtle smile, every breathless gasp. There’s an unspoken conversation in those dark, searching eyes a promise that he’s here for you, completely and utterly.

You feel the smooth slide of his skin against yours, the slick warmth of your combined heat, the subtle tension in his muscles as he moves with a slow, aching rhythm. The taste of salt and desire lingers on his lips when you kiss, a reminder of how close you are how much you belong to each other in this moment.

When he finally groans your name, raw and trembling, and comes deep inside you, his whole body shudders with the release. It’s not just physical; it feels sacred, as though you’ve woven your souls tighter with every movement, every shared breath.

He collapses beside you, arms wrapping around your trembling frame, holding you like the most precious thing in the world. And you rest your head against his chest, heart pounding in sync with his, knowing that this moment raw, tender, vulnerable is exactly where you belong.

It’s not just sex, it’s something more. Something true.

The afterglow wraps around you both like a warm, protective cocoon. His body presses against yours, steady and grounding, like an anchor in a swirling world. His arms come around you slowly, gently, pulling you close as if to make sure you’re really there, really safe. Your legs tangle naturally around his waist, the fit so familiar it feels like coming home.

He moves with deliberate care, his hands steady and tender as he cleans you both a soft touch here, a careful wipe there. It’s not hurried or clinical; it’s intimate, sacred even, a quiet ritual that speaks volumes without words. Every stroke of his fingers against your skin feels like a vow, a silent promise that he’ll always cherish and protect this space you share.

When he finally folds you into his arms, cradling you close to his chest, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It’s a rhythm that seeps into your bones, making every breath easier, every worry quieter.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs softly into your hair, his voice thick with sincerity and something deeper a kind of fierce devotion. “I’ll learn you. Every inch. Every sound. Every want. Everything that hurts. I’ll never stop listening.”

His words curl around you like a warm breeze, soothing and exhilarating all at once. You tilt your head up, eyes shining with unshed tears and fierce trust. “I know.”

Outside, the storm has faded. The rain’s last heavy drops tap softly against the windowpane, a gentle rhythm that blends with the quiet sighs and murmurs between you. But inside, the warmth doesn’t fade. It lingers soft and fierce, a quiet blaze that fills the room with light and promise.

You trace lazy circles on his chest, fingertips lingering where your skin brushes against his. He shivers slightly under your touch, as if your presence alone sets him alight.

“This,” he says, voice low and sure, “this is only the beginning.”

You press your forehead against his, breath mingling, hearts beating a steady duet. In this silence, in this perfect closeness, you both know it’s true — something rare and precious is unfolding between you. Something that goes far beyond the physical, beyond the fleeting.

It’s trust. It’s hope. It’s a promise whispered in the stillness; a vow carried on the softest breath.

And as the first hints of dawn begin to lighten the edges of the night sky, you hold onto that promise tightly, knowing it will guide you both through whatever comes next.

morning light broke slowly across the room, brushing in like a whisper rather than a shout. It didn’t rush or demand attention. Instead, it seeped gently through the sheer curtains, folding itself around the edges of the furniture, pooling softly on the polished floorboards, and tracing delicate honey-gold patterns that danced with the quiet rhythm of the waking world.

The bed was a tangle of linen and warmth, the sheets twisted and half-forgotten kicked down to the foot, clinging lazily to a leg here, slipping off a hip there.

They smelled of heat and something intimately yours, the scent of skin meeting skin in that sacred place where barriers dissolve. Sweat mixed with the faint trace of his cologne, musky and comforting, weaving with the residual traces of passion and whispered promises that had filled the night.

There was something else beyond the physical. Something less tangible but no less profound.

Closeness.

You were the first to stir. Not because of a sound, not because the sun’s touch was harsh or urgent. You stirred because of the warmth pressed against your back a steady heat that felt like a tether to the world, a heartbeat just beneath your skin. His warmth.

Lewis was curled behind you, one long arm wrapping protectively around your waist, the palm resting just beneath your ribs. His body was steady, grounding, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed intimately to yours like the ocean’s tide keeping time with the moon.

His breath ghosted over your neck in slow, even pulses warm and faintly damp with sleep and every so often, almost unconsciously, his thumb twitched, rubbing soft, half-forgotten circles along your side. It was a small gesture, but it said everything: you were his. You were here. You were safe.

You didn’t move right away. You let yourself feel the lingering ache deep in your muscle -thighs, lower back, and hips that whispered reminders of the night before. It wasn’t pain. Not really. More a soft echo, a carved memory, a testament to what had been given and taken, shared and held.

