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rafesfawn · 6 months ago

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🪽🧺 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋

𝜗ৎ⋆｡˚ when rafe sees a precious little doll on the side of the road with a broke-down car, how can he resist out of the kindness of his heart offering her a ride? just a ride home, that's all...

or how trailerpark!angel!reader and rafe met!

warnings: use of the nickname pet & little one, reader! is eighteen-nineteen! bit of perv!rafe, barely proofread!

a/n: first time writing a rafe fic/blurb! im so excited, also this is based on this ask and thank you so much for sending something I really appreciated it and I hope u like it mwah! I would say you two meet in like early season 2 (right before the cross storyline) also for the format slight ib to others on here esp @rafesangelita (sorry for the tag!)

this was based off of this ask! which tysm i literally love requests and rafe and trailerpark!angel!reader is my new obsession <3

a small, meaningless kick was made to the tire while you huffed and groaned, putting two hands over your frustrated features as all you wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.

“piece of shit,” you mumbled under your breath, kicking the tire once more, but immediately a whimper fell from your lips. the pain shot from your toe up to your spine. making you sniffle and tip-toe in pain. in your denim ruffle skirt, white socks, and pink converse, you sat down on the asphalt, on the side of the road, leaning against the side of your broken-down car.

she wasn’t the best car, but she surely got you around most of the time. most of the time. it was a little volkswagen beetle, light pink in color, covered in so many stickers some wondered if it was passing inspection. it wasn't.

sitting with your head against the car for what felt like hours (it was maybe ten minutes), but spending even that on the side of a main road in kildare island was torture. especially with the beating sun late august provided.

rafe was speeding down the road on the way to play golf and get drunk with topper and kelce. “ah shit, i don’t know, man.” he said into his phone, holding it up with one hand; his voice gruff and confident, topper on the other line. “you really think i won’t kick your ass today huh?” a smirk grew on his already smug expression.

letting out a short chuckle at toppers response, nothing anybody ever said meant more than a laugh to him. or that's what it used to be like anyway, his act wasn't together if anything, it was worse than it'd ever been. his father condemning him to disingenuous "discipline" to forget about the possible death of his golden daughter.

"the fuck?" he mutters into the mic, his voice laced with confusion. as he sees up ahead on the road, a pink car broken down, with the most precious thing sitting against it. a pout on the angels soft lips and the most defeated look in her eye. aw, you just fell right into my lap, didn't you? little angel.

your eyes glued on the pavement, your entertainment of watching a little ladybug try to make it to safety in the distance, was shortly interrupted.

a nice black truck coming into view it came to such a short stop it almost took your breath away, the breaks slightly screeching at the haste. a tire replaced the spot the ladybug once was.

you stood brushing the dirt and gravel off the backsides of your pale thighs, left bare by the short fabric of your skirt.

the man stepped out of the truck. he was tall, and the sleeves of his polo looked like they were about to burst at the seams, not able to contain the biceps beneath. his features strong and statue-like, his deep sea eyes hidden behind the curtain bangs that hung over his forehead. a grin that seemed too genuine, too good to be true.

you removed your heart-shaped sunglasses, placing them on top of your head to see him more clearly. your possible savior, but he was anything but.

he stepped a bit closer, seeing the state of her already pretty beaten car, "having some car trouble?" rafe asked as if he wasn't stating the obvious.

you pretended he wasn't either as you nodded, the frown only slight now but still on your lips as your eyes remained looking up into his.

"aw.. poor thing we can't have that, what happened?" his voice, a mockery of sympathy. as he inspected the piece of shit car she loved so much. his care coming from a place of ownership, of burning ache or want.

still, in slight shock, you hadn't answered him, following behind him as he reopened the hood like he owned the car. not even realizing you'd been rude and not replied till he spoke again. "little one, i can't fix it if you don't tell me what's wrong." a heady mix of gentle and firm that made your mouth go dry and your head dizzy.

"oh- it's been on her last limb for like ever, i guess she finally called it quits... right on my way home." you said with a little sad laugh that rafe wanted to bottle the sound of and listen to on repeat. "and I really need to get home," you added fiddling with your fingers in front of you.

a sweet girl all out of options, rafe was so glad he was here to provide her with his help. "tell you what, I'll take you home and come back and fix this thing up for you, huh?" he offered, there goes his saturday plans he presumed. it'd be worth it. he told himself he'd make it worth it, with those shy eyes and the expression you carried like a lost puppy. you'd owe him he'd make sure to get something in return.

just like he figured, you shook your head. never wanting to accept such a grand favor. "I can't ask you to do that, I mean, I don't even know your name." nerves, curiosity, and a glint of something else tinged in your voice, so many wonders in that head as soon as his truck came to a stop for you. why? the only question running through your mind.

"It's rafe, can I help you out now?" his genuine grin turned almost smug at his own remark, brushing that bangs out his face, the effort pointless as they immediately fell back again.

you paused. picking at the already chipped white nail polish on your sore fingertips, a larger-rougher hand covered your own, stopping your movements with that firm gentleness he carried around her. you looked up at him, he was so much closer. the scent of some cologne that probably could pay your rent, and a tinge of smokey wood filled your senses.

"pet?" he questioned with an expecting tilt of his head, calling you that like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your body and mouth responding before giving another second for your brain or anxiety to think it over, you nodded. "can you please give me a ride home?" you hesitantly asked, it felt weird. getting help, and even asking for it felt foreign, he offered it so graciously like it was nothing.

looking down upon her, his grin turned genuine once again, his eyes seemed almost proud it was a soothing balm to her nervous heart. a rosy hue to her cheeks as his palm covered the side of her neck, making a few pats to the flesh before leading her to his truck.

you'd owe him. something he was sure you were ready for.

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mindless-existence1 · 4 months ago

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Live Action Movie Shadow x reader

Summery: You give him head scratches while watching a movie.

Authors note: My first sonic fic, this is suggesting romance where reader and Shadow have crushes on eachother but neither knows.

After the chaos of Eggman’s defeat, life in Green Hills had finally started to settle. Tom and Maddie had been kind enough to take Shadow in, giving him a place to stay alongside Sonic, Tails, Knuckles—and you. The house was lively, to say the least, but today, it was unusually quiet.

Tom had taken Sonic, Knuckles, and Tails out for a hike to “burn off some energy,” leaving you and Shadow alone. Not that Shadow minded the peace. He always seemed to prefer solitude, though you noticed he never complained when you were around.

You glanced over at him as he sat on the couch, his arms crossed and his usual stern expression in place.

“Hey, Shadow,” you said, holding up a DVD. “Wanna watch a movie?”

He turned his crimson gaze to you, his ears twitching slightly. “What kind of movie?”

“Your pick,” you replied with a shrug.

The two of you settled on an action-packed thriller—something you figured would hold his attention. As the movie started, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him. Even in a relaxed setting like this, Shadow carried himself with an air of quiet intensity that you found… oddly endearing.

About halfway through the movie, you noticed how his ears twitched every time the sound effects got loud. You hesitated, then decided to ask something that had been on your mind.“Shadow?”

“Hm?” he replied, not looking away from the screen. “Can I… pet your head?” That got his attention. He turned to you, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Why would you want to do that?”

You smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know. Your fur looks really soft. And… you look like you could use some relaxation.” He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Just as you were about to backtrack and say it was a dumb idea, he surprised you by sighing and shifting slightly.

“Do as you wish,” he muttered, his cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of pink.Your heart skipped a beat as you reached out tentatively, your fingers brushing through the fur on his head.

It was just as soft as you’d imagined, and Shadow let out a barely audible hum of approval. Emboldened, you continued, gently scratching behind his ears.

To your surprise, Shadow leaned into your touch, his usually rigid posture softening. After a moment, he shifted again, lying down and resting his head in your lap.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down at him. He had his eyes closed now, his expression peaceful in a way you’d never seen before.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly.He opened one eye to look up at you, his voice low and almost shy. “It’s… nice.”

You smiled, your heart fluttering as you continued to run your fingers through his fur. For a while, neither of you spoke, the only sounds coming from the movie playing in the background.

As you absentmindedly scratched behind his ears, you found yourself wondering if Shadow could hear how fast your heart was beating. You’d had a crush on him for a while now, but moments like this made it harder to keep your feelings to yourself.

Unbeknownst to you, Shadow was having similar thoughts. He hadn’t understood why your presence always seemed to calm him or why he found himself seeking you out more often than not.

But as he lay there, feeling your gentle touch, he started to wonder if this was what peace felt like.“Y/N,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah?” you replied, looking down at him.

“...Thank you.”Your cheeks flushed. “For what?”

“For staying,” he said simply, his eyes closing again.You smiled softly, your fingers tracing gentle patterns through his fur. “Always.”

Neither of you said anything after that, but the unspoken feelings between you lingered in the air, a quiet promise that maybe—just maybe—neither of you would have to be alone anymore.

#shadow x reader #shadow the hedgehog #Shadow the hedgehog #Shadow the hedgehog x reader #Sonic 3 #Sonic live action movies #Sonic 3 was peak #sonic universe x reader

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homemadesterekpie · 7 days ago

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there’s something about the concept of Stiles joining Derek’s pack and over time becoming more wolf than human even if he remains technically a human, that i absolutely love… so here’s a little something about that.

losing his entire family transforms Derek into someone more primitive, more feral, parts of himself that had been buried under years of masking when living out alongside humans are now back with a vengeance.

his mother always believed in living a double life, living the best of both worlds and Derek always thought the same but then his entire family burned to death.

now he wants to live as a wolf. let the wolf to the forefront and take the lead. doesn’t mean he’s in wolf form all the time it just means he’s letting his instincts take control and he stops second guessing them.

Stiles joins his pack pretty early on because Scott has a death wish apparently and Stiles does not want to die thank you very much.

he starts spending all of his time with Derek and the betas, in the forest. his dad starts asking questions because Stiles is not even there for supper when he’s off duty anymore and he’s almost never in his bed in the morning either.

Stiles can’t sleep without Derek anymore. his room smells wrong. his own bed feels wrong to sleep on. the entire house smells wrong. his dad is never home anyway.

at school he keeps zoning out while looking outside the window, into the forest. non-packmates brush against him in the halls and he has to make a giant effort not to snarl at them.

Isaac, Erica and Boyd become his shadows. during lunch they leave the school grounds and run into the forest doing God knows what. the school starts talking, the sheriff gets informed. Scott gets told.

they both corner Stiles when he gets back from school along with Isaac, Erica and Boyd.

Stiles sighs through his nose when he sees Scott’s bike and the cruiser in the driveway. he looks to the three wolves and they look back. they haven’t needed to use words in a while.

they follow him inside the house that hasn’t felt like home to Stiles in some time now.

Scott is pissed the wolves came along, the sheriff doesn’t understand. he asks if they’re Stiles’s new friends and that maybe they aren’t a good influence on him, which provokes some low growls from the wolves. Isaac taking one of Stiles’s wrists in one hand and pulling slightly with a short whine.

Stiles soothes him with a touch and huff through his nose. won’t be long.

Stiles tells his dad that his grades are fine so whats the problem. his dad is a bit stunned. Scott is so red he looks like he’ll explode at any moment.

his dad says he’s just worried about him and Scott nods along. Stiles says he’s fine and that they don’t need to worry about him. they just need to let him be.

the sheriff kind of panics because it feels a lot like he’s losing control of his kid. like he’s actively losing him somehow. but he can’t pinpoint exactly why so he just deflates in defeat.

Stiles says again he doesn’t have to worry about him and with that he goes upstairs to his room to grab what he had come here for and then he’s out of the door, his wolves leading the way, leaving a livid Scott and a shook sheriff behind.

Scott comes out the door and shouts things at Stiles. Stiles doesn’t even look his way as he gets into his jeep and backs out the driveway.

when they get to the forest, Stiles hugs Derek tightly and lets him nuzzle his neck, his hair. Putting his scent back on him. he tells Derek what happened. Derek just looks at him, intently.

Stiles tells him he doesn’t want to leave anymore. he wants to stay here. with Derek. with the betas. that going into town doesn’t feel right anymore. and he gets upset as he tries to explain to Derek why he can’t be out there anymore.

Derek just pulls him into his arms and makes the low rumbling noise he makes whenever Stiles or one of his wolves are upset and need to be soothed.

Stiles clings to him. his alpha. staying away from him for too long is becoming painful. the betas can feel it too. the stronger their pack gets, the harder it is to be apart. being with the betas at school is just enough to keep them all sane.

the day Stiles turns 18, he moves out of the house and into the forest. the betas + Peter helps with the move. he moves out while his dad is at work and he gets home to his son’s room stripped of everything except furniture and a letter on the bare mattress.

Stiles’ words tells him not to worry about him and that he’s not far. that Stiles loves him but he needs to do this. that Stiles will keep an eye on him so not to do anything stupid.

the sheriff wonders around the house feeling numb until he notices the framed picture of him and Stiles when he was still a child, is missing from its frame on the wall. Stiles obviously took it with him. and thats what breaks him. he’s upset but that small gesture gives him hope. hope that his son is not completely lost to him.

the pack builds themselves a life out in the forest. they barely leave it now. only when Stiles wants to check on his dad or pack matters require them to leave it.

Scott follows Allison and her family out of state after Derek’s pack make a formal request. No hunters will be permitted to enter much less reside on Hale lands without explicit permission from the pack. Chris Argent tries to negotiate but the mated Alpha pair is adamant. either they leave their territory or they’ll be made to leave it.

Stiles sets up protective runes around his childhood home. the best ones he’s got. and he leaves an amulet on his dad’s bedside table and a note that says to put it on and never take it off. the sheriff does as he’s told without question.

by now he’s used to his son doing things from the shadows. he barely sees him but he also feels near at all times. like he’s always there, watching over him. like he said he would.

sometimes he finds baskets of stuff on his porch when he gets back from a long shift. some seasonal produce, fresh game, the occasional preserves and pickles. there’s no note usually but he knows who leaves them.

when he unpacks the baskets he leaves them back out on the porch to be picked up again.

sometimes he can hear howls from the forest. it took him a long time to finally understand what they meant, since after all, there’s no wolves in California.

Stiles is part of something old. so old it’s actually ancient. and sacred. something that has its own culture and rules. something he will never fully understand. but he understands enough and it settles something in him that had been unsettled ever since that day him and Scott cornered Stiles after school.

#i know this is very similar to other posts i’ve written lately but this was in my drafts #and i really liked the vibes so i decided to clean it up a but and post it #sterek #eternalsterek #my writing #personal

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boyfiechan · 2 months ago

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[Softest Ruin]

...or the one where the song won’t come together, but you might.

Bang Chan x Reader Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, graphic and mature language, reader described as AFAB, rough unprotected sex, fingering, dry humping, creampie, slight cum-play, semi-public setting, dominance and control dynamics, light overstimulation, slight oral fixation, dirty talk, light possessive behavior. [5.4k words]

The hum of the studio filled the air, low and constant, a steady vibration that didn’t just echo off the walls but seemed to live beneath the skin as it thrummed through the floor, a pulse that pressed into bone, something felt as much as heard. It wasn’t just sound—it was weight. A presence that lingered heavy in the corners, clinging like smoke, like breath caught too long in the chest, like something that refused to let go. It wrapped around the room, thick and suffocating, filling the empty spaces between you and Chris, stretching the silence until it felt solid, something to be broken through. Waiting.

He sat there, tension carved into every line of him. Shoulders tight, hunched beneath frustration like it was a physical thing pressing down, spine rigid as if it might snap beneath the strain. His eyes were sharp, shadowed under furrowed brows, locked on the clutter of the room—the mess of tangled cables, the glow of stubborn screens, the scattered fragments of a song that refused to fall into place. It's not coming together, he muttered, voice low, rough. Sounds flat. Dead. Like I'm missing something and I can't—.His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching, restless, like they ached to tear the problem apart, to rip the sound into shape by force. His jaw was locked tight, the muscle jumping beneath his skin, holding back words that burned sharp against the back of his throat, words that wanted to tear loose, words that tasted like defeat.

And you watched him, quiet. His mood pressed into you, sharp and heavy, until it rooted itself somewhere deep, beneath your ribs, low in your belly, a weight that wouldn’t shift. You could feel it—his frustration, his hunger for something just out of reach, something that refused to bend, no matter how many times he twisted the sound, pulled it apart, tried to force it into shape. It was a battle, and he was losing it, piece by piece. You stepped closer, slow, unhurried, each movement careful, until you were standing between his legs, the heat of him brushed against you, close and tangible, stirring something deep and heavy. You didn’t speak, not at first. You let the silence settle, thick and full, letting it stretch until it almost hurt, until it was brimming with things unspoken but understood. Then, soft, like you didn’t want to break the moment, you did. You're too close to it. Maybe you just need to step back.

His eyes lifted, dark and unreadable, but they didn’t just land on you—they caught, snagged, held, like a hook under the skin, like you’d said something he didn’t want to hear but couldn’t ignore. He didn’t answer right away, just watched you, gaze slow, dragging over your face, your mouth, like he was turning your words over, measuring them against the frustration clawing at his ribs. Old habits die hard, and this was his hardest battle—he couldn’t give up, didn’t know how to, didn’t know what to do with the fight once it was gone. It looped through him, constant and biting, the need to keep pushing, to force something to break. You’ve been at it too long, you murmured, stepping in, close enough that the warmth of him reached you, curling in the space between. You're burning yourself out.

His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. It stayed on you, heavy, weighted with something unspoken, the kind of look that settled in your stomach, slow and twisting, something almost too much. His hands lifted, rough palms skating over your hips, then curling firm, holding. And then, without a word, he pulled you down, guiding you into his lap. The shift was studied, unhurried, like he wanted you to feel every inch of movement, every second of his grip on you.

His arm wrapped around your waist, solid, grounding, pulling you in, pressing you close. The other hand found your thigh, fingers spreading, warm, certain, the weight of it making your pulse jump. You settled against him, but the air between you didn’t, it stayed charged, stretched thin, buzzing beneath the quiet. You could feel the tension in him—not just in his body, but in the way he held himself back, something sharp coiled tight beneath the surface. His hand moved, dragging slow along your thigh, up, lingering, then slipping beneath your shirt, finding bare skin, heat. His breath brushed against your cheek, heavier now, a little uneven. His voice, when it came, was low, rough, threading through the space between you. You're so good to me, you know that? Maybe it wasn’t a question at all—maybe it was permission, an unspoken invitation to step into the closed-off reality he’d locked himself inside.

It was always like that with him. You pulling him down when he got too lost, too locked in, too tangled inside his own head. Grounding him when the weight of it pressed too heavy, when he forgot how to come back to himself. And maybe you didn’t need words for it—maybe it was already there, in the way you leaned closer, in the quiet pull of your body toward his, like gravity, like you were giving him an answer without speaking, one he could feel beneath his skin. And he was grateful for it, even if he didn’t always say it. Grateful for the way you knew when to reach in, when to catch him before he fell too far. He was learning, slow and rough, how to let you, how to open the door just enough for you to slip inside, to let you hold him still when everything else felt like it was pulling him under.

And his gratitude showed in the way his hand lifted to your face, slow and careful, fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he was committing it to memory, carving the shape of you into something permanent beneath his skin. His thumb lingered at your bottom lip, a pause thick with meaning, a breath caught in the charged space between almost and enough, between wanting and having.

He didn’t press, not at first, just traced, slow, testing. As if he wanted to feel how close he could get before you broke, to watch the tension stretch and pull. His gaze didn’t leave yours, dark and focused, and maybe that was worse because you felt it everywhere. In the weight of him, the way he watched the falter of your breath, the way his eyes tracked the parting of your lips like it meant something.

Then, slow and purposeful, his thumb dragged along the soft seam of your mouth, tracing down until it pressed just inside. A slow, provocative tease—he was daring you, and you let him, lips parting, breath catching, your tongue brushing against the pad of his thumb, soft and wet. A sound left him, low and rough, something that felt like approval, like hunger held back by a thread and you knew himwell like this, knew how he grounded himself on you, on your presence, your body—how it steadied him, anchored him when nothing else could. And still, neither of you spoke, and it didn’t matter. The silence said enough, said everything.

Because when he kissed you, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow, but sharp—searing, consuming—like a question asked and already answered. Like inevitability, his mouth claimed yours, rough and hungry, tasting you like something he’d been starved for. His hands weren’t gentle when they caught your waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold, to mark, to keep as pulled you closer, closer still, until there wasn’t space left between you, until it felt like he was burning through you, heat pressed skin to skin. And you let him, wanting to be taken, to burn. Wanting him.

