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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months ago

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Winter's King 22

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this week isn't going great but we're hoping.

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You peer up at the silhouettes of the vultures perched on the peaks of the castle. Your return is met by a clear sky as the snows recede to crawling clouds across the slate expanse. The king lets you down outside the stables before he walks the horse within.

You stand just inside the doorway, outside the gathering winds that whistle through the passes and hidden crevices of the mountain. You hug yourself, shivering endlessly as you struggle to chase the cold from your bones. Once the chill creeps in it is near impossible to expel.

King Geralt’s rocky voice carries through the stable as he speaks to Roach. You glance over as another mount huffs and gives an impatient whinny. You slip further inside, letting the door shut completely. You trod along the edge of the aisle and turn down the next row. There you find Daisy’s speckled nose.

“Oh, girl,” you greet her softly and untangle a mat in her mane, “there you are.”

She sniffs you as you pet her neck. She nuzzles the collar of your cloak and you feel along the thick tendons beneath her fine hair. There is comfort in her familiarity. You long to stay there with the horses. You belong more than you do in the king’s chambers.

“Treasure...” he calls for you as you still and keep your hand on Daisy. He speaks your name next as you hear his footfalls march down the next row, harrying faster with each step. The door swings in then clatters back against the frame as Daisy knicks. “Little maid?”

You pat Daisy’s nose and retreat. You shuffle to the front and turn to follow the wall, “your highness.”

King Geralt backs out of the doorway and it snaps shut with the wind. His eyes blaze a moment before they dim. He pushes his gloves over his hair, stray strands puffing out around his hairline.

“There you are. I worried you might have blown away,” he steadies his timbre. Was he truly afraid? Did he think you would try to escape?

“Apologies, I was checking on Sir Bryce’s mount,” you explain.

“Bryce, yes,” he reaches for you and takes your hand, “he has kept you safe, has he?”

You nod, “he is a good man.”

The king’s cheek ticks, “he is my man. He only does as I bid. I commanded him to see after you. Me.”

You take a breath and bow your head, “certainly, I know so, your highness. Thank you for your protection.”

“Do you see, so long as you are close to me, you won’t need to fear,” he girds.

For so long as he keeps you close, you will only be afraid. You will fear him, you will fear his courtiers and his enemies, and you will fear the day he no long wants you near. Every flame must burn itself out and every flame will singe those who get too close.

“Yes, your highness,” you answer and look up at him again, his eyes glimmering, “Geralt.”

Your voice shakes, with more than just the cold, and you let the shiver spread through you. The king brings a hand to your chin and brushes his leather glove against your cheek. He draws you into him, holding you again his chest.

“I forget, my summer treasure, the cold is new to you,” he embraces you and bends to speak against your hat, “we must warm you before an ague might creep in.”

He lets you free reluctantly and grips your hand instead. He takes you out of the stable and towards the rear entrance of the castle. You slip in the snow, keeping you footing only for his hold on you. He stops and turns to you, tugging you near as your feet kick through the powder.

He sweeps you up in his arms without effort. He is strong and holds you across his body, cradling you as he stalks to the door. You wriggle as angles to hook two fingers through the loop and hauls open the door around you. He sidles inside and turns you, bidding you to pull the door shut. You obey and close you both in dim unlit corridor.

“Thank you, your highness,” you pat his chest lightly, “will you let me down?”

“I don’t mind. You are hardly a burden,” he grits. “Having you in my arms has me feeling much lighter.”

You drag your hand to his shoulder and squeeze through the layers, “but what if someone should happen upon us?”

He’s quiet. He keeps you aloft, shifting one way then the other, peering up and down the darkness.

“And what if they did?” He asks.

It’s your turn to be silent.

“I am king, what should they do, treasure?”

You fidget and pull your hand away from him.

“You speak true, your highness. You are the king, you may do as you will.”

He sighs and his chest heaves against you. He clicks his tongue and slowly shifts you down until your feet meet the floor. As he straightens, he drags his touch over your figure, his hand delving between cloak and dress.

“You fret very much,” he rebukes, “though I suppose caution is wise.”

“I think of you, of your reputation as king,” you assure him, “I wouldn’t want to tarnish your name. I serve the crown and I wouldn’t bring shame to it.”

“Shame?” He snarls, “never.”

He hooks his arm around you and spreads his hand across the back of your head. He pulls you into him and kisses your forehead as you tremble. He holds you like that for a moment before he parts.

“We must warm you,” he proclaims, “this way, treasure.”