Eventually, you turned toward him, moving slowly so as not to disturb the fragile bubble between you. You shifted onto your other side, your eyes locking with his before your bodies fully settled. His eyes fluttered open almost instantly, heavy-lidded, those dark pools still swimming in the haze of sleep.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and roughened by hours spent speaking in sighs and gasps. That scratchy rasp should have sounded raw, maybe even gruff but on him, it was something intimate, something that slid under your skin and made your heart catch. Like the remnants of every moan, every whispered name, still echoed in the gravel of his throat.

You smiled softly, the corners of your lips lifting without hesitation because just looking at him felt like a balm. “Hey.”

Lewis blinked slowly, as if seeing you again was both expected and impossible all at once. His gaze searched your face - your eyes, still heavy with sleep but bright with something tender, the flushed bloom on your cheeks, the soft curve of your lips and for a flicker of a moment, something unspoken crossed his features. Worry. The silent check-in of a man who carries more than just himself.

You reached out without thinking, brushing your thumb over the edge of his beard, feeling the rough stubble beneath your skin. “I’m okay, Lewis,” you whispered.

His shoulders visibly eased, the invisible knot of tension loosening in his chest like it had just been unwound. He leaned forward, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to your lips.

It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t urgent it was deliberate, a silent thank you spoken through soft pressure and the warm slide of his mouth. When he pulled back, his thumb traced the line of your jaw with infinite care.

“You’re sore?” His voice was low, a careful question.

You hesitated a moment before nodding, cheeks warming with a shy, small laugh. “A little. But not in a bad way.”

Lewis’s brows furrowed, concern knitting into his expression instantly. His hand slid down from your jaw to rest on your hip, fingers spreading like he wanted to feel for any hidden hurt himself. “I can run you a bath. Warm water, Epsom salts. I’ll even sit right here, on the floor, while you soak.”

You laughed quietly, curling your hand around the thin gold chain that hung from his neck, tugging gently until he stilled and looked down at you. “I don’t want to move yet. I just want to lie here. With you.”

That soft smile the one that cracked open something guarded and deep behind his eyes spread slowly across his face. “Yeah. Okay.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping you tighter into his chest and tucking you beneath his chin. His hand moved slowly across your back, tracing lazy, intimate circles on your shoulder blade. There was no rush. No noise but the faint hum of the city below and the air conditioning whispering softly through the suite’s vents.

Silence held you both for a long time, wrapping around your bodies like a protective cloak.

Then his voice came, low and hesitant, as if he was not sure if he dared speak the truth out loud.

“Thank you for telling me to stop.”

You lifted your head, searching his face.

He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, jaw working silently, the quiet battle of something unsaid twisting behind his eyes.

“I would’ve hated myself,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “if I’d kept going and you got hurt.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” you said softly. “You listened. That mattered more than getting it perfect.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I’ve had partners,” he said after a pause, “plenty. But this is different. I’ve never cared like this before. Not just about how it feels but how you feel. If I’m making you feel safe. If you’re enjoying it, not just putting up with it. I used to think I was good at this. Sex. Being attentive. But that was just rhythm. Technique. This—” He exhaled slowly, “—this is something else.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently, coaxing his eyes back to yours. “You got it right,” you whispered. “Even when it wasn’t perfect, you got it right. Because you heard me. Because you stopped.”

His lips parted, as if to say more but swallowing the words. You could see the weight of what you said settling inside him, softening the tightness in his chest.

“Tell me again what felt good,” he asked, voice husky, eyes flickering down to your lips.

You blushed, but you nodded.

“When you didn’t rush me. When you kissed me after. When I was on topI felt so in control, and you were just watching me like I was…” You trailed off, heart pounding.

“Like you were mine,” he breathed.

You swallowed hard.

“And when you called me your girl.”

His smile broke slowly, warmth spreading like sunrise across his face. “You are.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned in, your nose brushing his, legs slipping between his under the sheets. When you pulled back, your voice was quiet, vulnerable.

“We’re not done figuring it out, are we?”

“Not even close,” he said softly. “But we’ve got time. No pressure. No rush.”

Then more seriously: “Before we ever do anything again, we talk. What you like. What you’re curious about. What’s off limits. I don’t care how good it feels if it’s not good for you.”

Your heart thudded not from lust, but from something more profound. Love, or maybe something inching toward it.