His fingers found the edge of your shirt, slipping beneath with a slow, dragging heat, palms rough, fingertips tracing over bare skin, up the curve of your back, along the dip of your waist. His hands moved like he owned you, like he was learning you all over again, savoring every inch. When he pulled back, it was only enough to breathe, to let his mouth hover just close enough to feel. His voice was rough when it came, low and thick against your lips. So sweet. The words ghosted over your skin, made your breath catch, made heat curl low in your belly.

And then his hands were lower, fingers sliding beneath the loose hem of your shorts, dragging slow along the soft skin of your thighs. His touch was light at first, a whisper of sensation that made you twitch, hips tilting toward him without thought, seeking more, wanting more. He smiled against your skin, the sound a low, dark hum, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm and heavy.

Pretty, he murmured, fingertips tracing higher, slow, measured, edging closer to where you ached for him most. Always so pretty for me. The words sank deep, stirring heat under your skin, and you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, not until his thumb pressed down, slow and firm, circling where you were hottest. The friction made you gasp, made your body jolt, hips rolling into his hand, needing the pressure, the touch, the heat, as he chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. Mhm? he rasped. Like that? And nodded, breathless, but it wasn’t enough, not for him. You felt it in the tension of his hands, the way his grip tightened, the way his breath stilled. He wanted more, wanted to feel you fall apart under him, against him, because of him, and you wanted it too.

He shifted you, guiding you deeper into his lap, settling with your back pressed firm to his chest, until you could feel the heat of him everywhere. His arm curled tight around your waist, steady, possessive, holding you close like he wasn’t about to let go, other hand slid lower, fingers tracing along your thigh, slipping beneath the delicate lace edge of your shorts, fingertips brushing over sensitive skin, finding you again—hot, slick, ready. A low curse slipped from his lips, rough and breathless, pressed to the curve of your shoulder. Already wet, mhm? He murmured, voice low and rough, edged with hunger.

His fingers pressed deeper, slow and sure, sliding inside you with a steady drag that made your breath hitch, spine arching instinctively as his arm held you steady, tight, anchoring you to him. Keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His lips grazed your skin, a soft, dangerous whisper against your shoulder. Easy, baby, he soothed, voice a low promise. I’ve got you. Words that sank deep, that burned low, wrapping around you like his arms.

He moved his fingers with purpose, slow but certain, curling them just right to catch the spot that made you tremble, made your legs tense. His thumb pressed down, slow and steady, circling over your clit, coaxing you higher with every stroke, every calculated shift of pressure. The rhythm was patient, merciless, his hand moving like he knew you better than you knew yourself, feel every sharp edge of your need and wanted to stretch it out, make you feel every second of it.

And his voice. God, his voice. Low and rough, a steady murmur of praise, words spilling warm and slow against your skin. That's it, he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Just like that. Let me feel you. The way he said it made your pulse stutter, made heat coil tighter, deeper, until it felt like you might shatter from it as you trembled against him, every breath a soft gasp, every tilt of your hips meeting the rhythm he set, craving it, chasing it. And still, he didn’t let up, wet mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing, tongue soft, dragging slow over your skin until you were arching for him again, helpless against the burn of it. You drive me fucking crazy, he whispered, voice thick, heavy. Can't get enough of you.

His hand never faltered, fingers pressed deeper, curling harder, while his thumb circled slower, heavier—relentless in the way it drove you closer, dragged you under, until you were gasping for him, hips pushing back into his chest, head falling to the side, offering more. Letting him taste, letting him take. You wanted to fall apart for him, and he wanted to watch you do it—wanted to feel it, hear it, have it. And you could sense it in him, sharp and hot, simmering beneath the surface, stretching you thin as he felt it too, in the way your body tensed, how your breath hitched, stuttered, broke. But his touch stayed steady. No mercy, just deeper, harder. Every movement a demand, dragging you closer, holding you there, teetering on the edge until there was nowhere left to go but down.

Come for me, yeah?, he whispered, voice low and rough, a command that cracked like heat against your skin. A plea too, but sharp-edged, raw. Let me feel you, need to feel you.

And you did, you shattered for him. Your body broke against his, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, hips grinding down against his hand like you couldn’t get enough, like you wanted him deeper, harder, even when it was already too much. You felt it everywhere—in the way your body arched, in the way your hands grabbed at him, desperate, clutching, felt it in the way your breath broke, your mind blank and burning, lost in the way he touched you, the way he took you apart.

And he held you through it, solid and sure, arm locked firm around your waist, anchoring you to him while his mouth found your skin, soft and reverent, murmuring praises that felt like they sank straight into bone. Good girl… shh, just like that. That's it. His fingers coaxed you through every wave, slow and steady, pulling every last shudder from you until you were trembling, spent, melted back against his chest.

But he didn’t pull away, not yet, hand stayed warm between your thighs, fingers slow, gentle, tracing over you like he wasn’t ready to let go, wanted to feel every last flicker of you. His lips pressed to your temple, soft, lingering, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, thick with something that felt like more, something heavier. You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?

The words left a mark, sharp and searing, branding the space between you. And the tension didn’t fade—it thickened, coiling low, deep, an ache that lingered beneath skin as you shifted in his lap again, turning slow, controlled, until you were straddling him, facing him, knees pressing into the chair on either side of his hips. His hands caught your waist, fingers firm, holding you there like he wasn’t ready to let you go. The raw edge of release still clung to every breath, every slow press of skin to skin, thick and heavy and wanting.

Your hand moved slow, lazy, fingers trailing over the hard lines of his stomach, tracing the edges of muscle beneath heated skin, lingering at the waistband of his pants, teasing, touch light, coaxing, not taking but savoring, stretching the moment until it ached. His eyes were half-lidded, dark and gone, like watching you unraveled him too, like he drew as much pleasure from your release as you did. There was something raw in the way he looked at you, something lustful, almost erotic, as if the sight of you, still shaking, still flushed, fed something deeper inside him. Your hand rested over him, pressing just enough to feel the heat of him pulse beneath your palm, feeling how hard he was, how ready, the tension humming through his body, barely held back. And he let you linger there, caught in the same sharp edge of want that neither of you dared to break.

And still, you didn’t take him further, you waited, teased. Watching him, feeling the way his breath grew heavier, rougher, his body tense beneath yours. Your eyes found his, knowing, lips curved just enough to let him know you felt it too. That you were holding back, that you were making him wait. And maybe that was what grounded him—the tension, the tiptoeing, the uncertain certainty that he belonged there, beneath your hands, in the heat of your hold. But he didn’t wait, he couldn’t. He didn't have to.

A low, rough sound rumbled from his chest, heat simmering beneath it, his hand sliding around your wrist, firm but slow, guiding you down. He pressed your palm over the thick, heavy shape beneath his jeans, holding it there, letting you feel the way he throbbed for you. His breath dragged hot against your jaw, lips brushing soft, teasing, almost sweet. You know what you're doing to me, don’t you? he murmured, voice low and hungry. And you did, and you loved every fucking second of it.

You moved with him, hips grinding slow, filthy, every press dragging a needy, broken sound from your throat. His cock throbbed beneath you, thick and heavy, the friction sharp and slick as you pushed harder, chasing the burn as you reached down, slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with a slow drag that left only the thin stretch of your frilly panties, ruined and soaked. The fabric clung, damp and wanting, and when you settled back over him, the press of his cock against that damp heat pulled another groan from you—sharp, raw, desperate.

You ground down again, slower this time, savoring the friction, the tease, the way the head of him pressed perfectly against your clit through the thin fabric, making your breath stutter. Your fingers found him, sliding beneath the waistband of his pants, teasing until you freed him, fingers tentative at first, tracing the heavy length of him. Hot and hard, velvet-smooth skin stretched over steel, twitching beneath your touch. His breath hitched, sharp and rough, as you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slow, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he pulsed for you.

But it wasn’t enough, not for him as his hands found your hips, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until your soaked panties pressed flush against him once again. And then, without words, without warning, he hooked his fingers under the edge of the fabric and pushed it aside, baring you to him. The air was cold, the contrast sharp, but his touch was fire, searing as he guided you down. The head of him pressed against you, thick and insistent, sliding through the slick heat until he caught at your entrance. A pause, breath held, tension sharp yhen he pushed in, slow and brutal, stretching you open until you gasped, until your body gave way, slick, eager, taking him deeper, fuller. The sound that tore from him was low, broken, almost pained. Jesus, fuck.

You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, only feel the way he stretched you—thick and heavy, his cock dragging deep, every inch of it veined and pulsing, splitting you open in slow, deep strokes. The slow rut of his hips burned pleasure sharp through every nerve, every push and pull carving into you, leaving you raw, trembling, undone as your pulse pounded, every part of you aching, desperate, ready. You pressed harder, taking him deeper, until it hurt, until it burned, until it tore a sob from your throat, thick and breathy and his words wrapped around you, coiling tight, sinking.

That's it, he groaned, lips brushing your ear, voice wrecked, dangerous. Just like that. The words lit a fire in you, burning low and deep, dragging a sharp cry from your throat. Your body pulsed, tight and desperate, every nerve a live wire, every breath caught and jagged and still, he didn't stop. He rocked into you, deep and slow, holding you down, keeping you close, keeping you his, keeping you there, right where he wanted you until all you could do was beg. Until all you could do was fall apart for him, helpless and ruined, your body breaking open beneath his, nothing left but the way he made you feel.

The studio echoed with every filthy, wet slap of skin, the grind of the chair beneath you, the ragged, broken gasps that filled the thick, heavy air. His hand was a brand on your back, pressing you down, keeping you steady, holding you right where he wanted you, his cock shoved deep, thick and brutal, stretching you open with every ruthless thrust. Each drive tore through you, sharp and raw, filling you so full it hurt, and you arched into it, desperate for more, for harder, for deeper. His name tore from your throat, a broken plea, a curse, and he caught it, felt it, fucking owned it.

You're a goddamn dream, he rasped, voice thick and wasted, every word dragging fire down your spine. His fingers bruised into your thigh, rough and claiming, holding you open, forcing you to take him, to feel every inch as his hips snapped harder, deeper, burying himself to the hilt, each thrust brutal, merciless. The stretch, the burn, it split you open, raw and aching and you wanted it, craved it, the mess of it, the filth, the slick sound of him inside you, the wet, obscene drag that filled the room.

His mouth traced fire down your throat, teeth scraping, lips catching, tongue licking sweat from your skin. Feel that, yeah? How deep I am? The words were a low, growling sin, hot and dark in your ear, and they shattered something inside you. You love it, don't you? How I stretch you, make you full. So fucking greedy for it. Such a sweet mess for me. His hand slid down, fingers pressing into the wet heat where you took him, feeling the way you pulsed around him, slick and wanting and you clawed at him, nails raking, hips jerking, forcing him deeper, rougher, chasing the burn, chasing the ruin. Every movement was vicious, sharp, dangerous. And when you cried out, when you begged, when you broke, he swallowed it down, caught it with his mouth, drank it in like it was his right, like he owned it, owned you.

His groan echoed in your mouth, low and wrecked. I'd fucking record this, he rasped, breath hot and filthy. Every sound you make when I'm deep inside you. Play it back, ruin myself on it. Over and over. His lips dragged over your jaw, biting, rough. But I won't, 'cause you're mine. No one else gets to know how you sound when you're falling apart on my cock, no one but me.

You pressed in, grinding down, chasing the friction, breath ragged and sharp sd his hand slid between you, fingers slipping beneath the mess of heat, finding your clit. He circled slow, rough, just enough to rip a cry from your throat and you bit into his skin, trying to swallow it, body trembling beneath his weight. He growled, deep and dark, the sound bleeding into your skin, his touch merciless as if he wanted you broken, ruined, trembling on the edge. As if he wanted to take you there and hold you there, wrecked and his, with no way back.

That's it, his voice rougher by the minute. Come for me. Give it to me, let me have it, darling.

And you gave it to him, you shattered, clenching tight, body locking down, hips jerking in sharp, uncontrolled spasms. His name tore from you, raw and broken, muffled against his skin, your voice a ragged plea, a surrender as his arms crushed you impossibly closer, mouth rough and claiming, teeth scraping over your throat, biting just enough to make you tremble. You gave him everything—every cry, every tremor, every breathless, desperate sound—and he took it, drank it down like it was his right, like it was his fucking need. He let you ride it out, dragged it deeper, grinding into the ache, until you were limp, undone, wrecked, but he wasn't done, not even close.

His grip turned even more brutal, fingers biting deep into your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted as his pace turned savage, hips snapping hard, rough, relentless. This pussy was made for me, he groaned, voice rough, strained, almost breaking. So fucking tight, so fucking perfect.

You turned your head, lips dragging over his jaw, tasting sweat, salt, him. Wanna feel you cum in me, you breathed, voice wrecked and needy, raw with it. Please… need it.

His answer was a sound, low and guttural, a growl that tore through him, primal and dangerous, he slammed into you harder, sharper, hips brutal, grinding deep like he wanted to leave a mark, like he wanted to brand you from the inside out. The chair beneath you groaned, creaking beneath the force, every sound filthy, obscene, loud, air was thick with heat, with sweat, with the raw, relentless drag of skin and breath and hunger. His mouth found your neck again, biting hard, tongue chasing the sting, lips claiming every inch of skin like it belonged to him, you belonged to him. You felt every inch, every vein, the slick slide of him splitting you open, filling you until it hurt, until it burned, until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

Shit, you're taking me so fucking good, he groaned, voice rough and ragged, words dragging over your skin like fire. So easy for me, so fucking wet, letting me in so deep, letting me take whatever I want. You love it, don’t you? Love how I fill you, stretch your pussy open.

You gasped, the words ripping through you, sharp and dangerous, your body clenching around him in a desperate, helpless response. Chris, you moaned, breathless and broken, the sound spilling out before you could catch it. His name hit the air like a spark, and he growled, his grip tightening, his pace brutal, fucking you deeper, harder, as if the sound of his name on your lips wrecked him, ruined him, as if he needed it as much as he needed to breathe. Fuck, the way you squeeze me, he rasped, the strain thick in his voice. So greedy for it, can't get enough, can you?

And you let him. Let him take, let him ruin, let him have, hands clawed at his back, nails biting deep into sweat-slick skin, hips pushed up, greedy and desperate, chasing the drag, the grind, the brutal edge of him. You needed more—needed him deeper, harder, all-consuming—and he gave it, relentless and hungry. His breath was hot and broken against your skin, ragged, desperate, a filthy promise in every exhale. You're gonna take it, yeah?, he groaned, voice low and rough, every word dragging heat down your spine. You're already dripping for me… messy fucking girl. Want more?

And you wanted it. God, you wanted it, wanted to be wrecked, wanted to be ruined, to feel him spill inside and stay there, thick and warm, marking you as your hands clawed harder, nails scratching over muscle as your body bowed, urging him deeper, faster. The sounds were messy, slick and wet, skin on skin, gasps and moans tangled between you, filthy and raw, hips snapped harder, sharper, driving into you like he could break you open and fill every part of you.

Fuck... baby, so close, he groaned, voice rough and wrecked, each word dragging heat down your spine. His grip tightened, holding you still as his thrusts turned frantic, desperate. Gonna cum inside you... gonna fill you up, fuck, need it—need you. And when it hit, it tore through him, q raw, broken cry ripped from his throat as he slammed deep, grinding hard, burying himself to the hilt. Shit—baby, he gasped, voice shaking, almost a whimper as he spilled inside, thick and hot, filling you until it leaked, dripping messy and warm down your thighs. He stayed there, grinding slow, hips pressing deeper like he couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop, like he needed to feel you take it all.

Your body was soft, spent, molding to his, every breath ragged and heavy, the air between you stayed thick with heat and sweat and something darker, something neither of you dared name. The weight of it pressed down, heavy and sharp, filling every quiet second. Chris's hands didn’t stray far, one lingered at the curve of your waist, thumb tracing over slick skin, slow and claiming, while the other slid lower, wanting, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving, of pulling away, as if he wanted to keep you right there, holding him, holding everything he gave you, a secret just between your bodies.

He looked down first, gaze dropping to where you still dripped for him, the mess of it slick and raw between your thighs and his eyes darkened, hunger sharp and cutting, watching the way it leaked out slow, glistening in the low light. His breath hitched, jaw flexing like it physically hurt him to see it, to see you like this—ruined and wrecked and open for him. Look at this he muttered, voice low, tight. His fingers dragged through it, slow and intentional, gathering what was slipping out. He watched, transfixed, as it clung to his skin, as if he couldn’t stand to lose a single drop, pressing two fingers back inside you, firm and deep, pushing everything in, making you take it for good. Still so fucking wet for me. The stretch was sharp, the burn immediate, and a gasp tore from your throat, your body clenching around him as he filled you again, the sound of it—wet and obscene—echoed through the air, filthy and raw.

His thumb pressed low, tracing slow, burning circles that made your legs tremble. His gaze locked with yours—dark, intense, like he wanted to brand this moment into his skin, fngers dragging out of your hole, slick and glistening, lifting to your lips. He traced them over the soft curve first, smearing wetness onto your skin, painting you in what you'd given him as his breath hitched, shallow, watching as your lips parted under his touch, as though your body already knew what it wanted as they slid in, slow, pressing against your tongue. The taste flooded over you—rich, heavy, dark, filthy and perfect. You sucked slow, savoring every trace, eyes locked to his, daring him to look away, daring him to keep watching as you ruined him in the softest way, as pretty as ever.

He watched you, jaw tight, something raw flickering beneath the surface as his other hand slid to your cheek, thumb tracing over the line of your jaw, soft and slow. Made such a pretty mess of you, he muttered, voice low and dark. You're a good distraction. You let his fingers slip from your lips, a soft breath catching between you. Yeah? The word was quiet, uncertain, but his nod came steady, sure. Yeah. Thank you.

The words held weight, thick and slow, settling deep in the quiet. Not careless, not light., something real that lingered between your bodies, pressed close and warm. His hands stayed on you, gentle but firm, like he wasn’t ready to let go, like maybe he never would. For a moment, the world outside the heat of his skin didn't exist. There was just the slow stroke of his thumb over your cheek, the soft sigh that passed your lips, the heavy way your bodies stayed close, reluctant to separate. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for something he couldn’t quite name, maybe it was the same thing you felt, lingering low and dangerous beneath your ribs, tight and sharp.

But neither of you said it. The words stayed caught between your breaths, pressed down by the weight of what had passed and what might come after. Instead, his thumb traced over your lips again, slow and warm, smearing the faint remnants of what you'd shared. Still messy, he whispered, and the corner of his mouth twitched, as if the words tasted sweeter than they should. Might need to clean you up.

The heat that sparked low in your stomach said you wouldn't mind that at all.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan thoughts #bang chan hard hours #bang chan hard thoughts #bang chan smut #chan hard thoughts #skz smut #skz hard hours #skz hard thoughts #bang chan headcanons #chan smut

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hyunbelievable · 3 months ago

Text

Painted in Sin

Part one.

Summary: a heated one night stand in your new city leads to a world of hurt

This is the new story I’ve been working on! It will be an ongoing series as I write it, and I’ll be posting chapters often. This is NSFW, minors/ageless blogs will be blocked.

Genre: College AU, Non-Idol AU.

WARNINGS: NSFW, MDNI. Swearing, one night stand, unprotected sex, fingering (f receiving), biting, marking/hickeys, alcohol consumption, student/teacher (college level 18+), overall tame but will become heavier as story progresses.

WC: 3.6k (lmao oops)

Chapter One:

The bar was dimly lit, jazz notes floating lazily through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clinking of glass cups and silverware. You sit at the far end of the counter, one leg crossed over the other, your sketchbook perched on top of the bar, still infuriatingly blank.

With a defeated sigh, you press your pencil to the paper, tracing shapes without committing to any. It felt ironic to be an art student struggling to create, but something about the overwhelming newness of the city combined with the weight of tomorrow, left your mind empty.

You wince as the alcohol burns down your throat, tilting your head forward to let your hair fall like a curtain as you scan the room. The place wasn’t packed, but it had its share of interesting characters: a man in a suit nursing a scotch, a couple tucked into the corner laughing over shared secrets, and… him.