He nudges you along with him. You follow his footsteps down the corridor, towards the lantern light that light the main ways. He takes you through the castle without pause, not tarrying for soldier or lord alike, though few appear in the halls. It is much too cold to leave their hearths.

You climb upward and he leads you to the winding tower. He let you up ahead of him as he holds the door. He touches your lower back through the cloak.

“You will wait for me. I have some matters to attend to,” he says, “it shouldn’t be very long at all.” He trails up your back, sending a flash of heat through you, “sit close to the hearth.”

“Yes, your highness,” you dip your head and press on, ascending as you lift the hem of your cloak and dress over your feet.

The lower door shuts only as the hinges at the top whine at your entrance. You close the chamber door and look around the space. The hearth burns still, fed by servants at intervals, and the lantern on the table shines through the steel slats that shade its flame.

You remove the cloak and hang it from an iron hook. You sit in the chair and strip off the hat, mittens, boots, and stockings; You leave the damp layers nears the hearth and lower yourself before the flames. You close your eyes and hang your head forward. You could sleep then and there.

Your peace doesn’t last very long. You raise your head as you hear someone on the stairs. You stand, readying yourself to face the king, but instead are met by a pair of pinch-faced maids. The resident servants carry steaming vessels and cross to the tub stood to the other side of the bed. They pour the water into the thick wooden walls and retreat without a word.

You spin and fold your arms. You’re taken back to the day it was you and Merinda filling a tub. Before everything became so muddled. A simple existence where you knew exactly what was expected of you.

Your heart rents when you think of your estranged companion. Merinda would know what to say. She could ease your fears, she always knew how. Ever since she came Debray, she always kept you from worry. Without her, you are lost. You only wish you’d realised then all she was to you. You were more than just maids, you were friends.

You stare at the cinders beneath the licking flames. You don’t look again as the servants come upon their second trip, and a third, and a fourth... anon and anon until the chamber thickens with the steam of the tub. You daren’t remind yourself again how much you’ve lost; how much you didn’t even know you had to lose.

You’re left in silence, facing the fire. The winds batter the tower from outside and the shuttered windows rattle. Heavy steps come up the winding staircase and you know without looking who enters behind you. The king’s sigh confirms your assumption.

“The water will ease the cold,” he says as the door shuts, “and the aches of the road.”

You shift so your stand sideways to him, “thank you, your highness.” You swallow and cough out the lump in your throat, “Geralt.”

He hums at your correction. You stand still as he moves around the chamber. He unbuckles his cloak and hangs it next to the one he gifted you. Then he nears to remove his gloves and boots, lining them up before the burning fireplace. As he stands straight, he faces you.

“You should bathe. The water is hot,” he says.

“Thank you,” you nod and reach behind your nape to untie the single lace of your dress, “so I should.”

You whisk away from him, pacing towards the tub as your hands clash clumsily. The thought of undressing before him makes you numb. You stop as the steam plume around you and drop your arms. You can’t get a grasp on the fabric. You grip the edge of the tub and stare into the water.

“You needn’t be meek,” you hear the subtle creak of his leather coat as he removes it. You peek over as he drapes it over a wooden chair. “The cold is dangerous for summerborn, you shouldn’t let it get too deep.”

You can't. You're trying to find the will. You think of all you've done. Faced the Duke and his clan, travelled to the capital, the to hinterlands, you've done it all without doubt, but the layers of fabric are too heavy a task.

You flinch as you feel a tickle along your side. You push away from the tub, dropping your arms as he king bends behind you. He raises the hem of your dress and the air is crushed from your chest. You serve, you obey, and the king’s will is plain.

You lift your arms as he strips the dress up your body and over your head. He swipes it towards the bed as your shift rumples at your hips, the unhemmed edge along your thighs. He steps even closer as he curls his fingers around the undyed linen.

You keep your arms up as he guides the fabric higher. He keeps his thumbs hooked in the cloth and turns his hands so his fingertips brush your shape. Bumps bristle over your skin and have you even colder than before. You quake as the linen blinds you for just a moment and in another, you're naked.

Your shift flaps through the air to land on your dress. The king's breath wisps out through his tight chest and he frames your hips with his large hands. He's shaking too.

He draws away slowly and you feel a rustle against you. You stand frozen as he undresses at your back. Don’t look, you can’t look. If you look, it’s real. If you look, it’s over. His clothes pile at his feet as he shifts you gasp as he presses his hot body flush to yours.

He brings his hands up your arms and along your neck. He frames your head and kisses your crown, his thumb toying with a shank of your uneven hair. You bite down as he urges you closer to the tub.