“Can we keep asking each other stuff?” you whispered. “Even weird things?”

He nodded, eyes bright with quiet joy. “That’s how we get good at it. Us. That’s how we build this right.”

A pause.

“Do you want to know what I want next time?” His voice dropped lower, the teasing edge making your skin prickle with anticipation.

You lifted an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “Do I?”

He met your eyes, blunt and raw and utterly unfiltered. “I want you to ride my face.”

The words hit you like a sudden burst of heat, your breath catching in your throat. His honesty was disarming, vulnerable in its directness.

“Take your time,” he continued, voice thick with desire and something tender beneath it. “Grind down until you come. I want to see how you look when you’re the one in control again.” His eyes darkened with longing. “I want to be under you. Helpless.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity and openness the sheer weight of how much he wanted you.

“That’s…a lot,” you whispered, heart pounding, voice barely audible.

He leaned in, kissing you slowly. His lips were warm, certain, asking permission in every inch of that kiss. It was an unspoken promise that this desire wasn’t just physical it was about trust, about connection, about being seen.

“That’s how much I want you,” he said softly, breath warm against your skin.

You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, burying your face in the nape of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath your fingertips. “Then maybe…next time.”

His voice was steady, sure, a quiet vow you felt deep in your bones. “Next time.”

Later, you let him run the bath, but it was anything but rushed. He moved with deliberate care filling the tub with steaming water, the scent of lavender oil drifting through the air like a soft caress. He added Epsom salts, watching as they dissolved slowly, the surface rippling gently.

He rolled a plush, oversized towel and nestled it behind your neck, offering you a sanctuary of softness the moment you settled into the warm water. Then, with a gentle smile, he handed you a glass of water, a thin slice of lemon resting on the rim. “For hydration,” he said with a playful wink that made your cheeks warm.

But he didn’t leave you alone. Instead, he sat beside the tub on the cool tiled floor, one knee bent, his fingers trailing lightly along your shin.

His touch wasn’t hurried or lustful it was a steady presence, a quiet reassurance. Watching you relax, breathing in the warm, scented air, he seemed to find something healing in your peacefulness, as if your ease soothed some unseen ache inside him.

The water lapped softly against your skin, steam curling around you like a protective veil. Outside, the city hummed faintly, the distant sounds of life fading into the background as the two of you existed in this small bubble of calm.

When you finally slipped from the bath, chilled slightly as the warm water drained away, he was waiting with his oversized T-shirt, soft and worn, the fabric falling loosely around your body. He wrapped it gently around your shoulders, his hands steady and warm.

Then, taking the hotel towel, he dried your damp hair with an unhurried tenderness finger carefully combing through curls, mumbling something about heat damage and how beautiful you looked just like this.

You caught the softness in his eyes, the way he saw you in that moment bare-faced, hair tousled and damp, cheeks still flushed from sleep and the traces of last night’s closeness.

Without a word, he led you back to bed. The room was dim, the rain tapping a soothing rhythm against the windows. The city lights beyond the thick glass were muted, distant.

No distractions. No noise. Just the two of you.

He pulled you close beneath the covers, limbs tangling naturally, your skin warm against his. His fingers found yours beneath the sheets, their gentle squeeze grounding and familiar.

You breathed in the quiet, the comfort of the moment the steady cadence of his breath, the soft warmth of his body, the shared space between your hearts learning to beat in sync.

“Warmth,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Learning,” he answered softly.

“Love,” you breathed.

And in the hush of the room, wrapped in the quiet intimacy that only came from being truly known, you dared to believe in something more.

Forever.

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

LOVE LOOKS PRETTY ON YOU- C. KENT

day thirteen of the june bug masterlist

pairing: clark kent x girlfriend! fem! reader

word count: 1k

summary: when you want clark kent to be your first, he makes it perfect for you. what better way to have sex than under the glimmering stars?

warnings: smut, but very fluffy! clark is gentle and loving:), huge praise kink, pet names used, slight manhandling

 “love looks pretty on you, look pretty on me- if heaven's for lovers, that's where we'll be love looks pretty on you, my pretty baby i love how you love mе so delicately" - love looks pretty on you, nessa barrett

The stars glimmered brightly above you, but all you could focus on was the shimmer of Clark Kent's baby blues.

They were electrifying.

The brightest star of all, a constellation you wanted to get lost in for the rest of your life. A hand reached up to cup his cheek, an elbow propping his head up as he gazed down at you from beside you.