He sat a few stools away, one large hand wrapped around a glass of red wine, his head tilted slightly as if lost in thought. Shoulder length dark hair framed sharp features, and his eyes were observant; though they seemed focused on something far beyond the confines of the bar. He was the kind of man who looked effortlessly put-together, like he didn’t belong at this hole-in-the-wall bar, yet somehow, still fit in perfectly.

Your gaze lingers a moment longer than it should have.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s not polite to stare?,” he asks suddenly, his smooth voice teasing as he turns to pin you with his dark gaze.

Heat claws at your neck, but you refused to squirm. “She did,” you pause before adding, “But she also taught me to be observant in unfamiliar surroundings. I’m just being cautious.”

Full lips curve upward in a smirk as he shifts to face you fully. “Yeah? Consider me curious. Do I look like someone you have to be cautious of?”

You shrug, biting back the smile that threatens to bloom. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and low, as he tips his head toward your sketchbook. “What are you working on?”

You glance down at your sketchbook, still covered in nothing more than little scribbles. Shutting it quickly, you lean back in your seat. “Nothing, apparently.”

“That’s a shame,” his voice softens, almost thoughtful. “You look like someone with something to say.”

Something about his comment tugs at you, a mix of curiosity and annoyance. Who the hell was this guy? Before you can come up with a witty retort, the bartender appears with a fresh glass of wine, sliding it across the counter with a hopeful expression. She grabbed the near-empty glass from his hand; her fingers deliberately brushing across his in the process.

But his eyes don’t leave yours.

She exhales a quiet, dejected sigh before walking off to tend to other patrons.

“New in the city?,” his voice was closer now, and when you glance over, you notice that he’d moved into the seat next to yours.

You blink, caught off guard by his accuracy. “That obvious?”

A soft hum escaped him, his dark eyes trailing over your face and lingering on your lips for just a moment too long.

“I’m observant too,” He murmurs, a corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. Then, his gaze flicks back toward the bartender. You follow his eyes, watching as she works her subtle charm on the other patrons. “She’s either very, very desperate for male company, or she’s brilliant. She knows a little flirting means bigger tips.”

You breathe out a soft laugh, “Well, she’s gorgeous so I highly doubt she has trouble getting attention.”

Time slipped away after that. Hours passing in a blur of laughter and clever observations, the two of you taking turns making inferences about the other patrons. The warmth of alcohol burned through your veins, loosening you and making everything feel lighter. For the first time in days, you’d forgotten about your empty sketchbook and the crushing weight of tomorrow.

It wasn’t until you checked your phone that reality slammed back into you. Your stomach drops slightly as you straighten in your seat. It was well past midnight, and you had an early morning looming ahead.

The room tilts when you turn toward him, a laugh bubbling up in your chest as you reach out, steadying yourself with a hand on his bicep. He was solid beneath your touch, the heat of his body warming your palm. Leaning against him to push yourself up, you nearly lose balance, your fingers slipping down his arm further as you catch yourself.

You open your mouth to apologize, but the words die on your tongue when your eyes meet his.

His gaze was heavy-lidded, dark eyes hooded from both the late hour and the alcohol. Hiding beneath it all, there was something else. A slow burning heat, as he watches you closely, as if waiting.

Your tongue drags slowly across your lips, wetting your dry mouth. His gaze drops instantly, following the movement, darkening further. Lazily, he skims a hand up the side of your leg, fingers trailing a heated path before resting on your hip. His grip tightens, further steadying you. When his eyes meet yours again, the air between you shifts. Charges.

The next few minutes blur together, flitting through your mind like a stop-motion film.

The two of you leave the bar, his arm wrapped around you securely. Drawn together like magnets, your hands roam over his broad shoulders; tracing the hard lines of his torso as you wait for the Uber. In the backseat, he lifts you into his lap, meeting you halfway in a passionate kiss. The kiss is hungry, urgent, a mess of bumping noses and clashing teeth that leaves you breathless. His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt, branding your skin as his fingers trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.

The Uber jolts to a stop outside his apartment and you pull apart, practically spilling out onto the pavement, laughing against his lips.

His hands never leave your waist. Instead, he chases your mouth with his own, barely breaking away long enough to slide his key into the lock. When the door clicks open, he doesn’t hesitate. He walks you backward into the dimly lit apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.

His grip tightens on your hips as he lifts you effortlessly, settling you onto the counter. You respond instantly, locking your legs around his waist, pressing him closer. His thumb grazes along your jaw before tilting your chin up, coaxing you to meet his gaze.

His dark eyes hold yours for a lingering moment before he lowers his mouth to yours again. This kiss is different, less urgent but no less consuming. The slow, deliberate press of his lips ignites a heat deep in your stomach, and you sigh softly, letting one hand drift to the hem of his shirt. Your fingers trail across the warm skin just above his waistband, eliciting a low, pleased groan from him.

He slides a hand around your neck, fingers threading into your hair before giving a gentle tug, tilting your head back as his tongue sweeps between your parted lips. Your hands push beneath his shirt, exploring the hard planes of his torso. He breaks the kiss just long enough to strip the fabric over his head, tossing it behind you. His touch follows soon after, fingers tracing up your thighs before stopping at the hem of your skirt.

Dark eyes meet yours once more, a silent question lingering within them. Do you want me to stop?

You answer without hesitation, guiding his hands beneath your skirt while holding his gaze. Don't stop.

Like a fraying rope pulled taut, his restraint snaps. He pushes your skirt up, lips trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck as his thumb presses against the damp fabric covering your core. A breathless sigh escapes you as anticipation coils tight in your stomach. His other hand skims across your waist, tugging at your shirt. You lift your arms to help him strip it away, leaving your chest bare beneath his heated gaze.

His lips part slightly as he takes you in, appreciation flickering in his expression before his smirk returns. He presses his thumb against your clit through the thin fabric, rubbing slow, teasing circles. A whimper escapes you, your legs trembling against his sides as he watches you unravel beneath his touch.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth. Then, without warning, he withdraws his hand.

A strangled noise leaves your lips at the sudden loss, and his dark laugh follows as he lifts you from the counter. One arm supports your back while the other pushes open a door, guiding you down a dimly lit hallway. The world around you fades into the background until you feel the cool press of satin beneath you. His bed.

You push yourself up onto your elbows just as he settles between your legs, knocking your thighs apart with his knee. He drags your skirt down your legs before deftly undoing his belt, freeing himself of his jeans and underwear in a single smooth motion.

His hands find yours, pinning them beside your head as he lowers himself over you, lips capturing yours in another heated kiss. He rolls his hips, the rigid length of him pressing against your center, separated only by the thin barrier of your panties. Even through the fabric, you can feel the heat of him grinding against you, pulling a desperate sound from your throat.

A low growl rumbles in his chest as he rocks into you again, creating a delicious friction that leaves you breathless. He releases one of your hands, trailing his own down to hook a finger under the waistband of your panties. With a slow tug, he slips the fabric aside, his fingers slipping between your folds.

You gasp as two long fingers sink into you, curling and stroking with precision. His palm drags against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure racing through you. He hums in approval, finding you slick and ready. His mouth slants over yours, swallowing your moans as he picks up the pace, working you open with each plunge of his fingers.

Your hips move instinctively, chasing the heat building within you, thighs trembling once more as your walls begin to flutter around his touch. Just as your pleasure peaks, he withdraws his hand.

A groan of frustration escapes you, your chest rising and falling with short, shaky breaths.

“I was —” you barely manage to pout in protest before he interrupts you, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I know,” he soothes, slipping his fingers into his mouth, tasting you with a deep hum. “I just needed a taste. I’ll make it up to you.”

His hands return to yours, pinning them back down as he positions himself between your thighs. You barely have time to steady your breath before you feel him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shudder races through you, anticipation building within you. The second you open your eyes to meet his, he rolls his hips, sinking himself inside you in one slow, powerful movement.

Your lips part on a choked moan, back arching at the divine stretch as he fills you completely. He starts at a tortuous pace, rolling his hips in slow, deliberate strokes, each movement sending waves of pleasure through you. His gaze remains locked on yours, pupils blown wide, dark eyes nearly black with desire.

You can’t look away, transfixed by the way his expression shifts. Brows furrowing, lips parting as if in awe, his chest pressing flush against yours, heartbeat thundering against your own. You ground yourself by wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts. The shift allows him to sink deeper, and his groan vibrates against your skin.

“Oh, fuck,” he growls, burying his face in your neck as his hips snap into yours harder. His fingers tense, gripping yours tighter as he lets out another low moan against your neck.

He releases your hands only to shift, pulling you with him as he leans back against the headboard, guiding you into his lap. His grip on your hips is firm as he helps you sink down onto his cock, groaning as you take him in. Your nails dig into his chest, tiny crescent-shaped marks marring his heated flesh.

You bring your lips to his throat, kissing and nipping a path to his ear before biting down gently on the soft skin of his earlobe. He hisses, head falling back against the headboard as he watches you through pleasure-hooded eyes. A smirk plays on your lips as you take advantage, sucking a mark onto the side of his neck.

He retaliates instantly, fingers tangling in your hair as he tugs, forcing your neck to arch. He brings his lips to the sensitive skin of your neck, marking you in return before dragging his tongue over the bruised skin to soothe the sting.

Your breath catches as he shifts beneath you, his cock hitting a spot deep inside you that makes stars spark behind your eyelids. He catches your reaction and chuckles darkly before repeating the motion, thrusting up into you with deliberate attention.

“Just like that,” you whimper, voice breathless as you let your head tip back. His hand slides between your thighs, thumb circling your clit in tight circles, keeping in rhythm with his punishing thrusts.

The tension inside you snaps suddenly, a choked cry tearing from your throat as your body clenches around him, pleasure coursing through your veins. You feel his cock twitch inside you as his breath stutters, his grip tightening as he gives a few more shallow thrusts before he follows you over the edge. A low groan escapes his lips as he spills inside you, and your body goes slack, muscles giving out as you collapse against his chest, body trembling.

You lie together for a few long moments, your heavy breathing the only sound besides the steady pounding of his heart beneath your ear.

Slowly, you sit up, easing yourself off of him. Before you can rise and begin the inevitable search for your discarded clothing, a warm hand slides around your waist. He tugs you back toward him, and you don’t resist, settling beside him and resting your head against his chest once more.

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay?” his voice is low, fingers tracing absentminded shapes on your skin.

Your eyelids are heavy, and your head begins to throb. The promise of sleep is tempting, but morning looms too close. Staying would be a mistake.

You force yourself upright, immediately missing the comfortable warmth of his touch as your feet hit the chilly hardwood floor. Plucking your skirt from the floor, you tug it on before slipping out of his room, navigating the dimly lit hallway toward the kitchen. Crossing your arms over your bare chest, you squint into the darkness, searching for your shirt, but it’s nowhere to be found.

Light floods the kitchen, and you wince. You turn to the doorway, where he stands with a smirk tilting his lips and your shirt dangling between two fingers. Wordlessly, you take it, slipping it on under his amused gaze before busying yourself with your phone, pulling up the Uber app.

His dark laugh follows you as you awkwardly step out into the cold, your breaths visible in the crisp air.

—

By the time the Uber drops you off at your apartment, you barely have time to shower and fix your hair before heading out for campus.

Hooking up with a random guy from the bar wasn’t exactly how you pictured spending the night before starting at a new college. The lack of sleep is evident in the dark smudges beneath your eyes and the dull throb of a headache pulsing through your skull. Easing your car into a student parking spot, you take a deep, steadying breath.

With a coffee in one hand and your phone in the other, you navigate the campus. The layout is pretty straightforward: art majors grouped with music and performing arts. Your nerves settle once you find your first class of the day: Art History.

The day passes in a blur. You move with a group of fellow art students like a school of fish, eventually arriving at your last class: Studio Arts.

Walking into the room, two things become clear immediately. One, this class will undoubtedly be your favorite. And two, whoever designed this space put an incredible amount of care into making it beautiful.

The scent of paint and pencil shavings lingers in the air as you take in the room. Individual desks are arranged in a semicircle around the perimeter, leaving a wide open space in the center. Sunlight streams in golden arcs from the floor-to-ceiling windows along the expanse of the far left wall; illuminating the small easels, pens, paintbrushes, and palettes set atop each workspace.

But the most stunning feature is the wall behind the grand oak desk at the front. Spanning its entire length is a breathtaking mural — flowers of all kinds overlapping and blending together to create a striking cascade of bleeding-heart blooms.

Other students file in, each pausing to admire the display before claiming their desks. You hurry to one set near the large windows, sliding into your seat beside a petite girl with a black pixie cut and bright blue eyes. She tilts her head, offering you a small smile, which you return in kind. You open your mouth to introduce yourself, but the door swings open again and the words die in your throat.

A man strides in, a bag slung over his shoulder and a laptop clutched in one hand. His steps are confident, purposeful, his attention locked on the desk at the front.

The girl beside you hides a giggle behind her hand, leaning closer.

“Oh, he’s cute. I think this is gonna be my favorite class,” she whispers conspiratorially, echoing your earlier thought, though for a completely different reason.

You don’t respond. Your jaw tightens, teeth grinding together as your gaze stays fixed on the man who has yet to look at the class.

Because you know what you’ll see when he does. Dark eyes filled with amusement and full lips curled into an ever-present, cocky smirk.

Panic grips your chest like a vise, squeezing the air from your lungs. The room feels smaller, as if the walls are pressing in. No. There’s no way. Impossible.

But then you see it — the incriminating smudge of purple peeking from beneath his collar. A perfect match to the one you’d hidden beneath your turtleneck sweater. Dropping the bag off his shoulder, he turns, casting his gaze around the room.

His eyes widen when they meet yours, just a fraction, the only crack in his carefully composed expression. But it’s enough.

Shit.

He recovers quickly, setting his laptop on the desk with an infuriating calmness. Meanwhile, your mind is in shambles and you’re sure it’s written all over your face.

His voice cuts through the hushed murmurs of the students. That voice. The same one you’d heard only hours ago, low and rough against your ear.

Those eyes, once dark with desire as he wrung pleasure from your body.

Those lips, once curved into a cunning smile as they bruised your own.

“Welcome to Studio Arts. If you’re in the wrong class, now’s your chance to run screaming.”

He pauses. His gaze sweeps across the room, assessing. You sink deeper into your seat, heat rising to your neck.

“I’m Professor Hwang. If you’re feeling brave, you can call me sir.”

Chatter breaks out amongst the students, a few girls giggling nervously.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re a world renowned artist or you’ve never held a paintbrush in your life. In this classroom, everyone is equal.” He leans back against his desk, arms crossing over his chest. “All I ask is that you show up and put in the work. So let’s get right into it. I’m not here to drone on and on about a syllabus.”

His eyes dart briefly to yours, and a nearly imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“I’d like each of you to introduce yourselves, to me and to each other, through your art. There are canvases and supplies on your desks. No rules. Just express yourself however you see fit.”

Uncrossing his arms, he stalks behind his desk and eases himself into his chair, his gaze sweeping around the room, locking onto each student one by one. When he reaches you, his gaze lingers.

“Show me who you are without using a single word.”

A moment of silence. Then, students begin sorting through their supplies, selecting different mediums for their work. You glance around, then down at your desk. Your fingers tighten around a granite pencil, the canvas before you offering nothing but a mocking expanse of white.

Blank. Just like your mind.

Your mind should be filled with ideas, but it’s empty. Focused solely on the feeling of those dark eyes burning into you from across the room.

What. The. Hell.

Fuck.

It’s only the first day of classes and you’ve already earned a reputation in your mind that you never wanted. You’re the girl who’s slept with her professor.

—

As always, thank you reading! This is something I’ve been working on for weeks, and although I’m nervous to share it, I hope you enjoy!! 💓🤭

Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are all greatly appreciated 💓💓

—

💓 TAGLIST: @jeonginsleftcheek @inniesfanblog 💓

—

This is a work of fiction. It is purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended to depict actual events or real-life personalities. I do not know or have any affiliation with Stray Kids or its members. Any similarities to real events are purely coincidental. No harm, defamation, or infringement is intended.

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sangwookisser · 4 months ago

Text

ALL IN - THE SALESMAN

cw: dumbification, degradation, praise, bondage, manipulation, mean man, naive! reader, fem reader, use of girl, piv, knife play, blood, age gap, reader is in college, not proofread

synopsis: a stranger has an interesting proposition for foreign! reader

Things for you had been painfully mundane since you came to South Korea.

The dream of studying abroad felt like a distant memory now, overshadowed by the crushing weight of student loans, the mounting rent for your tiny, damp apartment, and the gnawing guilt of having asked your parents for help more times than you cared to admit.

The glossy brochures and campus videos hadn’t prepared you for the harsh reality of your endless part-time job that barely covered utilities, let alone anything fun or remotely exciting. Instead, you're dodging calls from the bank, turning down invitations to go out from classmates because you can't afford a coffee, and rationing cup noodles and shitty canned food to try and make it to your next payday without starving.

Tonight was no different. A long shift at the convenience store had your feet aching and your mind clouded with worry about how you’d manage next month’s tuition installment. You were on your way home, the subway platform dim and almost eerily quiet.

Then, like clockwork, your string of bad luck reared its head: the train you’d been sprinting for slid away with a hiss, the doors snapping shut in your face just as you reached the edge of the platform.

You curse, doubling over to catch your breath. Your voice echoed, but no one cared enough to glance your way. You slumped onto the nearest bench, the cold metal biting through the thin fabric of your tacky work pants. You bury your face in your hands, wondering where it all went wrong.

Raising your head, your reflection in the train station's grimy tile wall looked as defeated as you felt, messy strands of hair escaped your ponytail, your makeup patches in some areas, and there was a hole in the sleeve, one you kept telling yourself you’d fix but never did.

The cold silence of the station was broken by a soft, measured voice.

"Hello."

You blinked, startled, and looked up to see a man standing a few feet away. He was dressed impeccably, a dark suit fitting him perfectly, his posture relaxed but poised. His voice was calm, almost soothing, like he had all the time in the world to talk to someone as unremarkable as you.

You didn’t answer immediately, caught off guard by his presence. Who even approached people in subway stations like this? But there was something disarming about the way he smiled calmly.

Dangerous.

The man studied you for a moment, his head tilting slightly. In his mind, he noted how exhaustion clung to you, from the slouch of your shoulders to the defeated look in your eyes. Still, there was something quite captivating about you, maybe the soft, shiny hair framing your face, the long lashes shrouding sparkling, wide eyes, or the way defeat lit up your features just a moment ago when you cursed at the train.

Pretty, he thought briefly, but he said nothing of it.

"You’re a foreigner, aren’t you?" he asked smoothly, his tone making it sound more like an observation than a question.

You stared back at him, swallowing thickly. He was the kind of handsome you didn't often see. It seemed untrustworthy, like his looks were meant to lure you into a false sense of intrigue. His dark hair is slicked back perfectly, and he's smiling lightly, though it doesn't seem to meet his eyes.

You hesitated but nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "Yes sir. I’m not from around here."

He let out a hum of understanding, and he can't deny the heat that spreads through his body at your breathy voice and the way you call him sir like he's superior to you. "Ah, that explains it. You have the look of someone far from home." He gestured to the empty bench beside you. "Mind if I sit?"

He didn’t even wait for an answer, lowering himself onto the edge of the bench with an easy grace, his briefcase resting neatly at his feet.

"What brings you here?" he asked, his tone still conversational, like he wasn’t prying but genuinely curious.

"School," you muttered, feeling oddly self-conscious under his calm gaze. "I’m studying here. Well, I was supposed to be studying here, mister. Things haven’t exactly gone as planned."

The man nodded slowly, as though he understood far more than you were saying. "It can be hard, being so far from home. I imagine it’s not easy. Are you on your own?"

You frowned, the vulnerability in his words hitting a little too close to home. You told him the truth before you realized how dumb it was to tell a stranger that you've got no one around who's looking out for your safety. "Yeah, b-but… I’m managing," you said, though even you didn’t sound convinced.

He nodded, still smiling. Somehow it felt both genuine and calculated. Your head was swimming. Was this a result of going so long without any real human interaction?

He leaned forward just slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His fingers brushed against your sleeve lightly. The kind of touch that could easily be dismissed, but still made you notice.

"So," he continued smoothly, sliding his fingers lightly through the hole in your sleeve, and he tuts softly. Mockingly. "What are you supposed to be studying?"

"Why does it matter?" you replied, feeling a little defensive, like you had to justify yourself. "Just... psychology. I wanted to study the mind."

"Psychology," he repeated, his lips quirking up in an impressed smile. "Brains and beauty. Now that’s a combination."