You move without without resistance, one leg over the edge then the other. He follows, thick legs plunging into the roiling water. He keeps you snug to him as he lowers himself, easing you atop him. You rest over him and his need makes itself known between you. You stare at the stone wall and steel yourself, the water adding fire to the ice inside of you.

He exhales as he relaxes under you, letting his hands crawl over your stomach and hips, feeling every inch of you. From the crook of your neck to your thighs. He smears water over your face as he touches your cheeks and traces your jaw. He quivers as snarling breaths escape him.

“This is how it should be, treasure,” he wraps his hands around yours and folds your arms, resting his clutches over your chest. “I suppose you’ve never heard the tale of Cerill and Wynifred.”

You stare at his knuckles, the hair that trims his rough flesh, the grip in his paled joints.

“Never,” you assure him.

“Cerill was a warrior. A loyal soldier. A man who served his king with all his being. He was knighted on a battlefield. Once a stablehand, then a hero. The king, Fazon, he had a wife, Wynifred. A queen who was kind and sweet. They were ill-matched for every misfortune he aimed at her, rather than its true crux,” he regales you as his voice fills the chamber, wafting with the steam.

“But she was obedient. She lived by her vows. For years. But she was mortal as any woman might be and the cruelty of her husband weakened her. And Lord Cerill was valiant and strong and gentle. Everything her husband was not. How could she restrain herself from the comfort he offered? Neither meant to betray their king but some things, some forces, are strong than those writ by men and their quills.”

You listen, certain of the purpose of his telling. You are not legendary lovers, you are not lost to wives’ tales and children’s stories, you are here, you are alive, and there is nothing fantastical about any of it. He might believe whatever but you haven’t that luxury. He will not hear the doubts, you will feel them.

“And what happened to them?” You ask with foreboding. There are stories similar in the summerlands; of pages and their masters’ wives or daughters.

“Yes, well, we know of them because they were found out, I suppose. They knew they would not evade the king’s vengeance but they refused to bend to it. So, they fled into the forest and found a sacred root. That plant is meant for the sickly, to ease their end. They consumed it together and died in each others’ arms. Just as they were found.”

You lay in silence. The forbidden love hardly tweaks at your heart, but more, you tremble to think of the king’s wrath. Of how a king might wrought his temper upon any and all. Even a wife, even a knight. It is no romantic tragedy; it is a lesson in the power of men.

“Apologies it is not a happier conclusion,” he says.

“The stories are never very happy,” you murmur. Or the truth.

He hums as squeezes your hands. The water is still as you lie in his mercy. This cannot last. Just as in his story, there will only be pain.

As if to confirm your unspoken dread, a knock sounds on the door. The king jerks, the water sloshing around him as he sits you up with him.

“Geralt, King of Rivia and the Hinterlands,” the growl cuts through meanly, “come rule your people!”

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher #winter's king #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au

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megamindsecretlair · 1 year ago

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Been an (Awful) Good Girl

Pairing: Rich!Tre x Babygirl!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

*This is separate from Mr. Black but with a similar style. Can be read as a future imagine for these two.

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. This shit rated PORN. Established relationship. PWP, cursing, PIV, fingering and oral (fem receiving), edging, orgasm control, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, size kink, daddy and breeding kink if you squint, roleplaying as Santa, all consensual.

Summary: Tre has taken you away to a cabin in the mountains for a romantic getaway. He roleplays as Santa so he can shimmy down your chimney.

Word Count: 4,653k

A/N: Chile, ya'll can blame this good ass edible and @planetblaque for this one! Sweet lordt. I had to take SEVERAL breaks. Don't look at me for this one. I'm not responsible for what the jazz cabbage provides. Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Masterlist if you're interested about Mr. Black!

Tagging the folks who love Mr. Black: @browngirldominion @notapradagurl7 @honeyoriginalz @blackerthings @sevikasblackgf @henneseyhoe @miyahmaraj @pinkpantheris @my1onlysenpai @darqchilddaydreamz @badassdoll @playgurlxoxo @eggnox @abeautifulmindexposed @theyscreamsannii @melaninpov @mcdesij @kholdkill @blowmymbackout @theunsweetenedtruth @monaeesstuff @cocoeffects @soft-persephone @duckiesfairy @slippinninque @prettypink-princesss @westside-rot @the-crystal-one

A heavy thud made you gasp with excitement and fear as you headed down the stairs. A man dressed as Santa bent over near the Christmas tree, inspecting the presents there and leaving a few more. You tip-toed further down the stairs until you reached the bottom landing, placing your hand on your hips.