It was heaven, here with him. In your own little world.

Nothing but his fingers stroking little patterns on your cheek, twirling your hair around the digits.

Clark Kent had always made you want to be dangerous. He made you want to explore, to run as wild as the wolves in the dead of night, howling to whoever would listen to their song.

And yet, he grounded you.

He was a sweet boy, the slightly shy boy at the back of class who would offer you a spare pencil if you needed it, or would make a little joke under his breath that only you could hear, making you giggle.

And he was so protective of you. Always shielding you from the world's dangers, as much as you wanted to explore them.

He let you be wild. Because he knew he was strong and stable enough to steady you the way you needed, before you got hurt- or made a mistake.

Always there to hold your hand, to wrap his varsity jacket around your shoulders when you shivered in the cool Smallville breeze. Nights pouring over homework at each other's houses turned into a weekly occurrence, turning into movie nights which lead into cuddles on the couch.

Until he’d carry you to bed, tucking you in and kissing your forehead with a soft murmur of sweet dreams and far away lands.

You didn't know he’d hover over you while you slept, making sure he kept the nightmares at bay.

The day he asked you to be his girlfriend, you felt swept off your feet.

Literally.

You stared into his baby blues as he carried you in his arms, down the steps of your front porch to whisk you away, like your very own prince charming.

Your giggle was his favourite sound. He wished for nothing more than to capture it on his cassette, and play it back over and over again. You adored his dimples, and the smile that was so often plastered on his face, like it was now.

You traced his lips, dragging your finger down past his chin, lingering on his neck. His skin was as soft and pure as snow. Now marked with soft reds and dark blues starting to form from the marks you had left with your lips a few moments earlier.

It was a cool summer night, and when you tugged Clark across his farm, hopping over the wooden fence and through the empty pasture, you knew you were ready.

You wanted it to be him more than anything to take your virginity.

And you longed for the company of the stars that illuminated above you, like a halo placed upon his head. Your guardian angel.

Soft murmurs of are you sure darling? were uttered, a smile and whispers of promise in return.

He had been so gentle with you. Taking each piece of clothing off with such delicacy it made your heart ache. Kisses across each bit of skin that was exposed, the warmth radiating off his body like a furnace as he caged you between his forearms, kissing your lips deeply.

He was so slow and attentive, paying attention to each little face you made, your noises and pleads. Nothing but praise was given when he touched you.

Is this okay darling? Yeah? That feel good?

He was so large, and despite making you feel so small, he made you feel strong and powerful. It had taken some time for him to stretch you out on his fingers and tongue before he could slip inside, finding a steady rhythm as your nails dug into his biceps, eyes never leaving his as he saw you seeing stars even when you closed your eyes.

Thereee we go sweetheart, that's the spot isn't it? Such a good girl f’me.

Cooing and praising you as you claimed you couldn't, the pleasure was too much- he was too much-

Shhh angel s’okay. You can take it, you're so close, baby. Can feel you squeezin me so tight, just let go f’me darlin. You’re safe, I got you.

Now you were here, naked and basking in the moonlight as he admired you. You had never felt so loved in your entire life. And god, you wanted to soak up every second of it.

“M’so proud of you sweetheart. You did so-” he emphasized each word with a kiss. “-so, so good. My good girl.”

You hummed, feeling heat rise to your cheeks as you curled into him, letting him turn and scoop you up in his arms, so you lay flat across his chest. Rising and falling in tandem with his. In perfect sync.

“Your hearts beating rather fast darlin. You like when I call you mine?”

You giggled, nodding against him. “I just like you. You make me feel so beautiful.”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on. You’re an angel.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, missing a beat. And yet, he never left your rhythm.

It felt like your souls were intertwined, the way he held you. So gently, a hand rubbing up and down your spine, warming you up as if you were bathed in sunshine.

“The poets would use us as muses I think. Like the moon and the stars.” he whispered, eyelashes fluttering against his soft cheeks.

You loved him. He made you feel like you were everything he needed and more. Everything he wanted- was simply you. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“I think I love you, Clark Kent.” you confessed, looking up so you could flick his nose.

A flick was given back. Something the two of you had done for months. A sign of affection.

“Oh darling. I know I love you.” 