You stared at him, unsure whether to be flattered or suspicious. The way he looked at you made you feel oddly self-conscious, like he was dissecting every little detail, from your messy hair, your tired eyes, even the nervous way you shifted in your seat.

Neither of you speak, and his hand brushed back and forth against your wrist, just long enough to feel deliberate. He notes how soft your skin is, and he looks into your eyes as he speaks again. "So tense. I’m not here to interrogate you. Just making conversation."

You flushed, unsure why your pulse suddenly felt faster. "What do you want?"

His smile widened, smooth as silk. "Maybe I just wanted to brighten your evening. You seemed like you could use some company."

Despite yourself, you let out a breathy laugh, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, well, company doesn’t pay my bills, sir."

"True," he said, leaning closer now, his tone dropping into something almost conspiratorial.

He wasn't supposed to be doing this. As a recruiter, there were unspoken rules about boundaries. A certain level of professionalism was expected. But you had caught his attention in a way most didn’t.

Perhaps it was the way in which your soft, wide eyes looked pathetically exhausted, the way your lips pursed and looked chapped from the way you'd worry them between your teeth, or the mild distrust in your tone. He hadn't even asked you to play his game yet.

Whatever it was, he found himself intrigued.

"I don’t usually do this," he said, his voice dipping into a low, almost intimate tone. His eyes stayed on you, his gaze steady but not overbearing. "But why don’t you come back to my place? It’s quieter, and I promise we can converse much better."

You blinked, startled by the casual audacity of the offer. Your instincts screamed at you to say no, and despite the faint blush creeping into your cheeks, you managed to find your voice.

"I… don’t think that’s a good idea, sir." You said lightly, trying to brush it off without making things awkward. "Thanks, though."

He lets out a soft laugh, leaning back and sliding his hand out of your sleeve so he can take a lock of your hair around his finger, twirling it absentmindedly. He hummed softly, his lips curling into a sly smile.

"Smart girl," he murmured, leaning close. You avoided his eyes, feeling a mix of embarrassment and unease at how easily he read you. His fingers grazed your thigh, light and fleeting, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The touch sent a shiver up your spine, and yet you didn’t pull away.

He leaned in closer, his presence wrapping around you, the faint scent of cologne mingling with the crisp chill of the subway air.

"But you’ve been pushing yourself so hard," he continued, his voice laced with a mix of admiration. "You remind me of someone trying to outrun a tide. It’s admirable, really, but how long can you go, all on your own, sweetheart?"

You swallowed hard, his words hitting you in a way you hadn’t expected. He made it sound so effortless, like he saw through every wall you’d carefully constructed.

"And look at you," he cooed, his fingers trailing down to your wrist, brushing against your skin with a touch so light it was almost maddening.

There was a beat of silence, and then he leaned in just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. His tone dropped, intimate and conspiratorial. “But maybe it’s time someone took care of you for a change.”

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as his words wrapped around you like a cocoon. You weren’t sure if it was the way he said it, or the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through you, but something inside you started to unravel as arousal builds.

He tutted softly, his hand trailing lazily between your legs, spreading them apart softly. You flush, your face warming even more as you start to feel the thin cotton of your panties dampen. It's been so long. You haven't had anyone touch you like this in months. "Such a pretty little thing, aren't you?" he asked, his fingers tracing an idle pattern along the clothed slit of your pussy. "Even like this...tired, worn out. There’s something about you." He smiled, almost to himself, his tone turning ever so slightly condescending. "Bet no one tells you that enough, do they?"

Your breathing quickened, a shaky whimper leaving your lips. You're still unable to meet his eyes. "It’s a shame, really. A girl like you deserves to hear it. Deserves to feel it."

You bit your lip, every rational thought in your mind warring against the way he made you feel. Warm. Seen. Desired. He continued to drag two fingers up and down the soft plump lips of your pussy, and you moan, toes curling in your worn sneakers

"You don’t have to do that tonight. Let me be the distraction you didn’t know you needed."

His free hand grazed your jaw, tilting your face slightly toward his. His eyes locked with yours, and his smile deepened, almost triumphant. "Just for a while. Let go of all that stress. Let someone else carry the weight."

You exhaled shakily, your resistance crumbling as his words seeped into the cracks of your exhaustion. When you finally nodded, your agreement was barely more than a whisper.

"Good girl," he said softly, his voice dripping with approval. He stood then, extending a hand to help you up, his touch lingering just long enough to make your pulse quicken.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

"F-fuck..."

You didn't even get to have drinks before he'd had you up against the door of his clean, sterile apartment. It didn't look like anyone lived there, from the faint chemical scent it carried and the way the furniture looked unused. His lips were on your throat, one hand pulling your hair back to keep your neck exposed and the other undoing your pants.

"You're swearing at me now, are you?" He tuts, leaving a sharp nip against the column of your neck. "That's far too crude for a little girl like you. Where did your manners go?"

You whine at his condescending tone, and he shoves your panties to your ankles along with your pants. He laughs as he palms your pussy. "So wet already, pet? How eager. You're making it too easy for me." He has a finger in you before you can even defend yourself, and he pumps in an almost bored, haphazard fashion, like he's doing a chore. He curls the digit, laughing softly when you scream as he digs the tip of his slender finger onto your sweet spot.

"Pathetic." He breathes. "Did it even occur to you that we haven't exchanged names? You're no better than the whores men pick up on the side of the street. Except that you're a great deal cuter than any prostitute." He pushes two more fingers in one go into your sopping hole, and you wail, your legs beginning to shake at the unfamiliar intrusion.

You hiccup, tears building at your waterline as he drags the pads of his fingers along your walls, his other hand tugging your hair back sharply. He smiles sweetly, pecking your forehead tenderly, before he undoes the buttons of your uniform top, tossing it to the ground, and your bra shortly after.

Your head swims, and you start to register what's happening, and he gives one of your tits a fondle, rubbing his thumb over your pebbling nipple before shoving his face back into your neck and inhaling. "Jasmine and vanilla." he sighs. "How intoxicating. Do you know what you do to me, you silly girl? It's as though my brain has shut off and all i feel is you. I'm not fond of it." He pumps his fingers more firmly inside you, and you moan, trying to grab him and tug him in for a kiss, but he tuts and pushes you back.

"No no. Sluts like you don't get privileges like kissing. They get used." And with that, right before the delightful release of your orgasm, he tears his fingers out from inside you. You let out a sob, before he laughs and mocks your pout, giving your cheek a light slap. He's still fully clothed in his suit. He picks you up swiftly, tossing you over his shoulder and putting you on his huge, cold bed in a room that looks more like an office than a living space, and he tears off his tie.

"Mmm, n-need you, hu-hurts." You beg weakly, feeling so stupid for babbling like a child. Again, he mocks your cries. "It hurts, sweetheart? You're being so greedy. Don't you know you're supposed to wait for your turn?"

You pout, hands reaching for him, which he pushes back and pins above your head, tying them quickly to his bedpost. You keen, writhing on the mattress with displeasure. "You know, I'm really tired of your groveling. You've been nothing but a brat since I brought you here. I miss the shy little thing who couldn't even look me in the eye at the subway. He gives your clit a light pinch, rubbing the heel of his hand against your cunt. Not enough.

"Pl-Please." You beg out, your voice high pitched and broken "I n-n- hic need y-your cock in me, mister, need it."

He hums softly, his thumb on your clit and palm on your dripping cunt as he stares into your pretty eyes, glassy with blown pupils.

"Aw. Is that supposed to convince me?" He shakes his head, dark hair falling beautifully into his eyes. "Why don't you try a little harder?"

"I... I'll... l-let you do anything to me. A-anything y-you w-want, if y-you p-put your cock in me."

His eyes light up as soon as you say it. "Anything, you say?" He pauses his movements, and you whimper at the lack of stimulation. He says no more, simply unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging off his suit jacket, tossing both to the floor. Then, he's unbuckling his trousers. His boxers are slightly damp, and a fat bulge causes the fabric to strain.

Your mouth waters at the sight of his sleek abdomen, toned and pale, lacking any imperfections. You want to touch. He coos at the way your eyes sparkle.

"Where's the attitude now, sweet thing? Aren't you the cutest." He finally frees his cock, long, thick, and swollen. His balls are heavy, full, and sit pretty at the base of his veiny shaft. The tip is flushed, and he smirks at the way you marvel at it. You strain slightly, aching to touch, taste, feel. But he won't let you. Instead, he wraps a hand around your throat and smirks, grabbing something sleek and metal from a drawer by his bedside table.

Your blood runs cold.

"What? Scared?" He says, distracting you by sliding his tip up and down your dripping folds. "Shouldn't speak before you think then, pretty little whore. Now." He slides the bulbous tip of his cock inside you, and your back arches at the intrusion, a whiny moan leaving your throat.

Beads of sweat drip down the valley of your breasts, and he marvels at the sight, but he doesn't move. In fact, as you buck your hips towards hip, trying to ease more of his cock inside you, he remains deathly still, instead, putting his blade flat against your throat.

You blink, your lips parted. He rocks his hips slightly, stretching you out further by pushing an inch of his cock in you, before he pulls out quickly, and re-enters, putting only his tip in you once more.

You're going crazy. He buries himself inside you to the hilt in one smooth thrust, a soft bulge forming in your tummy from how big he is inside you. You whine loudly, tongue lolling out of your mouth as drool gathers at the side of your mouth, tears spilling down your face. He laughs at how fucked out you already are, a soft grunt leaving his lips.

"Haa, s-so tight... fuck." He starts, unable to resist thrusting in and out a few times, your pussy too wet and too warm to resist the temptation. "You're mi-milking me dry... can barely move inside you."

It's like you were made for him, your gummy walls perfectly stretched out to cling to every last vein and ridge on his cock. Then, he gathers himself again and draws back, leaving just his tip inside you.

Again, you sob in frustration. The world around you spins, and you swallow dryly, pulling at the tie scraping softly against your wrists.

What a stupid little thing you are. He rocks a few inches of his cock inside you teasingly, his thumb pushing down on your clit again while his other hand holds the knife flat against your throat. You stare at him nervously, shaking as he starts to drag the cool metal down your body, and he frowns as you squirm. "Hold still." He commands, but you don't, and he pinches your nipple as punishment, pushing half of his cock in you.

Distracted, you pant and moan, and he thrusts inside of you repeatedly, making your head swim. He's loud, groaning and moaning at the way you cling to him with your sloppy walls, your sticky juices coating his cock as he fills you to the hilt.

"Clinging to me so tight." He breathes. "Does the thrill of the pain excite you, princess? I'll show you how it can be." And with that, he cuts into your soft little tummy, right above where your stomach distends from the bloated head of his cock hitting every inch of you.

Moaning, the pleasure and pain makes your head swim, and the coil of an approaching orgasm builds in your stomach. you can't see what he's carving into you, but you feel too good to care. "S-so... g-good," You choke out, hooking your legs around his waist as he grabs your hip with one hand and angles your body up, causing the tip of his cock to kiss your cervix.

You scream, letting go as you soak his cock with your cream, and he moans, pounding into you like an animal. He reaches between your legs and gathers your liquids, along with the blood on your stomach, and shoves his fingers into your mouth, so deep that your eyes roll back as the floaty feeling of your orgasm remains.

He throws his head back and moans at the way your pussy clings to him when you continue cumming, and he considers pulling out for a moment to cum on your tummy, but with your legs wrapped around him, its clear there's only one place you want him to finish.

"Ahn, please... P-please, i-inside me, sir, want it s'bad" You slur around his fingers, and that's all he needs as he spills rope after rope of hot, thick seed deep inside you, right into your womb, with how deep he is. He takes his fingers out of your mouth and drags your hips to him so you're flush against him, and he fills you up, fingers digging into your sides.

He stays there for a moment before pulling out, letting his cum drip from your weeping, stretched hole, and he smiles and leans down, pressing his lips to your firmly, tasting your liquids on your tongue. His tongue enters your mouth, and he swirls his around yours, getting hard all over again from your taste, and he pulls back before it becomes too much. He smirks down at your fucked out expression, wiping sweat off his forehead as he admires the mark he'd cut onto you.

A pretty little heart for the girl who'd stolen his.

#squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game smut #squid game x reader #the salesman #recruiter squid game #gong yoo

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clarii · 4 months ago

Text

Three times

Summary: For more than a year, you’ve had a huge crush on Eddie Munson, but after being rejected three times when you gather the courage to ask him out, you finally decide to stop trying. As you distance yourself, Eddie struggles with his feelings and how to approach the girl he believes is out of his league.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, unrequited feelings (initially), fluff at the end, happy ending. Pretend the song choice came out earlier in this story timeline.

First time

The air was warm and filled with excitement as the school year at Hawkins High wrapped up. You were leaning against your car, trying to calm your racing heart while watching Eddie Munson dig through his messy van. You'd had a crush on him for ages; the way he commanded attention with his loud personality and wild hair was just incredible. But underneath all that chaos, you saw how kind he was, especially with his friends in Hellfire Club.

Gathering your courage, you finally called out to him. “Eddie!”

He looked up, a bright smile appearing on his face. “Hey, sweetheart! What’s up?”

You took a deep breath, fiddling with your backpack strap. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to hang out sometime? Just the two of us?”

Eddie’s smile faltered slightly, and a silence stretched between you. You felt your stomach drop. Finally, he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Uh, I’m a bit busy right now with Hellfire stuff and… you know, campaigns to prep. Maybe another time?”

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah, of course. No worries.”

But inside, it hurt. You had put yourself out there, and he didn’t seem interested.

Second time

A few months later, it was October, and you decided to hang back more after Hellfire meetings, hoping for a moment with Eddie. Tonight, as everyone packed away the game's pieces, you felt a spark of hope again.

“So, Eddie,” you started casually while everyone else filtered out. “There’s a showing of The Thing at Hawk’s Theater this weekend. I thought it’d be cool if we went together?”

Eddie stopped mid-movement, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape. “Ah, man. I’m kinda not… dating right now. Just got a lot on my plate, you know?”

Your heart sank. You nodded quickly. “Yeah, that’s okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

But deep down, you were starting to feel defeated. What was wrong with you? You were just trying to reach him, but it always felt like he was brushing you off.

Third time

The day after one of Eddie's band performances at The Hideout, your friends Steve and Robin convinced you to go. You watched as he poured himself into the music; he was electric on stage. Afterward, as the crowd began to thin, you took a chance and made your way to him, holding a bottle of his favorite cherry cola.

“You were amazing tonight, Eddie!” you said, trying to keep your voice upbeat while passing the drink to him.

Eddie smiled wide, his cheeks flushed as he accepted the drink. “Thanks, sweetheart! I’m glad you came out.”

This was your chance. “I was thinking… maybe we could grab burgers after this? My treat?”

But again, Eddie's face fell. “Oh, um, I’m just not looking for anything complicated right now. Sorry.”

Your heart sank even further. You gave a quick nod, forcing back the disappointment. “Okay. I understand. No problem.”

That was it. Three times, you put yourself out there in hope that he would change his mind. You couldn’t keep trying anymore. You turned away, feeling like you wasted your time on a guy who clearly didn’t want you from the beginning.

————-

You started avoiding him, skipping Hellfire meetings and not going to his gigs. It was easier that way, or so you thought. You tried to fill your time with friends, but the emptiness lingered. But, you still continued to do anything to erase the embarrassment and time that you used on him.

Meanwhile, Eddie felt horrible. In school, he acted cool, lazing back in his chair, but inside, he was a mess. Ever since the first rejection, it was eating him alive to even say an excuse. He could pretend for a while, but without you, he felt incomplete.

———-

One evening, Eddie found himself at home with Wayne, lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts.

“Alright, son. Spill it,” Wayne finally said, breaking the silence.

“What?” Eddie replied, half-heartedly.

“Don’t give me that. I know something’s bugging you,” Wayne pressed.

Eddie sighed, rubbing his face. “It’s this girl, okay? She asked me out a few times, and I said no. Now she’s stopped talking to me, and it hurts.”

Wayne gave him a serious look. “And you’re upset because…?”

“I didn’t want to say no at all. It’s just…. I don’t know….She’s perfect. Funny, smart… and I just… I didn’t want to mess it up. She’s the most perfect girl who could have anyone in this world but I don’t know why she keeps coming back to me .” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I was scared. Scared that I would ruin the best person to ever enter my life.”

Wayne raised an eyebrow. “Scared? You’re messing it up more by pushing her away. You keep mentioning how she’s perfect but what if in her point of view, she doesn’t see herself like that. What if she sees you as the most perfect person ever and you are ruining your chance at true happiness and love. You said she asked you a few times, right? Then why are you sitting here all sad? When you can do something about it? Be the brave one finally and get her back.”

Those words stuck with Eddie. He left Wayne’s place with a renewed sense of purpose. He had to fix things.

——

A few minutes, Eddie found himself rushing inside Family Video to met up with Steve and Robin. “I need your help,” he said, bouncing up and down in determination .

“Help with what?” Steve asked, grabbing a movie from the floor.

“I…I messed up with Y/N and I need to show her how I feel,” Eddie explained, his confidence building. “I want to ask her out but I want to make it big. She deserves it especially after everything.”

Robin leaned in, her eyes sparkling with ideas. “I have a plan that could work!”

The group spent the hours brainstorming, and after much chatter, they settled on a surprise performance at The Hideout. You’d be there, like before, and this time, Eddie would sing a song just for you.

“I’ll do ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,��” Eddie declared, excitement coursing through him. “It’s her favorite.”

————-

When the night arrived, you were out with Steve and Robin at The Hideout, not suspecting a thing. The atmosphere buzzed with energy. When Eddie walked on stage, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Naturally, you never could even after he hurt your feelings.

As the first chords of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” rang out, your heart raced with a mixture of joy that your favorite song was being played . The way he strummed the guitar and sang softened you. Eddie's voice was raw and emotional, resonating with every word.

As he sang, his eyes locked onto yours, and he filled the room with his sincerity. It was clear he meant every word, and you felt your heart swell with hope.

“I can’t take my eyes off you…” he crooned, glancing at you with a look that was both shy and bold. “You’re just too good to be true…”

As the final notes echoed, your friends cheered, but Eddie was focused just on you as he stepped forward, heart racing. “I know I messed up. I was scared and a total idiot for not giving us a chance. It’s just I couldn’t believe a girl as perfect as you wanted to be with a guy who isn’t. But I want to try now, if you’ll have me. I want to take you to every place you want to go. I don’t care if I have to send a lot of money, I truly don’t have but as long as I got you. Can you please forgive me?”

Your heart soared, and without thinking, you rushed forward, wrapping your arms around him. “Of course, Eddie! I’ve been waiting for you and wouldn’t mind if I have to wait a little longer because you are the perfect one for me!”

As you pulled back, Eddie smiled brightly, relief washing over him. The band continued to play the melody softly in the background, giving you two a moment.

With the excitement and relief bubbling between you, you leaned in and kissed him, finally closing the distance. It felt magical, like everything had fallen into place at last.

As you pulled away, laughter erupted around you, and despite the audience, none of it mattered. It was just you and Eddie, ready to embrace whatever came next together.

The End.

#stranger things #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things x y/n #eddie munson #robin buckley

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dahlibae · 4 months ago

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BABYGIRL.

(wanda maximoff x fem!reader)

summary – today was the worst day of your life. everything you’d built seemed to crumble in an instant, leaving you hollow and adrift. but then there was wanda—beautiful, kind, and impossibly understanding. she didn’t ask for explanations or offer empty reassurances… just did what she did best as your girlfriend and also your mommy.

warning(s) – oneshot: hurt/comfort, mdlg, comfort nursing, nipple suckling, mommy wanda, reader needs all the hugs. (18+)

notes – hii, everyone. this is my first request ever and i’ve decided to make this a part of my unofficial mommy wanda series. i also think this is one of my fave pieces so far. thank you for reading! <3

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You stepped into the living room, exhaustion pressing down on you like a heavy weight. The soft hum of the house greeted you, but it felt quieter than usual. Normally, Wanda would be curled up on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over her lap and a book resting in her hands, waiting for you to come home. If not there, you'd always find her in the bedroom, lost in her novel but never too lost to look up and smile when you arrived.

Tonight, the couch was empty, so you trudged up the stairs, the day’s stress clinging to you like the dampness of your clothes. As you pushed open the bedroom door, the warm glow of a bedside lamp welcomed you. There was your girlfriend sat propped against the headboard, her book resting in her lap, and her eyes lifted to meet yours as soon as you stepped in.