“I hope you’re leaving a good present for me,” you said.

Santa straightened up and turned around slowly, revealing a thick ebony-skinned man. He wore Santa pants with unlaced black boots. Santa’s coat hung open revealing a wide expanse of sexy midnight skin. Rock hard abs was under a subtle layer of fat. There was a Santa hat hanging loosely on his head. He was a man.

God and it killed you every day that you got to love on this man. That he was yours to do whatever you wanted with.

“That depends. Have you been a good girl?” The deep timbre of his voice only added to how aroused you were. When he suggested this getaway to a mountain cabin, you thought that he was out of his rabbit ass mind. Black folk didn’t “do” cabins.

However, you couldn’t resist all the things he’d been teasing you with all week. Every day, he’d whisper something else naughty that he was going to do to you leading up to Christmas. He detailed everything he was going to do as if it were its own treasured present.

All week, he had been edging you, playing with the outermost edges of your clit and pussy. He’d get you so hot and bothered that you thought you’d cum from his voice alone. No matter how many times you begged and pleaded, he refused to allow you to cum. He would whisper all kinds of dirty shit.

When you got to the cabin, he stayed true to his word. Except that he’d edged you more. You were sexually frustrated and you wanted dick right now.

“I’ve been an awful good girl,” you said with a sultry grin.

Santa absently rubbed his stomach as he crooked his finger and you walked closer to him.

He had done a good job of getting the cabin ready for you both. He did all the research, ran it by you for approval, and set to work getting it set up for Christmas. The tree was understated and beautiful with copper and blue baubles. A Black angel in gold robes sat atop the tree with lights lit in her hands.

He had a fire going in the hearth now, warming the entire first floor. It was a good thing too. You were not accustomed to the freezing temperatures in the mountains. The day time wasn’t so bad. But at night? You were shivering your ass off upstairs.

Santa licked his lips as you approached, looking over your outfit for the day. You practically cackled while you were in the store, spending all his money on lingerie. Tonight, you chose a forest green teddy, with gold straps across your hips. It showed off the planes of your belly and connected in the back. It was flimsy and you felt incredibly sexy in it.

By the look in his eyes, it was very much appreciated. He grabbed your hand and made you do a spin for him. You moved your hips dramatically, like a model to show him exactly what he’s been teasing all week.

“Good girls usually stay sleep when Santa comes to visit,” he said. He pulled your hips backwards so that your ass could grind into his hard dick. You bit your lip and suppressed a shudder. You were so needy, you’d suck his dick till the morning if only he’d let you cum already. He grazed your left ear with his teeth.

“I’m too curious,” you said.

He chuckled and you felt the vibration down your back. Did this man have any clue how fucking sexy he was? He had to. He had to know that you were down bad for him.

“Too curious about your presents? That’s very naughty,” he said, drawing out the word. His teeth on your ear were sending electrical currents straight to your pussy. You ached. You needed stimulation and you were tired of waiting. He was a mean asshole but he wasn’t typically this cruel. You didn’t know which side of the bed he woke up on, but he needed to switch up real quick before you got pissed and didn’t want to play anymore.

You took a few deep breaths to calm down. You were too excited. Your teddy was already growing damp. That was just at the promise of dick.

“I’ve been good all year. Can’t I take a little peak?” You asked.

“Hmm, how ‘bout you come sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you want. Let’s see if Santa got it right this year,” he said in your ear.

He stepped away from you and dragged a chair closer. The cabin was so quaint and adorable like all them cheesy ass Hallmark movies. The chair was antique, lovingly restored with a dark stain on it. You were nervous to defile it so crudely, but whatever. Shit wasn’t going to last forever.

He sat down and slapped your ass. You shrieked, not expecting the bite of pain. You looked over your shoulder at him and he gave you a saucy wink. He spread his legs wide enough for you to squeeze your luscious body in between. You sat on his lap, feeling his dick again. You were turned on, he was turned on, was all of this really necessary?

You knew better than to question him. Once he got an idea in his head, it took damn near a miracle to get him to switch it up.

The fabric of his clothes were plush. You settled on his lap and he pulled your hips back until you were all the way on him. He tapped your thighs to get you to hang them over his, leaving you just as spread as he was. More so, since your legs dangled outside of his.

The heat of the fireplace slammed into you, fighting with the heat from inside of you. Your breaths were growing too ragged and painful in your chest. “Nuh-uh, breathe baby girl,” he said. “I ain’t even touch you yet.”

He was right. He thought he was always right but in this instance, he really was right. You took deep breaths, looking into the real flames behind the black grate. Santa’s hands rubbed over your thighs and you gasped, jerking away from him.