[claidi]

Scrolling through Apothecary Diaries posts and seeing the Jinmao and Shimao (I also saw this referred to as Pesticide shipping lol) ship war, I kinda want to give my take on it

Like Maomao cares about Both of them, but their relationships are very different. I'm not even talking romance here- Shisui started as someone Maomao could be on an equal level to, they're friends. Meanwhile, Maomao may have been avoiding how high ranked Jinshi really was, she did keep her distance due to the class difference between them. Now, Jinshi has been able to break though that a few times, and they do trust and depend on each other, but it's still a very different relationship. Jinshi is her employer. Shisui was supposed to be safe in a way Jinshi couldn't be. She started as a friend of a friend and it was super effective for getting close to Maomao.

Interestingly, Jinshi and Shisui are actually pretty alike in some ways. They both have their relationship with Maomao under an assumed identity of lower status. Both are trapped by the expectations of their family and enjoy getting to goof off a little while Maomao remains unaware of who they actually are. Maomao also gets annoyed by their antics at times in ways that for example she doesn't for Xiaolan. Jinshi has his ridiculousness and Shisui has her bug fascination lol. Also, they both use Maomao in their schemes. I haven't forgotten all the times where Jinshi and Gaoshun have discussed how she make a valuable pawn, meanwhile Shisui seems to have used her kidnapping to bring ruin to her mother. It's just... They do end up actually caring for Maomao beyond that.

However, to Shisui, her plan is more important than Maomao. She's sticking to it, even when it's put Maomao in danger and Maomao herself is trying to make her turn back.

Jinshi? He'll adjust. He may have just completely burnt his Jinshi identity for her and lost the freedom that comes with it (anime only here so I don't know all of the ramifications yet!). I know there were other factors as well and I'm sure that there are limits in what Jinshi will do for Maomao, but it's an interesting parallel.

All of this to say- Maomao's relationships with these characters are both complex and intriguing. I think both deserve to be explored and discussed. In my opinion, I appreciated that both relationships were given weight last episode. When it showed that as much as she tries to claim she doesn't care, she feels strongly. When she tried to deny Jinshi's royalness until she honestly couldn't. It's complicated. So complicated and tumultuous and neither of them are quite the person Maomao thought they were before. Jinshi is the one who came to save her and Shisui is the one she can't save. The friendship that was supposed to be safe put her life in danger while her high ranked boss who she's literally given requests for how to kill her if he ever executes her showed up to protect her. Liars who slipped through her cracks., that while they held different identities- they were closer to their true selves with her than the masks of who they were born to be. It's compelling. Both are important to Maomao's character and honestly I'd like to see the contrast be explored more.

[adagiorii]

you should use this ask to talk about yuor ocs :3

(Anon I am so sorry it took me so ridiculously long to get to this one but I couldn't decide what to write and kept delaying it. Sorry ik how annoying this must be 😭😭😭😭)

Anyway, let's talk about the ginger bastard! 🦊 Small lore drop time

For starters, let's talk a bit about Hayato's design.

I don't know if I've made this obvious (save for the emojis lmao), but I associate him with foxes. This is why he has the messy red hair, the freckles, the slit cat-like pupils (foxes have them too yk), the fangs, and the orange-black-white colour scheme. All of this applies to Sanako too.

The fox thing is more prevalent in Hayato, though, because the theming goes further than just his appearance. I haven't mentioned it yet, but he has fire powers, which were partially inspired by kitsunebi (or foxfire). In japanese mythology, kitsunes were able to create flames, which is basically what Hayato is able to do too.

By all means, his powers are quite "basic" ig, just regular anime fire powers though I do like to think about how they would work, I like to say his respiratory system is basically just a furnace but in universe, he's a special case. Humans don't have powers in this story - he's the only known exception. I could talk about how and why he got his powers, but that would make this reply even longer, and I already don't think anyone cares much abt this lmao, I can talk about that some other time.

Even if he wasn't an exception, I still wouldn't say his powers are weak. He can cause a lot of damage and I think fire in particular can be quite a flexible and volatile power. It's something I'd really like to explore if I ever do get the chance to turn this story into a comic. He's mostly in control of his powers, but they can flare up when he experiences strong emotions.