“Hey, sweetheart.” She greeted, her voice soft as she set the book down. Her brow furrowed slightly as she studied your rugged state. “You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

You hesitated for a moment before shuffling toward her. She reached for you, her thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles, and tugged lightly, urging you to sit beside her, but instead of settling into her comforting presence, you slipped out of her hold. Without a word, you crossed the room to the wardrobe. The soft rustling of fabric filled the space as you stripped off your damp work clothes, their cold weight falling to the floor, not caring about your nakedness in front of the older woman. You reached for a familiar oversized top, one that belonged to Wanda—and still carried her subtle scent you noticed—as you brought it forward, inhaling deeply.

“What’s wrong?” She asked quietly.

You shook your head, chewing on your bottom lip as you searched for the words, refusing to look back at her. “Just everything.” You finally murmured, voice trembling, as you slipped the top over you. “Work, life—everything went wrong today.” The weight of the admission pressed down on you, and a sharp sting of embarrassment followed as you felt tears welling up, threatening to spill.

Today had been, without question, one of the worst days of your life. Nothing had gone right. Work had been a disaster—projects falling apart, deadlines missed, and criticism piling up. The disappointed look on your boss’s face wouldn’t leave your mind. Then, as if the universe wasn’t satisfied with your despair, a sudden downpour caught you unprepared. Soaked to the skin, you trudged home only to realise your headphones Wanda had gifted you were ruined beyond repair, forcing an expense you couldn’t afford. Each moment felt like another cruel twist of fate, leaving you drained, defeated, and wondering how much more you could take.

Wanda noticed your anguish, tears falling even if they were hidden behind your hands, and moved over to you. She cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear you had missed. “Oh, my love.” Her tone full of compassion. “Come with me.” She urged softly, pulling you towards the bed and into her lap.

And you couldn’t hold it back anymore—the weight of it all was too much. The disappointment in yourself, the crushing realisation that normal life felt like an insurmountable mountain, left you trembling. A choked sob escaped your lips, then another, breaking free like cracks in a dam. She wrapped her arms around you, her embrace firm yet tender, grounding you as you leaned fully into her.

After a moment, when your tears had finally stopped, you felt her hands under your shirt shift, gliding tenderly from your back to trace slow, soothing circles along your pelvis, up passed your breasts, and to your collarbone. Her touch was deliberate, grounding, yet charged with an unspoken intimacy.

“Baby,” she murmured softly, her voice a velvet caress that pulled your attention, “do you need Mommy to make you feel all better?”

Normally, words like these from her would ignite a fire, turning the world into a hazy blur where nothing else mattered. She had a way of consuming you entirely, of making you forget everything—even your own name and especially what had you so overwhelmed. Sex with Wanda always helped. But tonight, the pressure of the day lingered, sitting heavy on your chest, and even her gentle allure felt like too much. You turned your face slightly, unable to meet her gaze, the vulnerability too raw to confront.

“Not… not like that.” You mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mix of exhaustion and nervous hesitation.

Her hands immediately retracted from underneath, but climbed back up to cup your face. She wanted you to look at her as you spoke, but she knew how nervous you were right now. It was clear that whatever you wanted was new territory for you both. And so, her thumb stilled on your cheek as she studied you closely. “Okay. Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

Your throat tightened as the words clawed at the back of your mind, desperate to be spoken yet caught in the tangle of your hesitation. The thought had crossed your mind—a quiet, intimate need, something grounding and nurturing—but it felt too vulnerable, too strange to voice aloud. “I…” You started, the single syllable trembling before it broke apart. You lowered your eyes, shaking your head as your unspoken longing clung to your lips. Silence stretched between you, but her eyes never wavered from you.

Patience was one of Wanda’s greatest virtues.

“I don’t know how to say it.” You admitted in a whisper, the confession spilling from your lips like a fragile thread of truth.

“Just try, darling?” Wanda prompted, her voice a soft coaxing.

“But it’s… weird.” You replied, still avoiding her eyes.

She shifted closer, wrapping her free arm around your waist. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right? There’s no judgment here.”

You took a shaky breath. “I can’t, Wands. You’ll think I’m weird.”

Her lips pressed gently to your forehead. “Never.” She said firmly. “Not my baby girl.”

Deep down, you knew this was what you needed.

No other comfort would work.

The warmth of her words gave you the courage to continue, though your voice came out in a rush, barely above a whisper, “I… I was wondering if I could kind of play with your boobs… just for comfort.”

Wanda’s lips quirked in a small, understanding smile. “You already do that, baby.” She replied softly, though there was a curious tilt to her voice, almost like a question. Still, what she said was true. After sex, your aftercare often included her gently cleaning you up, then holding you close while you suckled at her breasts, finding solace in her warmth until you fell asleep.

“I know.” You murmured, your gaze dropping shyly towards her chest. “But it’s different this time, isn’t it? I don’t want sex. Just… that.”

The silence that followed made your stomach twist. Panic surged as you began to pull away, regret pouring out of you in a rush. “Actually, forget it. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t—”

“Hey.” She interrupted softly, her voice warm and steady, hands tightening gently on your shoulders, grounding you before you could spiral further. Her emerald eyes locked onto yours, brimming with nothing but love and reassurance. “It’s not stupid. And I don’t think it’s weird.”

“You don’t?” Your voice cracked, still unsure.

She shook her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she brushed a curl from your face. Her touch was tender, her tone even gentler. “No, sweetheart. I think it’s brave of you to ask for what you need.”

She cupped your chin, bringing your gaze to hers for the first time this evening. “And for you to tell me when you don’t want to have sex.” Her words melted some of your fear, but it was the warmth in her eyes that truly soothed the ache of doubt in your chest. “Plus, I like when you suckle on me.”

You blushed deeply at her words, and found her leaning forward to press light kisses all over your flushed face.

“You’re so cute.” She added with a playful lilt, finishing with one lingering kiss to your lips.

Still shy about the entire thing, you let her guide you backwards, making enough space for her to pull off her long sleeved top, before cradling you against her.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed about this.” She said, her fingers threading through your curls. “This is just for you, to help you feel safe.”

You rested your head against her shoulder, cheeks burning with embarrassment, but the moment her warmth surrounded you, all your tension began to fade. And you started at the crook of her neck, where her perfume lingered most intensely—a heady mix that would always soothe you. Your lips brushed the delicate curve of her collarbones, pausing to press soft kisses there, the contrast of firmness and tenderness grounding you in the moment. Slowly, you traced lower, finding the pliant skin of her chest, your lips and tongue gliding over her silken flesh in reverent exploration. You hesitated, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to without the usual lead-up of passion to mask the intimacy. Still, you gave in to instinct, brushing your mouth over her heavy breast before gently taking a nipple into your mouth. The familiar act carried a different weight now, quiet and raw, leaving you feeling exposed but safe in her presence.

She carefully adjusted your position, guiding you to lie on your side as she leaned over you. The shift instantly eased the tension in your back, a welcome relief after being curled up in her lap for so long. She hummed quietly, fingers moving from your hair to your face, stroking your cheeks affectionately.

“Such a good girl.” She whispered, her voice low and soothing. The phrase, usually electric with desire, took on a softer, more tender note this time. Instead of igniting heat, it coaxed you further into your headspace, filling you with a profound sense of safety, as the worries of today floated away. And she held you as if nothing else in the world mattered, her hands continuing their gentle exploration, tracing over your jaw, brushing against your temple, and finally tucking stray curls behind your ears. “Let me see that pretty face.” She’d say, and each touch was intentional, a silent reassurance that she was there, grounding you in the moment. You felt her other hand drift down your back in slow, deliberate strokes, the rhythm lulling you further into her embrace.

“You’re so precious to me.” She murmured, her words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Her thumb grazed the edge of your lips, pausing for a moment as though memorizing the softness there before her hand slipped back into your hair, cradling you closer to her chest, your nose flush against her.

You let yourself relax completely, melting into her as your lips lingered softly over her skin, not in hunger or lust but in need. A quiet, intimate need for comfort outside the bounds of what you knew. She seemed to sense it, tilting her head to rest her chin against the top of yours. Her breathing was slow, syncing with yours as the last remnants of tension ebbed away. The steady beat of her heart thrummed beneath your ear like a soothing melody, anchoring you to her.

“Thank you, mama.” You managed to say, exhaustion seeping into your bones, as sleep threatened to wash over you.

“Go to sleep, sweet girl.” Wanda replied, her delicate fingers against your skin also coaxing you into a deep sleep.

And when she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper, it was as if the universe itself paused to listen.“You deserve to feel loved and cared for.” She said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “And I’ll always be here to show you that.”

Her words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a shield against the world, finally carrying you into the peace of sleep, where you were cradled by the unshakable certainty of her love and comfort.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

#dahlibae fics! ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x you

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sanjisleggy · 4 months ago

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let your husband help you (red-haired shanks x reader)

req: [...] with a fem!reader (if possible) that has wings and sometimes the wings with feathers require molting and there are areas that cannot be reached closer to the back and requires help to remove the loose feathers

a/n: (i am playing valorant as i write this help) ty for the request anon! :D the enthusiasm is very endearing ;;0;; hope you enjoy reading! also man i love writing for Shanks :3c

contents: a bit of angst (fem!reader is having a hard time), descriptions of itchiness and pain, comfort, fluff :D, a tad bit suggestive bc it’s Shanks

wc. 1.2k

wanna be on my taglist?

these past few weeks have been torture. today especially so.

alone in your bedroom aboard the Red Force you writhe in itchiness and pain as your back aches in a way it hasn’t in a long time. lying face-down on your bed, you feel your wings twitch and tremble as you contort your arms to reach behind you as far as humanly possible; only to groan in defeat when the most you can do is brush the offending feathers with your fingertips.

for days now a small part of your brain has been nagging at you to go get Shanks for the sake of your poor back and wings but you’ve heard from your crewmates how busy he’s been so you’ve pushed the urge aside. now, though, the idea has forced its way to the forefront of your mind out of desperation, no doubt.

holding back a sob of frustration that threatens to make its way out of your throat, you nuzzle your face into your husband’s pillow, hoping that his scent can serve as a distraction of some kind. more than anything though, it simply acts as a poor placeholder for the real thing and only makes your aching heart (and wings) yearn for him even more.

“c’mon, (Y/N), don’t be shy,” his gentle voice called from outside the utility closet in which you’d chosen to hide–away from him. you felt your face heat up at Shanks’ persistence to help with something he wasn’t even totally aware of; he just knew you were in pain so he had to help.

“it’s okay, i can deal with it myself,” you lied, wincing when one of your wings brushed against a shelf behind you. most of the molting feathers had already been dealt with but your wings had grown a lot since the last time you molted and now they were far too big for your hands to reach. “just leave me alone.”

“if you don’t tell me what’s up, i’ll tell Rayleigh.”

“no!” you protested instantly. as much as you trusted the first mate of your crew with your life, this was far too embarrassing to get him involved. “if you tell anyone i’ll leave the crew, you asshole.”

you had meant it only as a false threat but the sudden silence told you Shanks took it a bit more seriously than you thought he would.

“okay, fine,” he replied and you could hear the pout on his face. “i just wanna help. there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. you know you can trust me to take care of you.”

a particularly sharp pain shoots through your spine from your right wing and the whine of discomfort slips past your lips before you can help yourself. too far gone to care about anyone hearing from outside your quarters, you let yourself sob aloud, the relief from crying doing little to ease your discomfort.

the immense helplessness of your situation makes you realise how pampered you’ve been all these years. how lucky you are to have had such a loving friend-turned-lover who always took it upon himself to care for you. now here you are: alone in your bedroom, struggling with a task that you long should’ve learned how to deal with yourself.

you nearly give in to the urge to seek out the one person you trust to alleviate your pain but at this point, you’re too tired to even get off the bed. maybe it’s for the best, you wonder to yourself. your eyes flutter closed as you pull Shanks’ pillow a bit closer and bury your face deeper into it as you allow yourself to be lulled to sleep by your exhaustion, hoping that at least you can sleep away the next few hours of aches and itching.

ii.

letting out a sigh of relief, the one-armed Emperor takes his time returning to his ship after a grueling few weeks of settling disputes between several smaller pirate crews. normally such tasks would never take this long–hell, most of the time he didn’t even have to step in–but civilians’ lives were at stake so he had no choice.

now, as Shanks nears the dock and sees the Red Force coming into view, all he can think about is taking a nap with you. not only have his duties kept him away from you all day every day, he’d also been going to bed at ungodly hours, crawling under the sheets beside you long after you’ve fallen asleep. though he can’t wait to spend some quality time with you, he wants nothing more than to rest by your side with the knowledge that he’ll finally be able to wake up after you for once.

“hey Captain,” Benn calls out from aboard the deck once Shanks reaches speaking-distance. “i think (Y/N) needs your help.”

“see, what’d i say?” you could practically hear him smiling as he sat behind you, tenderly plucking out the final few loose feathers. “there’s no need to be shy around me.” Shanks tugged at a particularly stubborn feather and when it finally came loose, you couldn’t help the moan of relief that came out of your mouth.

you felt your cheeks rapidly heat up in shame as you buried your face in your hands, fully prepared for the boy to make fun of you. but it never came. instead, Shanks stayed quiet as he soothed the particular spot of skin with his fingers in a manner so tender you couldn’t believe it was him.

“there, all done,” he said. you were grateful but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around and face him even though you knew you had to in order to thank him properly.

as though sensing your dilemma, Shanks leaned forward to press his lips against your shoulder blade, right above where your wings sprouted from your back. it sent shivers down your spine and goosebumps appeared all over but you didn’t tell him to stop, if anything, you wanted him to continue.

you’re ripped out abruptly from your dream when the door of your quarters slams shut. from your face-down position in bed, you’re unable to see who it is but only one person in this world would be brave enough to make such an entrance.

“welcome back,” you groan, using your arms to push the upper half of your body off the mattress as you turn your head to glance over your shoulder.

“why didn’t you call for me?” your husband responds, tossing his cape onto the floor before rushing over to guide you back down into a resting position. Shanks pulls over two other more pillows and places them in a way he knows, from years of experience, makes you the most comfortable. “how long have your wings been molting?”

there’s a slight hint of frustration in his voice but you know it’s not directed at you. it doesn’t make you feel any less guilty, though.

“it started… two weeks ago…” you mumble into Shanks’ pillow.

“you–” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh before he says anything impulsive. the Emperor understands you just didn’t want to disrupt his work and he appreciates the sentiment greatly, he’d just hoped that after all these years of marriage, you’d know how he’d do quite literally anything for you. this, he decides as his eyes scan your twitching wings and tangled feathers, is a conversation for another day though.

“poor thing,” Shanks coos instead, leaning down to press kisses all over the back of your neck and around your shoulder blades as he runs his hand down your side. you can feel his lips smile against your skin when your body shivers in response. “you must’ve been in so much pain, hmm? let your husband help you out.”

—

taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost @hyper-fic-ation @dressycobra7 @38lyra38 @chaseyui

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x yn #one piece x you #op x reader #op #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks #one piece live action x reader #opla x reader #imagine #fanfic #angst #fluff #comfort

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magiccath · 1 year ago

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TARDIS Tricks

Tenth Doctor/Reader (could be any Doctor if you squint)

Summary: In which the TARDIS pulls some matchmaking schemes

The last week had been exhausting. Life with the Doctor usually was, but this week was just a little too much for you. Not just you either, the Doctor was wiped out too.

He pushed the doors of the TARDIS open with a tired sigh, throwing his long brown coat over one of the numerous coral-like branches littered throughout the control room. Then, he made a b-line for his worn-out captain’s chair, slumping into it dramatically. His long, spindly legs stretched out in front of him, making him appear taller than he was - if that was even possible. The way he stretched was more than akin to the characteristics of the cats you had encountered.

You weren’t much more energetic about your entrance, throwing your coat next to his and moving to slump against the circular console.

“Can we please take a break from the running?”

“We haven’t been running that much,” he groaned, though you could tell he was thinking the same thing. He might have ‘superior Time Lord biology’, but he was clearly as tired as you were. Maybe there was a limit to the running he could do.

“Daleks, New New York, then that weird Bio-tech company, followed by the literal end of the universe, and wrap it all up with diamond rain on Saturn.”

“Suppose there has been a lot of running,” the Doctor grumbled again, admitting defeat. “How about a day or two of rest? Get some sleep and relax a bit?”

You nodded, glad he finally understood what you were trying to say. All you wanted was to sleep for at least 8 hours uninterrupted. Ideally, 12 hours.

“Don’t fall asleep in that chair,” you scold, noticing how he already appeared to be half asleep, “you’ll get back pain and then you’ll be insufferable. Go to bed, I know you have one somewhere.”

The Doctor grumbled, not bothering to form a full and coherent sentence. You kicked his leg, not hard enough to truly hurt him, just enough to get him out of the chair. He grumbled again and sat up in the chair, stretching his slender arms above his head.

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

He nodded, already looking slightly more alert. Slightly. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to fall asleep, you decided to head off to your bedroom.

You walked slowly down one of the numerous, winding halls of the TARDIS. You’d walked to your room hundreds, if not thousands, of times by now. You knew exactly where it was, and it wasn’t there. In the space where your door would normally be was… nothing. You tapped around the wall, wondering if perhaps the Doctor replaced your normal door with some kind of seamless door mechanism.

When the wall didn’t yield you let out a frustrated grunt, “What did you do?” you asked the TARDIS, resting your hands on the smooth surface of her walls. The wall was cold to the touch, colder than usual that is. Normally, you felt something when you touched her. The best way you could describe it was a presence. But, at the moment, you felt nothing.

Aggravated, you sulked your way back to the control room.

“Where is my room?” you glared at the Doctor, hands on your hips. Normally, you’d play along. Hide his Sonic Screwdriver or coat somewhere he couldn’t find it. This time, you were far too tired to humor him.

“What d’ya mean?” the Doctor frowned in confusion. “Did you get lost in the hallways again?”

“No, I know where my own room is and it’s not there!”

The Doctor’s frown deepened as he got up from his seat, brushing past you and into the hallway. He took long strides down the corridor, stopping in front of where your room normally was. He slipped his glasses out of his inner pocket, sliding the specs onto the bridge of his nose. His head tilted to the side as his hands ran over the smooth wall, examining the space with his characteristic curiosity.

“Did you do this?”

“What? No, why would I steal your room?” He peered over his shoulder, almost offended that you would suggest such a thing.

“You’ve done weirder things,” you argued, crossing your arms.

“Name one,” the Doctor challenged, mirroring your defensive stance.

“The time you put a pigeon in my shower,” you responded immediately, not needing time to think about weird things the Time Lord had done. It was one of the things you liked best about him, he was constantly strange. It made things fun, but it could also make things incredibly aggravating.

“He needed a bath. Have you met pigeons? They’re filthy.”

“Wash your pigeons in your own shower!”

“That's… that’s not the point here,” he mumbled, clearly deflecting the conversation. “Your room is missing.”

“I noticed,” you deadpanned, not looking away from him. “Can I have it back?”

“I told you, I didn’t take it.” The Doctor threw his hands up defensively.

“Rooms don’t just walk away,” you say, glaring at him. By now, your irritation was bordering on anger. All you wanted to do was fall into your soft bed and not leave until this exhaustion wore off, but you needed a bed to do that.

“Maybe the TARDIS sorted it away,” he shrugged. As if accentuating his point, the TARDIS let out a soft hum. You weren’t even sure it was real at first, maybe it was just the air conditioning kicking on.

“Did she just…?”

The Doctor nodded, confirming your theory that the TARDIS had responded to him. What reason did she have for storing your room away? You were about 98% sure that you still lived on the ship.

“Is this her way of kicking me out?” The TARDIS let out another hum, this one in clear disapproval. Not kicking you out, then.

You let out a small sigh of relief. You’d never admit it, but you had never felt more at home anywhere else in your life. Realistically, that wasn’t because of the TARDIS. It was the Doctor, he could make any place feel like home to you.

“Well then, can I have my room back please?” you asked the TARDIS

The corridor was silent. In fact, the whole ship was silent, if that was even possible.

Something you learned early on in your travels with the Doctor was that the TARDIS was the one really in charge. What she says goes. Always. It doesn’t matter if you were promised a beach vacation and ended up in the middle of winter in Victorian England. And it most certainly didn’t matter if you wanted a bedroom or not. She was a force to be reckoned with, and you respected that.

“I’ll sleep on the couch in the library, we can deal with this in the morning.” You decided it was easier to just let the TARDIS work through whatever tantrum or scheme she was cooking up. Sometimes when traveling with the Doctor it was better to just go with the flow - and that didn’t just apply to ship malfunctions or sleeping arrangements.

You trudged down the corridor, heading for the vast library. It really was an impressive library, even better than the one in Beauty and the Beast. Shelves lined the walls and extended up high for multiple stories. It was easy to get lost in the room because it was so large. Most of the time you just asked the TARDIS for directions if you needed a specific book. Mostly, you just used it as a calm and quiet place to take a break between your chaotic adventures with the Doctor.

Usually, there were at least three couches in the room at a time. Your favorite was a mustard yellow, not a particularly nice color (especially for a couch), but it was beyond comfortable. The issue was that the couch wasn’t there. Furthermore, there wasn’t any couch in the large room.

“Doctor!” you call out loudly, staring blankly at the space where there should be a couch. There were small circles on the wood where the legs of the couch would normally sit, leading you to assume that you weren’t going crazy. The TARDIS had stolen your room and now your favorite couch.

“What’s the issue now?” the Doctor grumbled, rubbing his face tiredly as he strode into the library. He came to a standstill next to you, staring at the empty floor with equal confusion.

“She got rid of the couch.”

“I can see that,” the Doctor said, his eyebrows raising in interest.

“I’m exhausted, I'm grumpy, and I just want to sleep,” you whisper urgently, almost on the verge of tears. It felt silly to be upset over such a small thing, but you were beyond tired. Your brain was functioning on sheer willpower and that was quickly running out.

“I know, I know,” the Doctor whispered sympathetically, gently lifting your face up to look at him. “Look, you can sleep in my room. She hasn’t taken that.”

“That's where you sleep,” you point out, trying not to show how flustered the endearing touch had made you.

“Normally, yes,” the Doctor smiled slightly, finding your response slightly comical. “It’s a nice bed, though I’m not sure it would matter much to you either way at this point.”

“Where would you sleep?” You frown, knowing that he needs the sleep just as much as you do, even if he would never admit it.

“I don’t need to-” he started but cut off once he saw your glare. “I can sleep in the console room, that chair isn’t really that bad,” he amended.

“You’ll hurt your back, I already told you not to fall asleep there.”

“It’s not like we have any other options,” the Doctor shrugged. It wasn’t that big of a deal to him. He would do anything for you, sleeping on a chair that hurt his back was nothing in comparison.

“I’m not letting you sleep in the chair,” you insisted, crossing your arms defensively. “I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“No one is sleeping in the chair!” the Doctor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“I could just sleep on the floor, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, I’m not letting you do that,” he said seriously.

“What do you propose then?”

“Well… we could…” the Doctor trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. By now, you knew it as one of his many nervous tics. “We could share the bed,” he finally said, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Share your bed?”

The Doctor nodded, still not fully looking at you. At this point, you were too tired to question it, or even really think about it.

“Can we even do that? Are you ok with that?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t. As you’re comfortable with it,” he said back, his tone only slightly less panicked. He wasn’t even sure when the last time he shared a bed was.

“Alright,” you whisper with a slight blush.

“I’ve never seen your room,” you add after a few seconds.

“You haven’t?”

You shake your head, “it could be a torture dungeon for all I know.”

“It’s- it’s not-” he struggled before realizing you were joking. “It’s a normal bedroom,” he whispered, already walking out of the library.

You smile to yourself and follow him down the hall, the only sound the soft tap of your footsteps. His room wasn’t far from where yours would normally be, just a few turns down the hall and to the left. The door was the same blue as the TARDIS, almost identical to the front doors of the ship.

The Doctor opened the door and slipped inside, leaving it ajar so you could follow.

Whatever you had expected when it came to the Doctor’s room, it wasn’t this. Almost every square inch of the place was covered with things. Gadgets and gizmos, rocks, keys, books, alien-looking things, and-

“Is that Starry Night?” you frown, looking at a framed picture leaning against a corner.

“Oh, yeah, Vincent gave that to me,” the Doctor shrugged like he didn’t have one of the most recognizable paintings in all of history on his bedroom floor.

“Isn’t it supposed to be in the MoMa?”

“That one’s fake. Don't tell anyone though, I’m not really supposed to have this one,” the Doctor shrugged, undoing his tie and slipping it off his neck. You tried to not follow the movement with your eyes, the nimble movement of his hands as he undid the knot capturing your attention.

You looked away embarrassed, turning your attention back to the painting. “Did you steal Starry Night?!”

“No, I told you, Vincent gave it to me,” he frowned at you, wondering if the exhaustion was finally getting to you. He had just told you that.

“And you just… decided to keep it on your bedroom floor? Next to your trash can and first editions of Lord Of The Rings?”

“That’s not a trash can, it’s an artifact from B-739. Priceless, don’t touch it.”

“Right, 'cause that’s the priceless item in here that I’m worried about accidentally defacing.”

“If you’re going to bully my possessions, I’m not gonna let you sleep in here,” he grumbled, a pout barely evident on his face.

“I’ll shut up,” you say, looking around the rest of the room. You kept your comments to yourself, instead taking the time to admire the strange collection of things the Doctor kept in his room. It was like a personal museum of all of time and space. That is if the museum prioritized shiny objects and children’s toys from the early ‘90s.

It was all very him, and you couldn't help but feel safe in the room. Sure, you felt safe everywhere on the TARDIS, but this was different. If you could, you would have spent hours scouring every inch, wanting to learn everything you could about the Doctor.

You tugged your attention the the bed. It wasn’t a small bed, but it also wasn’t ridiculously large for one (albeit, strangely tall) Time Lord. The sheets were dark blue silk with a thick woolen blanket on top, also in a matching blue.

“Do you need PJs?” he asked, poking his head out of the closet he was currently in. The doors were a dark oak with a row of ties hanging on the inside of one. The patterns ranged anywhere from solid colors to cartoon characters from your childhood you had forgotten existed. You smiled as your eyes caught on a brightly colored tie with Winnie the Pooh on it.

“Yeah, that would be nice,” you nod, turning your attention back to him. A few moments later he came back into the main room carrying two sets of PJs. You’d only seen the Doctor out of his trademark suit once or twice, for all you knew he just slept in it. Maybe he invented some kind of sleep suit, like a three-piece made entirely out of comfortable knit fabric.

He handed you one set of PJs, a classic striped set. He held in his hands another set, that one also striped, just in a different colorway. You’d never put much thought into what the Doctor wore to bed, but for some reason, this made sense to you.

“Bathroom’s over there,” he tilted his head in the direction of a door in the corner. You took the clothes and made your way over to the room, closing the door gently behind you, the ‘click’ reverberating through the silent space.

There wasn’t anything spectacular about the bathroom. By most standards, it was a perfectly ordinary bathroom. Even still, it’s clear to you who this bathroom belonged to. Various products (mostly ones for hair styling) were scattered across the countertop, but you didn’t feel like it was a mess.

There was a bright, puffy, flower-shaped rug in front of the sink that reminded you of something you might find in a Barbie Dollhouse circa 2002. In contrast, the shower curtain was a bright striped pattern that reminded you of a beach ball. In any other room, the decorations wouldn’t have matched, but knowing this was the Doctor’s doing made it all make sense to you.

You slipped the pajamas on quickly. You looked a little ridiculous in the Doctor’s clothes, like you were playing dress up in his closet. They didn’t fit you perfectly, but that much was expected. Even still, the fabric smelled like the Doctor, leaving you with the aching feeling that he was hugging you. You pressed your nose against the sleeve, breathing in the familiar smell before realizing you were smelling the Time Lord’s pajamas.

You shook yourself out of it and exited the bathroom, poking your head tentatively into the main room. The Doctor was sitting on the bed, having already changed into his PJs. His head turned at the sound of the door, smiling slightly at the sight of you.

“Do y’a need anything else?” he asked.

You shook your head, standing in the doorway awkwardly. Seeing him sitting there, on the bed, made it all seem real. You couldn’t do this. How could you share a bed with the man you had the biggest crush on ever?

“I- well, I can’t-” you stammered, trying to put your thoughts into words. Your brain was tired and panicking, the combination leaving you unable to fully express anything. “I can just sleep on the floor.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor, just get in the bed.”

You shift anxiously, tugging at the sleeve of the PJs he gave you. There was no way to explain it to him without admitting your feelings. It was a double-edged sword. Or maybe it was paradoxical. It didn’t really matter.

Begrudgingly, you slide under the covers next to him. You lay like a corpse, your hands firmly tucked at your side as you stare up at the ceiling. He had those ridiculous glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. They weren’t even just haphazardly stuck up there, he took the time to form them into actual constellations. The ones that he’d shown you up close.

You felt a twinge in your heart. It took everything in you not to turn to your side and hug him right now. His hugs felt like oxygen to you. You could be having the worst day ever, but a hug from your favorite alien never failed to brighten it.

The Doctor turned the bedside lamp off, sending the room into darkness. Your eyes were still glued to the stars, their soft glow highlighting them against the black of the room. He settled down in the bed next to you. You felt every single shift as he got comfortable, the feeling of him next to you distracting. It was hard not to think about how much you liked the Time Lord when you were literally in his bed. It was impossible not to feel his presence next to you, the weight of another person weighing down your mind.

“You ok?” the Doctor whispered, pulling you out of your spiral.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. Maybe if you said it, it would be true.

You felt his hand slide against yours, his fingers brushing against the back of your hand. You didn’t dare move, you didn’t even pull your gaze from the cluster of glow-in-the-dark stars above your head. Tentatively, he slid his hand into yours.

This wasn’t the first time you had held his hand. Far from it, actually. You held his hand almost every day. It was easy to get lost in space, it was just easier if you held onto each other. But this time was different, the intimacy of it making your heart thunder against your chest.

Neither of you said anything, the silence filling the room. Eventually, your eyes fluttered closed, the fluorescent greenish afterglow of the plastic stars remaining in your mind. It didn’t take long for you to slide out of consciousness, the heavy weight of sleep taking over and dragging you down.

You woke up of your own accord, a pleasantry you couldn’t remember the last time you experienced. No droning alarm, blinding rays of early morning sunshine, dogs barking, or anything else of the sort. Just your mind and body, having decided they were thoroughly rested, arising of their own accord - an internal affair rather than an external one.

After the initial fogginess of waking up after hours of deep sleep, you became quickly aware of your surroundings. Not just the Doctor’s bed or even his bedroom, but the Doctor himself. More specifically, his arms wrapped tightly around you.

At some time during the night, the exact timing unbeknownst to either of you, the two of you had found your way into each other’s arms. The action was seamlessly smooth, so much so that it almost felt rehearsed.

Your legs slotted together like expertly crafted puzzle pieces, fitting together in a way that made more sense than it should have. Could legs even fit together? You suppose they must if you were experiencing it. His chin rested on top of your head, his nose occasionally bumping the crown of your head as he shifted and nuzzled in his sleep. Your own head was tucked against his chest, your ear positioned right between his beating hearts.

The steady thumping of the twin organs pumping blood through his system was mesmerizing, the sound strangely familiar and comforting. You could feel the vibrations through your body, the asynchronous beats reverberating around in your head.

Slowly, the panic started to creep in, invading the sense of calm you had felt seconds before. You were in the Doctor’s arms. You woke up in the Doctor’s arms. Even worse, the Doctor was going to wake up and find you in his arms.

As if on cue, the Doctor started to stir awake. Low grumbles left his mouth as he buried his face further into the pillow beneath him. You stiffened, the change in posture immediately noticeable. You cursed yourself for drawing more attention to the situation.

The Doctor looked down at you, his tired brown eyes boring into yours. You blinked slowly, unsure what else to do.

“Good morning,” he whispered groggily, his voice at least an octave deeper than usual. You felt your cheeks heat up, almost certain that a blush was rapidly spreading across your face. He wasn’t moving you away or screaming in horror. If anything, he was holding you tighter now.

“Good morning,” you patored back, unable to form any words of your own. What was there to say? “Sorry, I’m a compulsive sleep cuddler, this totally isn’t because I have a massive crush on you please don’t read into it.”

The Doctor’s thumb rubbed small, concentric circles on the small of your back, his eyes still hung up on your face. You wished he wouldn’t look at you like that, like the most beautiful thing in the whole galaxy, like it was nothing.

As if suddenly realizing what he was doing, the Doctor stopped immediately. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and released his arms from around you, the sudden loss of contact disjointed. You frowned slightly and scooted to the other side of the bed, sitting up in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hurriedly, his eyes purposefully avoiding you.

“It’s ok, I really don’t mind, I mean honestly it’s probably my fault,” you responded too quickly, your words falling out of you without much thought. “It’s really not that big of a deal,” you lied.

The Doctor finally looked over at you. By now, you were in expert in reading him. The secret was to look in his eyes. It didn’t matter what face he had, his eyes always told you everything you needed to know. You’d never seen them like this, though. An unfamiliar emotion him, a combination of his emotes you were so familiar with creating something you didn’t know. That worried you.

“Yeah,” he whispered, the look gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. He was back to his cheery self in minutes, stretching his body and springing up out of bed. “Let’s get on with it, maybe the TARDIS has found your room. I’d like to go visit The Beatles, what do you think?” he babbled on, striding across his room.

You scrambled out of his bed, almost begrudged to leave the silky warmth of his sheets. You scurried after him, practically running into his back as he came to a sudden stop. An annoyed groan escaped your lips as you peered over him, searching for the cause of the sudden stop.

The Doctor was pulling on his door handle, struggling to get it open.

“Forget how to open a door?”

“I’m over 900, I didn’t forget how to open a door,” he frowned, still tugging on it.

“Let me try,” you pushed him gently out of the way, tugging on the door handle yourself. Sure enough, it refused to budge. You pulled on it again, using both hands this time. Nothing.

Sheepishly, you turn back to the Doctor, ashamed to admit that he was right. “It’s stuck.”

The Doctor crossed his arms and nodded, an ‘I told you so’ look plastered on his face. He swiftly pulls the Sonic Screwdriver out of his pocket, pointing it at the door with his usual flourish. When it does nothing, he presses a few buttons on the device before trying again. After a few minutes of this, he finally gives up and resorts to kicking the door.

“Doctor!” you cry, grabbing his arm and forcibly dragging him away from the door before he can damage it or himself.

“Do you think…” you sigh, feeling guilty for even insinuating such a thing, “that the TARDIS locked us in here?”

“The TARDIS didn’t lock us in my room,” the Doctor says like it’s the most preposterous thing he had ever heard.

In response, the ship lets out a low groan of disagreement. More versed in the language of the ship, the Doctor noticed first. “You locked us in here?!” he hisses at seemingly nothing, but you know who it’s directed at. The TARDIS hums again, this time in a more approving tone.

“Why?” you butt in to ask. You’re met with nothing but silence.

“I don’t think she’s going to answer that,” the Doctor whispers in your general direction. The ship lets out another hum of approval.

You groan loudly, throwing your hands up in defeat. Not knowing what else to do, you slump back down onto the Doctor’s bed. You sit there for a few seconds just staring at the carpet (‘90s arcade patterned, of course) before the mattress dips next to you. You pull your eyes way from the garish carpet to look at the Doctor, his face equally as dejected as yours.

“I suppose there are worse places to be stuck,” you offer, “could be Mars.”

“There’s more to explore on Mars.”

“There aren’t ‘priceless’ artifacts from B-739, a mobile of the solar system that I’m pretty sure is intended for children, a box of Hotwheels cars, and a collection of pirate maps all in the same corner.”

“The mobile was a gift,” the Doctor defended.

“That’s what you got from all of that?” you chuckle. “It’s like the world's most clustered, excentric, space museum in here.”

“I don’t really sleep in here much. I suppose it’s just become a storage room of sorts,” the Doctor says sheepishly, almost embarrassed to be this open with someone. Sharing this much of his life with you felt strangely raw.

“I think it’s perfect,” you smile, the expression lighting up your whole face, “it’s very you. Chaotic, unorganized, other-worldly, and… beautiful,” you whispered, eyes scanning across the room. It didn’t matter how much you looked at it, there always seemed to be something new and fascinating to look at.

The Doctor, on the other hand, was looking at you. He was flabbergasted at how interested you seemed in it all. The tiny twinkle in your eye reminded him of all the stars he had shown you, all of the alien planets and beautiful corners of space. Yet, you weren’t looking at something particularly odd or beautiful, you were looking at his room. His messy, haphazard collection of strange objects and patterns.

Then, you turned that curious gaze in his direction. He felt his hearts speed up, a subtle but noticeable shift within his body. It was a nasty habit, his body getting excited every time you looked at him like that. He was 903, pretty people smiling at him shouldn’t make him react this way. Yet, you did.

Neither of you could figure out what the TARDIS wanted from you, so you eventually gave up trying. There was no point in fighting with the ship, both of you knew that was a losing battle.

You read the Doctor’s first edition of The Hobbit in the comfy warmth of his bed. In that time, the Doctor opted to pace back and forth and fiddle with the door relentlessly. Finally, he gave up and joined you on the bed.

“Do you have any ideas of why we’re in here?” he asked, pulling the book from your hands. You let him slip the paperback from your hands, throwing it on the duvet without bothering to mark your place in the book.

“If I did, we wouldn’t be in here,” you pointed out, looking at the discarded book longingly. The Doctor popped his head back into your field of vision, clearly not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

“It has to do with both of us, otherwise she wouldn’t have hidden your room.”

“Maybe she just thinks we need a few days off.”

The Doctor shakes his head, “She wouldn’t lock us in a room for that, she would just refuse to fly anywhere.”

“Maybe she thinks we’re fighting. Are we fighting?”

“Not that I know of,” he shrugs.

“I didn’t think so. Maybe we pissed her off?”

The Doctor shook his head again, “she doesn’t seem mad.” You didn’t need to question any further, you knew that the Doctor could read the TARDIS’ emotions better than his own sometimes.

“If it’s not anger, what is it?”

“Annoyance?” he said. You couldn’t tell if he was guessing or just generally unsure.

“Has she ever done this before?”

“Once she locked me out of the ship when I complained about her never taking me where I wanted to go, but this is different.”

“Have you said anything mean about her lately?” you asked more out of curiosity than animosity, but the Doctor interpreted it as the latter. He could be quite sensitive.

“No! Have you?”

“I have nothing but love and respect for the ship. She has put up with you longer than any of us ever could.” The TARDIS hummed in agreement while the Doctor scowled.

“I don’t know what we did!” he groans, falling back dramatically on the bed.

“Are you hiding something from me? A big secret?” you say as if you aren’t the one hiding feelings for the other.

The TARDIS lets out a quiet hum that lets you know you’re on the right track and you grin, poking the Doctor.

“I’m not hiding anything!” he swats you away, “maybe you’re the one hiding things away.”

You shake your head. For a second the two of you just look at each other. It’s hard not to get lost in his deep brown eyes, they’re endless pools of wisdom that can only come from centuries of living. Beneath the wary tiredness and stoic armor you can see who he really is, a lost wanderer looking for a place to call home. It was foolish, but you secretly wished you could be that home.

“You have really nice eyes,” the Doctor whispered.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you whisper back.

“You were also thinking about how nice your eyes are?” he frowns in confusion.

You laugh, a smile taking over your face at his blatant obliviousness. “No, I was thinking your eyes are nice. I like them.”

“Oh… thank you?”

You nod, momentarily getting lost in his eyes again. Your mind was a mess, a kaleidoscope of him, the TARDIS, and your feelings for the former. You wanted so desperately to tell him how you felt, as you often did. Albeit, now was not the opportune moment. If he reacted poorly, you’d still be stuck in the room with him for an unknown amount of time.

And then it hit you. The TARDIS wanted you to admit something. She knew you had a secret, she maybe even knew what the secret was.

“Doctor?” you whisper shakily, surprised to find your voice uncertain and wavy.

“Mhm?” He pulled his attention to you.

“I just wanted to say that I love you.”

The room was silent for a moment. Neither of you moved or said a word, the normally quiet sounds of breathing and movement heightened by the lack of words between you.

“You too,” he finally said, his voice quiet. You knew admitting feelings was hard for him, especially when it came to things like love, so you couldn’t really blame him for the lackluster response.

You nodded, “I mean as more than a friend.”

“I know.”

Now it was your turn to sit in silence, your brain whirling as it tried to process his words. Was it hopeful to assume that he felt the same? That was what he had said, no?