I also like to think about how Hayato having fire powers would affect his life in other ways. He absolutely detests rain or cold water in general. If he gets soaked, he'll be in a sour mood for the rest of the day and won't be able to use his powers until his hands are dry. If he coughs a lot, he'll start coughing up smoke; if he rubs his hands together for a while, he'll produce smoke and eventually a flame. I think the easiest way for him to make a flame is to snap his fingers, though. I almost want to make him sneeze sparks but I know that'd be too hard for him to hide. Maybe if it's hot and dry enough. He also has a higher body temperature than the average human, probably around 39° or 40° degrees? High enough to boil a human brain which explains a lot

Anyway, I could talk a lot more about all of this cringe lore, but I'll spare the rest of the yapping. Just know that if you read this far, I'm very grateful and I love you. 😭❤️

[palmolli]

SKSW ZELINK IS MY ROMAN EMPIRE!!!!

So I've already made a post like this, but like... sksw Zelink makes me violently ill. But like in a good way. They are an existential NIGHTMARE. And they drive me ABAOLUTKEKEY INSANE.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Here's basically how I view it:

Zelda was supposed to be the main character. Not Link. Link was basically just the love interest in her story. It's the Legend of Zelda, not Link, lol. In the game itself, Link was never supposed to fight Demise, he wasn't even supposed to be the one to use the triforce. Hylia reincarnated into a mortal for the sole reason of using the power of the Triforce against Demise's wrath. Link was only supposed to be a fallback plan. Yet they both fell for each other.

Imagine being Link. Your best friend in the whole wide world goes missing one day. She was basically all you had. You saw it happen and you couldn't do anything about it. You keep replaying the scene in your head over and over again, wishing you could've just caught her hand. But you couldn't. Then you learn she's still alive. There's still hope to get the one light in your life back. You don't hesitate to take up the sword. Losing your best friend is more horrifying than whatever awaits you on the surface. You follow her through old temples, slaying beasts left and right, and when you finally catch up to her, her words break your heart and explode your brain. She's really a goddess reborn. And you, nothing but her chosen hero. You still love her, and it hurts.

Imagine being Zelda. You've just fallen from the world you once knew. You're lost and confused. Only guided by a mysterious yet familiar stranger. You're told you're not who you thought you were. The life you were so familiar with shatters before your eyes. The girl you thought you were shatters with it. A piece of that life follows you down. Turns out he was just a pawn in your game. You used the person you love. But he doesn't care. He's willing to shed blood for your sake. Whether it's his or another's. It scares you. You don't exactly know why. Maybe it's because he was the only familiar thing in this new world, but now he's changed. He's no longer that lazy boy you had to drag out of his bed since you were just kids. He's no longer the boy you had to speak up for because he was too shy to do so with his own voice. You still love him, and it hurts.

PLEEEAAAZESSEEE AAUUUUUUGHHHH, I NEED TO SQUEEZE THEM LIKE DOG TOYS NOOOWWWWWW.

LIKE SERIOUSLY, BARELY ANYONE TALKS ABOUT THE ACTUAL DEPTHS OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP. EVERY EDIT OF THEM JUST TURNS INTO "ahaha, we get reincarnated to love each other in every lifetime!!! Teehee!!"

NO. SHUT UP!!!!! It is SO much more than that to me. The COMPLEXITIES. The CONFLICT. THE EXISTENTIAL DREAD.

They're the only Link and Zelda pair aware of the cycle. They were the very first. They planted the seed for what eventually grew into Hyrule. They lived and died with the knowledge that their people would never know peace. They are essentially the Adam and Eve of Hylian lore. That has never been explored in the Zelda canon, and it pisses me off sm.

ALSOOOO the very idea of once being a GOD in a past life and having the memories of one... it's almost incomprehensible. Same with dating said used to be God. If you try too hard to wrap your head around it, it'll unravel your mind. That is genuinely some kinda form of existential horror or something. Arrrrghhhhhhhh... they make me so violent...

Also... Zelda's soul is still divine. Link's isn't. What happens to them after death? Do NOT reply with "Oh, they get reincarnated as the other future Zeldas and Links!" Because... there's literally in game evidence of two Zeldas and two Links existing at once, which wouldn't be possible if they were the same person reincarnated. One. Botw Zelda and the Hylia statues. Two. The hero's shade and tp Link??? THREE. The og Zelda and the adventure of Link Zelda.

Hylia still exists after Skyward Sword... but where's her Link? Did he pass on and leave her behind? I genuinely don't think he would do that. I think Hylia's ghost is sealed away in the Sacred Realm, because the golden three thought she was too weak to exist in the normal realm. Separating her from her Link. He still lingers, somewhere... but she can't find him. Though she sees his face in every child that wields the blade he had cherished so dearly. She sees his face in every single one of their daughters that shares her name.

I think I could go on for hours, actually. I am so NOT normal about them.