“I’m very fond of you,” he added, sensing your confusion on the matter. “As more than a friend.”

You studied his eyes again. That unfamiliar look was back. For a minute you entertained the thought that it might be a look of admiration, love even.

The Doctor moved his hand into yours, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand. It was a normal action from him, but it still sent your stomach into a frenzy.

“It’s quite an inconvenience, honestly. Makes it hard to get anything properly done when you’re around.”

You chuckle, a small smile forming on your lips.

“You’re my favorite distraction,” he said earnestly. In his own way, it was his way of saying you were the most fascinating, beautiful, unique, and magnificent thing he had ever seen. He’d rather have a day with you than centuries with anyone or anything else.

He leaned closer to you, his face hovering inches away from yours. He waited, giving you time and space to move away or protest. When you didn’t, he slowly closed the gap.

His lips connected with yours, the kiss short and light, but it conveyed the years of affection and yearning. He pulled away, both of you smiling like love sick idiots.

Satisfied, the TARDIS opened the door with a click, the sound echoing around the room.

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thewritetofreespeech · 3 months ago

Note

I really think Gale needs to know that he is competent and good at things even without his magic/ without doing his magic.

Gale× woman girlfriend tav where they have soft sex and Gale want to enhance the experience with his magic, but reader shows him that he doesn't need to.

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When Tav told him that she loved him back, he thought his chest might explode from just pure excitement & relief. Not the orb.

He had been fairly certain that Tav felt the same as him. Mentally reviewed all their moments together. Stolen glances. That moment in the Weave that still seemed to linger on his fingertips even now. But one was never sure of these things until they happened. And given how his last ‘grand gesture’ had ended, Gale was nervous that this would be another defeat as well. Yet to be accepted, to be loved in return by someone he respected & admired again, Gale could die a happy man. Should the right moment Elminster spoke of was to come.

For now, however, he wanted to focus on the now. He wanted it to be perfect. A vision, just like Tav was to him. To show her how deep his affection was for her, even with their short time together. He had it all planned. To show her his home. To show him where he found the most peace and solace when not at her side. Then to make love in the way of the gods by a perfect mending of souls & mind. It would be perfect.

Yet when he told Tav of his plan, she denied him. Saying that she didn’t want illusions, just him.

“Are you sure?” Gale was caught off guard by her response. Expecting that, when offered the opportunity to experience what so few mortals could, she would jump at the chance. Even with his limitations on the Weave between the tadpole and Mystra’s bars, Gale knew he could get them close to his experience in the heavens. He wanted that for both of them. More than what these simple husks of flesh could bide them. “I can do more than woo you. I could wow you.”

Tav chuckled at his comment. Amused, even though he was being totally serious, and reaffirmed that she wanted the man, not the magic.

Gale was entirely nervous at this point but tried not to show it. He had a plan and all that was out the window. What was he supposed to do now?? The wizard endeavored to stay calm and continue with at least the original plan of being with Tav. He didn’t know if they would have a moment like this again and he would be gods damned if he was going to waste it.

Conjuring just a small bit of magic for a bed, as his back would never recover from making love on the hard ground, Gale smiled when he saw Tav fall back on it playfully. She was always so funny. This odd kind of silly mixed with bravery. Gale couldn’t remember the last time he had been with someone who was silly. Mystra was always so serious, and her wizard acolytes from his school days were no different.

He watched Tav sit up on the bed. Beckoning him over with a look and gesture of her hand that held more magic in it to command than any spell Gale could conjure. He had to obey.

Climbing onto the bed with her, Gale leaned in to kiss Tav a second time. Deeper than the first. Her lips were soft, but a little chapped from their journey. It was warm though. That heat seemed to fill Gale to his bones. He’d forgotten what it was like being with a mortal after so much time with an immortal. Mystra always seemed happy with their coupling. Open and willing to reciprocate, but it was always incorporeal for them. Gale had made offers to pleasure her in other ways. Use what skills he had to please his goddess, but she always declined. As if unwilling to let her once mortal body turn divine be touched in any way resembling a human. At the time Gale had been contented with that. But with the clarity that distance and perspective could now offer, he could now see the benefits of both.

Gale gasped into their kiss as he felt Tav’s fingers brush over the front of his tunic. Down from his chest to his belly. The muscles twitch even with the slightest touch. He had forgotten about that too. Touch.

He moved from kissing Tav’s lips down to her neck. Her breath hitched as her pulse hammered against his lips. Feeling her life’s drum just there against her skin. Gale could understand why Astarion was so tempted now. As he kissed her neck and collarbone, his fingers danced over her body. Gale may not have magic in his fingers when it came to locks, but he was certainly dexterous enough to be able to do lacings & the like. Their garments melting away as if by actual magic.

Gale took a moment to push up on his hands and get a full look at Tav. She was beautiful. Radiant. The light on her skin. The pert of her breasts in the night air. The imperfections of scars, freckles, and spots here & there all perfect. The perfection of realism.

The wizard swooped back down to finish kissing Tav all the way down. Moving to her sternum. Toying with her breasts. The weight of them soft but noticeable as he worked them in his hand. He moaned in tandem with Tav as her fingers brushed into his hair as he suckled at her breast. Feeling her there, reciprocating, listening to her enjoy what he was doing to her, Gale thought he might burst. He was so hard, and the bedding he had conjured provided little relief to the pressure as he rubbed against it.

Gale continued his path down. Kissing over Tav’s stomach until he came to the apex between her thighs. “Can you open a little more for me, my love?” He was hesitant to use the term of endearment. Fearful that he might have pushed too far. Perhaps they were not ready for pet names. But when he saw Tav part for him with a shy little smile, he decided he would call her that every day.

Her scent flowed up to him as her legs parted. Sweet yet sensual. Gale felt his mouth literally water in reflex. How long had it been since he tasted a woman fully? How longer still had it been since he’d done this with a woman that he loved?

Even with the lapse in time, it was like a fish to water for Gale. Based on Tav’s moans & shutters he had not forgotten how to please with his verbose, practiced tongue. He swiped up through her center, teasing the nub at the cleft, before sliding back down to collect her sweet honey. His hands massaged her thighs which were warm and lax by his ears. Gods. How had he gone so long without this in his life? He felt like a starving man sat down in front of his first meal.

Gale moaned into her cunt as he felt Tav reach for him between her legs. Fingers in his hair. Gripping and pulling in pleasure. His cock was already rock hard but it jutted in excitement with every tightening of her fingers. He made quick work to finish lest he truly embarrass himself on their first rendezvous.

Tav cried out as she came. Her thighs tightening in his hand. She looked beautiful lying there all spent. The slightest hint of perspiration on her skin illuminated in the moonlight. Gale had seen gods, but he could think of no sight finer.

He crawled over Tav again until they were nose to nose. “Are you sure?” He wanted to ask again. Maybe she had changed her mind? Maybe this was enough for him to hope for?

Tav just wrapped her arms around his neck and braced her knees against his side. “Do it.”

The commanding voice sent a shiver down Gale’s spine. Enough to make him almost cum right there. He restrained himself and reached down to moisten his cock with spittle and pre-cum. Then he lined up with Tav’s entrance and pushed forward.

The two of them moaned. Gale did not expect how hot inside her would be, how tight. With Mystra everything was so open and vast. The vastness of eternity and the Weave open to them to express their feelings. Here, with Tav, everything seemed to file down to a single point. A single moment. Just the two of them in the whole wide world. Gale moved his hips back and pressed forward again. Starting a slow, easy rhythm. He wanted this moment to last forever; or at least as long as possible.

Tav held on to him and moved her hips back to meet him. The perfect partnership, just like their adventure. Gale leaned down to kiss her and was met with equal passion. Tongues melding, gasping breaths, hearts racing. Everywhere Tav touched him seemed to leave a burning trail across his body, waiting to consume him. Had it always been like this with mortals and he had just forgotten? No. Gale knew he would remember this if it had happened. It had to be Tav.

His hips sped up and Tav rose to meet him with glee. He could feel that he was going to climax soon, and it became his single focus for the next few moments before stumbled in his thrust with a low, powerful moan. White hot flashes across his eyes as he was sure was spilling inside her.

Gale broke from a final kiss with Tav in their coupling and rested his head against hers. He felt tired, but indeed sated as he anticipated he would be. Complete. Should the world and the orb come to swallow him whole, Gale would be able to do it with but one regret now on his mind. That he couldn’t be with her longer.

The wizard carefully dislodged himself from Tav and pulled her close with the conjured blanket to wrap them in. “We’ll need to head back before morning.” He reasoned. The others would come looking for them, and his spell of stars would not last forever. But it would for a little while longer. For now, he just wanted to spend the remainder of the night with Tav in his arms. As a man. As two lovers. Not a wizard and adventure on a path to save the world. Just him and Tav.

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dearstvckyx · 1 month ago

Text

If you wouldn't take the help? - Quinn Hughes

After a crushing 7-0 loss to the Golden Knights, Quinn Hughes spirals, putting immense pressure on himself and shutting everyone out. When his teammates and coaches fail to get through to him, they call his childhood best friend (the reader) and fly her out from Michigan. She confronts Quinn, reminding him that he can’t become a better player or person if he won’t take the help being offered. He finally lets his guard down, breaking down in her arms. - The Neighbourhood , How

Quinn Hughes x Reader , ft. Canucks players

Warnings: Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of anxiety, self-imposed pressure.

Note// I got carried away….

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

The locker room was suffocating.

The air was thick with the stench of sweat and defeat—the kind of defeat that clung to the walls and weighed heavily on everyone’s shoulders.

7-0.

Seven. Nothing.

To Vegas.

It was humiliating.

The Canucks had been completely outplayed. Every shift felt like an uphill battle. The mistakes piled up, one after the other. Turnovers. Bad reads. Missed coverage.

And Quinn Hughes felt every single one of them like a weight on his chest.

He sat on the bench long after the game ended, his skates still on, staring blankly at the floor. The rest of the team had already begun to file out—some hitting the showers, others slumping into their stalls in bitter silence.

But Quinn didn’t move.

He just sat there, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, fingers tangled in his damp hair.

His chest felt tight. His throat burned. His vision blurred slightly from how hard he was blinking.

His hands curled into fists.

It was my fault.

He knew it wasn’t entirely true. He knew they lost as a team. But in his head, the errors—the ones that led to the goals—were his. The misstep on the blue line. The puck he should have cleared. The coverage he lost track of.

If I had just played better…

The self-loathing festered.

And it didn’t stop.

⸻

The next few days were rough.

Quinn was quieter than usual at practice. More withdrawn. More irritable.

The boys noticed immediately.

Tyler Myers gaze lingered on Quinn when he didn’t so much as crack a smile during a chirp-filled drill. Petey gave him wary glances when he noticed Quinn staying late on the ice by himself. Brock tried to get him to go out for dinner after practice, but Quinn just shook his head.

The boys didn’t miss the way he was pulling away.

By the time the next game came around, Quinn was gripping his stick so tightly his knuckles were white. He was trying to play perfectly—too perfectly. Overthinking every pass. Second-guessing every zone entry.

And it made everything worse.

When he sat back down on the bench, after missing 3 passes, he slammed his stick hard against the boards, cursing under his breath.

None of them had ever seen him this rattled.

When the game ended, Quinn left without saying a word.

And that’s when the guys decided enough was enough.

They tried to talk to him—first as teammates, then as friends. Tyler sat with him after practice, offering words of advice that Quinn barely acknowledged. Petey tried to lighten the mood in the locker room, hoping to at least get him to crack a smile. Brock gave him space but kept a watchful eye.

Even Tocchet tried pulling him aside in his office.

But nothing worked.

No matter what anyone said, no matter how much they tried to be there for him, Quinn kept waving them off.

Kept brushing them aside.

Kept saying he was fine.

But he wasn’t.

And when it became clear that Quinn wouldn’t take the help they were offering, the boys made one final call.

To you.

⸻

You barely had time to process it.

You were sitting on your couch in Michigan when your phone rang. The moment you saw Brock’s name flash on the screen, you knew something was wrong.

And before you could even ask, he was already explaining everything—the game, the weight Quinn was carrying, the way he was shutting everyone out.

You didn’t even hesitate.

The next morning, you were on a plane to Vancouver.

⸻

Quinn had no idea you were coming.

He didn’t expect the knock at his apartment door late that night. He figured it was one of the guys. Maybe Brock, checking in again.

So when he swung the door open and saw you standing there, he blinked, stunned.

For the first time in days, he truly didn’t have the words.

“Hey, Q,” you said softly, offering a small smile.

He stared at you for a beat too long.

And then, before you could even say another word, he reached for you.

Without thinking. Without hesitation.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him.

And you let out a soft breath against his chest as he clung to you tighter than he probably meant to.

You felt his heart pounding faintly against your cheek, too fast, too unsteady.

For half a second, he didn’t move.

But then you felt it—the slight tremble in his arms.

And you realized he was barely holding it together.

Your arms tightened around him.

“Let me in?” you whispered softly against his collarbone.

Without a word, he stepped back and let you inside.

⸻

You sat cross-legged on the couch while he sat stiffly on the opposite end, his hands running restlessly over his knees.

He was still wearing his hoodie from practice, but his hair was still slightly damp from a recent shower. You could see the faint redness around his eyes—the barely-there evidence of the frustration and exhaustion clinging to him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You just watched him.

Watched the way his fingers curled and uncurled. The slight bounce of his knee. The tension in his shoulders.

And finally, softly, you broke the silence.

“You’re shutting them out.”

Quinn’s hands stilled.

“You’re shutting everyone out.”

His eyes flicked to yours for half a second before he shook his head slightly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

You stared at him.

“No, you’re not,” you said softly.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, the muscle in his jaw clenching slightly.

You slowly uncrossed your legs, shifting closer, resting a gentle hand over his.

“Quinn,” you whispered. “How do you expect to be a better player… a better person… if you wouldn’t take the help?”

His fingers twitched slightly beneath yours.

And for a second, you thought he was going to brush you off again.

But instead—his face just crumpled.

The tension in his jaw loosened. His shoulders dropped slightly.

And then, without a word, he exhaled shakily, slumping forward.

Your breath caught softly when he leaned into you. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and you felt his breath hitch unevenly against your collarbone.

Your arms slipped around him immediately, holding him tightly against you.

And for the first time in weeks—he let himself break.

You felt his grip tighten around your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie. His breaths were uneven, shaky, shallow against your neck.

You didn’t say anything.

You just held him.

Your fingers slowly ran through his hair, the way you had when you were kids—the familiar motion easing the tension from his shoulders, loosening the knot in his chest.

After a long moment, you felt him exhale softly, his breath warm against your skin.

You shifted slightly, gently nudging him back just enough to meet his eyes.

And the moment you saw them—red-rimmed, glassy, and vulnerable—you felt your chest tighten.

Your hand slowly slid up to his face, your thumb brushing softly along his cheekbone.

And you saw it—the way his breath caught slightly at your touch.

The way his eyes lingered on your lips for half a second too long.

But neither of you said anything.

You just sat there—his forehead resting against yours, your breaths softly intermingling, hearts barely steadying.

For a fleeting moment, you thought he might kiss you.

You thought about closing the small space between you.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you slowly brushed his hair back from his eyes, your fingers lingering slightly longer than necessary.

And softly, barely above a whisper, you murmured,

“I’ve got you.”

And he believed you.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #qh43 #qh43 x reader #tyler myers #brock boeser #elias pettersson #vancouver canucks #Canucks #nhl #nhl write #hockey #the neighbourhood lyrics masterlist #the nbhd #Spotify

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coffeeluv3r · 2 months ago

Text

Caught Between the Lines ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆.˚

✩Pairing: 𝖢𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗑 𝖬𝖾𝖽 𝖠𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

✩Word count: 2.1k

✩Summary: 𝖢𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖾𝖻 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. 𝖢𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗒𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍.

✩Warning/s: 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗈, 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽???

✩Author's corner: 𝗁𝖾𝗒𝗒, 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌 𝗂 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌!!—𝗂'𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗈𝗐𝖺. 𝗉𝗅𝗌 𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌

CAITLIN CLARK HAD ALWAYS known exactly who she was.

From the moment she first picked up a basketball, the rhythm of the game had been her heartbeat. It was her first love, her greatest passion, the one thing in life she could always count on. Every shot, every pass, every buzzer-beater was a piece of her story, written in the language of the sport she adored. And then there was Connor—her steady, unwavering boyfriend, the person who had always been by her side. Through every victory and every defeat, he was there, a familiar presence, a safe place.

She never questioned it. Not once.

Until you.

It wasn’t supposed to be complicated. You were just the new assistant for the athletic department, someone she saw in passing, a friendly face on the sidelines. The kind of person anyone would gravitate toward—kind, funny, easy to talk to. It started out simple. A few harmless conversations, a joke exchanged between drills, the kind of thing she’d never given a second thought to before.

But then she started noticing things.

The way her pulse quickened when she heard your voice. The way her eyes searched for you in the crowd before every game. The way she caught herself smiling at her phone when your name popped up on the screen.

It didn’t make sense. She was happy with Connor. She loved him. Didn’t she?

One evening, after a grueling practice, Caitlin walked outside the gym and found you waiting, leaning casually against the brick wall, arms crossed, that familiar smile playing at your lips. The golden glow of the setting sun framed you in a way that made her stomach twist—an unfamiliar, exhilarating feeling she couldn’t quite name.

"Hey, superstar," you teased, bumping her arm. "Killer game today."

She laughed, but it came out breathier than she intended. "Thanks. I try."

For a moment, the world seemed to slow. There was something unspoken in the air between you, something she wasn’t ready to acknowledge but couldn’t bring herself to ignore. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her gym bag as she struggled to push the feelings away.

"You, okay?" you asked, voice soft with concern, noticing Caitlin's uneasy posture.

She hesitated. She could brush it off, pretend like nothing had changed. Or she could be honest—with herself, with you.

"I don’t know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think—"

But she didn’t finish. Couldn’t finish. Because if she said it out loud, if she admitted what was happening, then it would be real. And that terrified her.

You didn’t push. You just nodded, offering a quiet reassurance. "Whatever it is, I’m here."

Caitlin exhaled slowly, a mix of relief and frustration washing over her. She didn’t have the answers, didn’t know how to navigate these feelings. All she knew was that, for the first time in her life, she felt like she was standing at the free-throw line with the game on the line—and she wasn’t sure if she was going to make the shot.

As she stepped into the locker room, her teammates were in mid-conversation.

"Clark, you good?" Gabbie asked, tossing a towel over her shoulder.

"You’ve been spacing out a lot lately."

"Yeah, you better not be losing focus on us," Kate teased, elbowing Caitlin lightly. "We need our star locked in."

Caitlin forced a laugh, shook her head, sat on one of the benches, and began untying her shoes. "I’m fine. Just tired."

Monika gave her a knowing look but didn’t press. "Well, whatever it is, make sure you don’t forget we’ve got Purdue this weekend. We need you sharp."

Caitlin nodded, but even as the conversation moved on, she couldn’t shake the unease creeping in. She was used to having all the answers, knowing exactly what she wanted. But now? Now, she wasn’t so sure.

That night, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Caitlin tried to rationalize it all. Maybe it was just admiration. Maybe she simply looked up to you in a way she hadn’t with anyone else. But then why did her stomach flutter every time you sent her a text? Why did she replay your conversations in her head, wondering what you meant by certain glances, certain words?

Connor noticed something was off. He had always been good at reading her.

"You’ve been quiet lately," he said one afternoon as they walked along campus. "Everything okay?"

Caitlin forced a smile, nodding too quickly. "Yeah, just tired. Long practices."

He accepted her answer, but she knew it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to herself.

Days passed, and the weight in her chest grew heavier. It was after a particularly grueling practice that everything came to a head. She found herself lingering in the locker room longer than usual, dreading the moment she had to step out and face reality.

"Clark, you’re showering in slow motion today," Hannah teased as she finished getting dressed. "You trying to avoid something?"

"Or someone?" Sydney teased with a grin.

Caitlin sighed, running a hand through her hair. "You all are too nosy."

"We’re just looking out for you," Gabbie said, her tone more sincere now. "If something’s up, you know we got you, right?"

Caitlin said nothing in reply to Gabbie, she leaned her back against one of the lockers, running her fingers in her and softly tugged on it.

"I don't know why you're avoiding Y/N, and I don't want to meddle in on what's happening between the two of you, but I hope you two will fix this, whatever's been going on." Gabbie said in a worried voice.

Caitlin swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah, I know. I'll talk to her soon." What Caitlin didn't know was that ‘soon’, may come a bit earlier than she would have liked.

You walked inside the locker room, your eyes looking for something or someone, your expression shifting the moment you saw her. The girls, all except Caitlin, turn to look at your arrival.

"Caitlin?"

She snapped her eyes open and stood straight as soon she heard your voice and turned to face you. "Y/N..." she said in a shocked voice.

"Hey, Cait, can we talk for a moment?" You said meekly, Caitlin merely blinked her eyes at you, unsure what to say. "Um." she mumbled, darting her head towards the girls in the room, signaling with her eyes that she wanted a moment with you.

Gabbie and the others shared a look of understanding and slowly piled out the room to give the two the privacy they needed.

You slowly approached her and took your place beside her. The two of you standing side by side with both your hands lying limply just inches away from each other, both in your mind wanting to hold each other's hands but too afraid to make a move. Neither of the two was looking at each other. Caitlin's staring blankly at the ceiling, while yours were at the ground, your right foot twiddling the floor. After a few minutes of tension-filled silence, you can't handle any more of the awkwardness dancing between the two of you and decide it was time to speak up.

"Why are you avoiding me, Cait?"

Caitlin did not reply to you, still staring at the ceiling, her eyes slowly blinking, quickly licking her lips.

"Had I done something wrong?" You said forlornly, furrowing your brows. At that, Caitlin snapped her head at you, and she immediately shook her head in disagreement.

"No, no... It's not you, God it was never you, Y/N," Caitlin quickly replied while grabbing your hand at your side, while her other hand held your jaw, her thumb rubbing your cheeks softy.

She looked at you nervously, her heart hammering. "I don’t know what’s happening to me," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know why I feel this way."

You didn’t look surprised. If anything, you looked… understanding.

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," you said in a whisper, while slowly caressing her inner wrist with your forefinger.

"Feelings are messy. They don’t always make sense. You can talk to me, Cait. You are not alone, don’t bottle this up."

Caitlin inhaled sharply, her hands trembling. She wanted to believe you. She wanted to let go of the guilt, the confusion, the fear.

“I don’t know why I feel this way for you… It’s not fair. I— I don’t know what to do.” Caitlin choked, pressing her forehead to your neck. “I wish I could answer that, Cait.” You bit the inside of your mouth; the only comfort you gave to the teary-eyed girl was a soft squeeze of her wrist with a light kiss on the top of her hair.

Caitlin wanted to believe in you but most of all, she wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss your lips and not question why she wanted to.

Four months had passed, and Caitlin continued to wrestle with her emotions. Avoiding Connor was no longer an option. She needed to confront the truth—even if it scared her.

One afternoon, after practice, she found him waiting outside the gym. He looked at her with hurt but quiet understanding, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Do you love me, Caitlin?"

It was quiet for a moment, Caitlin hesitated, and in that pause, the answer became painfully clear. "I care about you, Connor. I do. But… something’s changed. I’ve changed."

His jaw tensed, but he nodded. "I knew this was coming. I just didn’t want to admit it."

"I’m sorry, I really am, but I don’t want to hide any longer. If I dragged this much longer, I would continue to hurt you more, it's not fair to you." she whispered in an apologetic voice.

"I just want you to be happy," he said softly. "Even if it’s not with me. Your happiness is more important."

“I’m proud of you, cait. I really am.” Connor added with a wobbly smile.

Tears pricked at Caitlin’s eyes as he walked away, but alongside the sadness was something else—a strange sense of relief. The weight she had been carrying was slowly lifting.

Later that night, she found herself outside your apartment door, heart pounding. When you opened it, surprise flickered across your face before softening into a smile, leaning against the door, crossing your arms, and leaning against the door frame.

"Yes, Caitlin?"

She exhaled, steadying herself. "I don’t have everything figured out yet… but I want to. With you.... If you'll let me."

You shook your head and stepped forward, pulling her into a big hug. "You don’t have to have all the answers or worry about what the future might hold. The answers will come when they’re meant to. Just know that what you're feeling is real. And it’s okay. You're okay."

Caitlin’s breath hitched, but this time, it wasn’t out of fear. It was out of relief. Acceptance. She let herself lean into the warmth of your touch, leaning on your right shoulder, pressing her nose at the side of your neck, finally allowing herself to believe it.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid of who she was. And that, more than anything, felt like victory.

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ksdarouu · 5 days ago

Text

A challenge among friends

Words: 1430

Tags : Big tits, sleeping, cum

"You've got to be kidding me," I said, staring at the calendar on my phone. "It's only been a week?"

"No, it's definitely been a month," Mark smirked, leaning against the bar, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, taking a swig of my beer.

"It's only fifty bucks," Mike chimed in, his voice laced with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from knowing you're about to win.

The challenge had started as a drunken dare at a party – who could last the longest without busting a nut? A hundred bucks was on the line, and we were all in, eager to prove our stamina. Little did we know the torture that lay ahead. The first week was a breeze, the second a struggle, and the third... well, let's just say that every day felt like an eternity.

The beach house was my idea. A week by the sea, far from the temptations of the city, surrounded by nothing but sand and waves. The perfect place to clear our heads and hopefully get our minds off sex. We'd spent the last month dodging porn, avoiding eye contact with attractive strangers, and pretending that the feel of our boxer briefs wasn't slowly driving us insane. It was time for some peace and quiet.

"The view's pretty sweet, right?" Mark said, throwing open the curtains to reveal the moonlit ocean.

"Yeah, it's... relaxing," I replied, trying not to sound too desperate for sleep.

But as the first night rolled on, I found myself lying in bed, sweating, my body begging for release. The quiet was deafening, the darkness a taunting reminder of the challenge I had to face. And so, with a sigh of defeat, I pulled out my phone and tiptoed out of the room, hoping the cool night air would calm my raging hormones.

The hotel lobby was empty, the reception desk unmanned. The soft hum of the air conditioner was the only sound as I padded across the plush carpet. And then I saw her – a woman, fast asleep on one of the sofas, her hoodie pulled up to her nose. But it wasn't the hoodie that caught my eye. It was what lay beneath it. Her shirt had ridden up, revealing a tantalizing expanse of cleavage, the kind that would make any straight man's knees wobble. The sight of her breasts, full and round, made my cock stir in my pants. The devil on my shoulder whispered, "Just one look won't hurt." So I took a step closer.

In the dim light, I could see that she was beautiful, her skin pale and flawless. And those breasts... they looked like something out of a fantasy, the kind you'd see on a billboard for a lingerie brand. But it was more than just their size that captivated me. It was the way they sat on her chest, the gentle swell of them, the way the fabric of her shirt clung to them, hinting at the softness beneath. And as I stared, I realized with a jolt that she was none other than Somi, the K-pop idol I'd been crushing on for ages. This was the kind of fan service I never thought I'd get, but here she was, in the flesh, and I was dangerously close to losing the challenge.

The urge to touch was almost unbearable, but I held back, telling myself that I could handle it. That I could just admire from afar and keep my hands to myself. But the heat in the room was suffocating, the ache in my pants unrelenting. Sweat trickled down my forehead as I took another step closer, my eyes locked on the prize. I reached out, my hand trembling, and lightly brushed my fingertips over the fabric of her shirt. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body that made me gasp. But she didn't stir.

The line between fantasy and reality blurred as I let my imagination run wild. I pictured her waking up to find me standing over her, my cock in my hand, and inviting her to take part in the challenge. Maybe she'd laugh, maybe she'd be angry, but in my mind, she leaned forward, her full lips parting as she took me in her mouth. The thought alone was almost too much to handle. My hand moved faster, my breath coming in ragged pants as I teetered on the edge of release. And then, it happened. The dam broke, and I shot my load, painting her chest in a hot, sticky mess.

But she remained blissfully unaware, her chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. And in that moment, I knew that I had lost. I had failed the challenge, and the prize money was as good as gone. But the sight of Somi, my celebrity crush, covered in my cum was a prize in itself. I took out my phone, snapped a photo, and with a mix of satisfaction and disappointment, I sent it to the group chat. "Guys," I wrote, "I'm out. But I'd say I've won in a way none of you ever will." Their responses were a flurry of shocked emojis and incredulous texts. "Holy shit, you actually did it with Somi?" Mark's message popped up.

"Well, not exactly," I replied with a smirk. "But I did get to enjoy the view."

The next few days passed in a blur of frustration and envy as the competition grew more intense. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as my friends posted updates about their near-misses and ingenious methods of avoiding climax. But I had my secret. I had crossed a line none of them had dared to approach.

Each night, unable to sleep, I found myself drawn back to the lobby. Somi was always there, sleeping so peacefully, oblivious to the battle raging in my pants. I'd sit nearby, watching her chest move with each breath, my cock straining against my zipper. The urge to touch her grew stronger with every visit, the memory of her breasts against my hand like a siren's call I couldn't ignore.

And so it went, my nocturnal visits to the lobby becoming a twisted ritual. I'd stroke myself, imagining her waking up and joining me, her delicate hands caressing my shaft, her perfect mouth engulfing me until I came down her throat. I lost track of time, lost in the fantasy of what could have been, until the sun would start to rise, and the first light of dawn would force me back to my room, exhausted but oddly satisfied.

On the fourth night, I decided to indulge myself one last time. I approached her with the stealth of a predator, my cock already hard and leaking pre-cum. I knelt beside her, my heart racing as I reached out to lift her hoodie. Her eyes remained closed, lashes fluttering slightly as if she were dreaming. I leaned in, my breath hot against her cheek, and whispered, "Somi... wake up, baby." But she didn't stir. I chuckled to myself, the thrill of the forbidden sending a shiver down my spine. With trembling fingers, I unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her bare breasts to the cool air. They were even more magnificent than I'd imagined, the size of grapefruits, with pink, puckered nipples that begged to be sucked.

I didn't stop there. With the same reverence one might reserve for a holy relic, I traced the contours of her breasts with the tip of my cock, feeling the slickness of her skin, the warmth of her body. And when I couldn't take it anymore, I plunged into her cleavage, her soft flesh enveloping me like a velvet glove. The sensation was indescribable, a symphony of pleasure that had my eyes rolling back in my head. I fucked her breasts, my hips pumping in a silent rhythm, the sound of my flesh slapping against hers the only music in the deserted lobby.

And as the sun peeked over the horizon, casting a golden glow over her naked chest, I came once more, spurting my cum all over her face and neck. She slept through it all, a vision of innocence and beauty, forever stained by my lustful desires. But as I stood there, panting and spent, I realized that the challenge was no longer about the money. It was about pushing boundaries, about claiming a piece of the untouchable, about proving to myself that I could do the unthinkable.

And in that moment, I knew I had truly won.

#kpop smut #somi smut #jeon somi smut #smut #girl group smut #female idol smut #male reader smut #jeon somi #somi

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morose-melodies · 8 months ago

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i need dottore,tartaglia,pantalone and capitano(those were in my mind for a while and its killing me) with a reader who always tries to escape.using different tactics each time but always ends up failing.and one day,the reader hads enough and snaps "if you didnt take away and acted like a normal person from the start,i could have loved you"

İf you dont want to or dont feel like writing,thats ok👍

failing attempts | various! yandere! harbingers x reader

CAPITANO

this was escape attempt five.

you truly were optimistic, but capitano wouldn't let you leave him so easily.

your escape attempts seemed to be getting more and more desperate and, therefore, more dangerous to you.

you had attempted to jump out of a window the night before, just as he was arriving home from a mission. the sheer terror he felt as he watched you lean out of the second-floor window was insurmountable.

now, not only was the front door locked shut from the outside, but the windows were now barricaded too. you were a danger to yourself.

and all capitano ever wanted was for you to be safe and with him. was that too much to ask for? was that so terribly wrong of him?

the captain didn't want to take extreme measures to keep you home; he didn't want to lock you in a room, nor did he want to tie you down. he wasn't the sort. He just wanted you to stay without any excessive force.

but you were pushing him into a corner.

this morning, you had darted out of the backdoor, still in your pajamas and without shoes, into the cold.

you didn't make it far at all. you had barely made it over the garden fence, and you were stumbling now.

the captain... sighed as he followed after you. it wasn't an extreme chase; you hadn't even tried to fight back as usual when he caught you; you just stumbled on about something incomprehensible as he wrapped you up into his coat and lifted you into his arms.

"that was terribly immature of you," looking down at you, the captain felt sorry for you, "I would like it if you would stay home but if you plan on leaving, please do wear proper clothing next time. i can not bear the thought of you dying out in the cold."

"if you didn't take me away," at this point, perhaps death was better than being stuck with him, "and if you acted like a normal person," but, you wanted to go home - you wanted to be with your family, "I could've loved you."

capitano's mind blanked. he had given you a chance to come with him freely; he had been kind to you, so were you not lying?

it didn't matter now, did it? "(y/n), you do understand you've caused all this trouble, correct? should you have been a bit more understanding, you wouldn't be in this situation. i love you. Is that not obvious? i only want to see you thrive and to be happy."

he was at the point of no return; he could only go backward from here.

DOTTORE

to take time out of dottore's day, to make him leave the manor to come find you for what seemed like the millionth time - he was admittedly quite frustrated with you.

he found you hanging from the gate, your coat caught on the spike of it.

he grinned - this was a funny sight, but, at the same time, it wasn't funny at all. he was actually very disappointed in you.

dottore approached the gate, standing behind you, "tell me just how long have you been hanging here for?"

your nose was running, and you looked absolutely defeated. when you don't reply, dottore clicks his tongue, shaking his head, "Would your life not be simpler if you just accepted your situation? This is such a pitiful sight, (y/n)."

dottore unlocked the gate and walked outside of him, and he helped you down and brushed off the snow that piled on your coat.

"let's go, (y/n)," dottore grabbed your forearm and prepared to pull you back towards the manor, "I've had enough of your antics - perhaps a night or two in the basement would do you well."

"no-" you tugged back, attempting to free your arm from his grip, "stop it! you make me s-so sick! just let me go!"

"(y/n), please. you've done nothing be give me grief," dottore sighed, tugging you along with him, "I don't understand why you feel that being stubborn will get you anywhere."

"you... don't understand?" you grumbled, digging your feet into the snow, trying to pull your weight, trying to stop dottore from getting you back inside, "you're kidding me! i hate you! You're disgusting and unlovable!"

"(y/n), lower your voice - I'm exhausted and you're giving me a migraine," dottore sighed, stopping and getting a better hold on your arm before tugging you along once more.

"if you have yet to notice, I'm quite content with just having you near. i don't exactly need your love to make me feel any better than i do now. hm, that's the sort of effect you have on me."

you went quiet and dottore assumed you had worn yourself out. he brought you inside and sat you down in front of the fireplace, his hand rubbing circles on your shoulder.

"I could've loved you... maybe if you hadn't taken me away..." you trailed off, holding your hands in front of the fire. Why did he continue to act as if he cared for you? "maybe, um, if you were normal, I could've loved you."

dottore smiled at you, though you couldn't see it, "whether you love me or not is trivial - i have you, (y/n), and that's what I need. you, (y/n), you're all I need."

PANTALONE

pantalone was above getting dirty.

it was nothing personal. he'd do just about anything else for you! he just couldn't imagine himself running around late at night trying to find you.

what was the point when he had other fatuus to do such things for him? they have yet to fail him.

so, while you were out, trying to leave pantalone as multiple fatuus' chased after you, pantalone was running you a warm bath and set a pair of clean clothes out for you.

he knew you'd come back filthy. You always did.

he wondered what he could do to keep you home. He wasn't one for forceful methods; he would hate to hurt you. you were his pride and joy.

pantalone would sigh deeply, dipping his hand into the bathwater to make sure it was still warm.

you never wanted anything from pantalone... well, except for that one time, you asked for a can of soup, but then you used it to smash the bathroom window open and jumped out...

that didn't exactly count.

he heard the front door open and knew you were being dragged in now. the guards weren't gentlemen, quite the contrary, in truth.

you always looked so sad and defeated after the caught you.

"oh, (y/n)," pantalone held a hand to his chest as he stood from where he kneeled at the side of the tub, he stepped forward and wanted to embrace you but you were a mess, "you're a mess."

he frowned at you, as the guards released you and shut the bathroom door behind them as they left. "you must be cold, oh dear," his heart ached for you, such a pitiful sight you were.

you were so lucky that he loved you.

he attempted to remove your top, but you tensed, making it hard for him, "do-don't touch me."

"but you're filthy," pantalone reasoned, once again trying to remove your top but you wouldn't budge, "(y/n), I'm doing this because I love you so very much. please, don't make this hard."

"I don't-" you stepped back, shaking your head at him, "I don't want your help. g-get out, just leave."

pantalone's lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at you, "what's the matter? i-i'm not mad at you, not at all. I understand that i must be lacking something-"

"get out! my gosh, wh-what's with you!? just leave!"

"(y/n)..."

"get out! get out! leave!"

"please, calm down. let me help you undress, alright? You're in a bad mood, i get it. That's no excuse to be rude to someone who loves you dearly," pantalone spoke to you as if he were your mother.

he reached forward and tugged off your shirt with extra force; it wasn't much force; it was just in case you were prepared to tense up again!

"there we go," pantalone cooed as he eased you into the warm bath. he washed your hair for you, making sure to scrub extra hard to get the muck out of your hair.

it was, in a way, soothing...

if only...

"if you hadn't... taken me away and, um," you sniffled, raising your hand to wipe at your nose, "if you were normal... i could've loved you."

instead of offending, that pleased pantalone. what he was hearing was 'you liked him for who he was' and there was nothing better than hearing that.

hm, if only he hadn't taken you away.

"that is the kindest thing you've ever said to me," pantalone smiled, "thank you, (y/n)."

CHILDE

it was a sort of game to childe at this point.

how many times could you attempt to escape this week? how many times would you curse him to hell? how many times would you glare at him today?

he had to find humor in it, or else, he'd lose his mind. after all, there was no easy way to cope with the love of his life hating his guts.

in truth, he had been a bit overbearing the past few days - there was a snowstorm outside and he couldn't allow you to be out in that sort of weather alone.

so, as he stared out the window, looking at the rapidly falling snow, all he could think about was if only something was different. perhaps if the two of you were childhood sweethearts, maybe if the two of you had met before he fell into the abyss, or maybe if the two of you were neighbors.

he, at one point, had gotten so desperate to keep you home that he bent to your will - anything you asked, he did. you never really asked much of him, though...

well, unless telling him to go away was a question.

he was so busy thinking of all the "what ifs" that he didn't notice you running past the window and into the snowy woods.

well, he did, but it just didn't click for him at the moment.

and when it did click? he was out the door, tugging his coat on, not even bothering to shut it behind himself.

"c'mon, (y/n), now is not the time for this!" he called out, watching as you ran around a tree and seemingly "disappeared."

he knew you too well. you expected him to run around the tree to look for you, but he wouldn't; he watched as you emerged from the other side of the tree and pulled you into his open arms.

you can't use the same trick twice on him.

he held you against his chest - he didn't mind that you were nudging at his chest, trying to get away from him. "c'mon, it's pretty cold out here. I'll make you tea when we get back inside."

"no! im not going back!" you nudged harder at his chest, trying to get out of his hold.

"I said we're going back in. we really need to talk ab-"

"there's nothing to talk about! you're not normal and i won't love you!"

he thought had heard it all from you, so, hearing this wasn't anything new, but, what was new was hearing you say:

"if you wanted me to love you, maybe you should've been normal," you paused, and childe's hold on you loosened, his arms going slack at his sides and he looked down at you, "if you didn't take me away... and maybe if you acted like a normal person from the start-"

once again, you paused and took a step back away from him. childe didn't want to hear what you were going to say, even as he imagined what you might say, his chest ached... he wouldn't be able to handle it, "(y/n), let's just go in, okay? i don't want to hear it from you."

"- i could've loved you."

oh, it hurt so badly.

childe tried so hard to be unbothered, so, why was he so hurt from hearing this? he loved you, and he's tried everything to make you understand just how much he loved you, and now you say that you'll never love him.

it hurt, of course, but he's come so far.

childe strongly believes that people can change, anyway. so, he'd keep trying his absolute hardest for you until you buckled and confessed that you loved him back.

but, in the meantime...

"you can still love me," he said, with a weak smile, "I've been good to you, (y/n) and I think I deserve some credit for being so patient, right?"

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