He continued to rub your thighs, getting you used to his touch. If you didn’t calm down soon, you were going to burst into little tiny pieces. His hands worked inwards, getting closer to your pussy and you began to grind on his dick. You used the arm rests for support.

You couldn’t help it. You needed to move, to ride. You needed some damn friction. “Tell Santa what you wanted this year. Anything that pops into that pretty empty head,” he said in your ear.

He returned to nibbling on it. You started and stopped multiple times. The heat began to duel in earnest now, sweat gathering on your forehead and in between your breasts. “Since I’ve been so good, I want a new car,” you said.

He knew you had a really hard time asking for shit. He made good money and he liked taking care of you but every single purchase was a small battle of wills. You always lost, but he was getting sick of the guilt you felt over each purchase.

His project this year was to get you to ask for the most outrageous things so that his gifts were “small” in comparison. Last year, his project was to make you rest. He whisked you away for an entire year and refused to let you do anything but sleep and hop on his dick.

“What kind of car?” He asked. “Be specific.”

You whimpered as his pinky fingers played with the very edge of your teddy. It skimmed the sensitive skin in the crease of your legs and you gyrated again, unable to stop.

“I-I want a Range Rover Evoque, Black, 2024 model,” you said. He moved his fingers closer. If he went a bit farther, his fingers would finally rub on your clit.

You were having a hard time breathing. You were out of air as your brain turned fuzzy. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen. Maybe it was how turned on you were. You weren’t sure and didn’t care to know.

“Tell Santa why you want it,” he said.

You weren’t sure it was safe for a human body to contain so much heat. You flushed with it, as if it were a wall of pressure inside of you. You huffed. “It’s simple and unassuming. But has all wheel drive that I can take anywhere,” you said.

“Where you trynna go?” He asked.

“To our winter house in Northern France. A chateau with a huge green house I can visit and walk around all the new plants. Then it has to have a garden too. So big I could get lost in it,” you moaned.

He moved his fingers over the lace covering your clit. That tiny strip of fabric was all that separated you from his fingers. You wished the fireplace would leap out a tiny flame and burn the fabric away. You hated being teased and the bastard knew it.

“That’s my girl,” he said. He moved his right hand and slipped it under your teddy. He groaned when he burrowed his fingers in between your soaked folds.

“I don’t know. You still might end up on the naughty list. Do good girls let Santa play with their pussy?” He asked.

You nodded and shivered. Tingles shot up and down your thighs. Your toes curled around his calves. He was trying to kill you. He was actively committing murder and you were letting him. “Yes. Santa has to be taken care of too, right?” You asked.

“What if I had a Mrs. Clause?” He asked.

“Then she’d be having a very lonely Christmas considering it’s my pussy you’re playing with,” you said.

Santa chuckled and removed his fingers. “Wait! No!” You cried.

He moaned while he licked his lips. Smacked his lips. “Good girls don’t have filthy mouths, baby girl,” he said.

“Wait, I’m sorry. I’ll be good!”

“Tell me what else you want and maybe I’ll go back to playing with it,” he said.

You grunted in frustration. You were going to get his ass back for this. When he least expected it. Maybe the next time he showered, you were going to drop to your knees and suck him to the point of cumming. Then you were going to stop and make him suffer like he made you suffer all week.

The thought helped you plan your next ask. “I want a private island. With a private plane I can take whenever I want,” you said.

“A private island, huh? With on site staff?” He asked.

“Yes!” You ground into him based on that hit of gravel in his throat. He wasn’t entirely immune to what you were doing. He liked to act a big game, but he wasn’t made of steel. Although with that thing between his legs…

“What you gon’ do with this private island?” He asked.

“Walk on the beach naked,” you said with a grin. He couldn’t see you, but your words hit their mark. His hips slipped forward. He chuckled.

“Oh, we got jokes tonight,” he said.

You shuddered. “Fuck,” you panted. “I will walk around naked, get in the water naked. I might even lay on my beach and fuck myself with my fingers.” You moved your hand to do just that. Fuck him. He pushed you too far this time.

His fingers searched for your wet heat, pushing inside and you cried out. You leaned your head back, leaning on his shoulder. You were at an odd angle, your back curved a touch too far. You didn’t care. He was finally touching you.

Your pussy clenched around his fingers as he dipped three in at once. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck,” you moaned. Your right hand reached back to grip his bicep. The muscles squeezed and you held on by digging your nails in.

“I can definitely deliver on some of them things. But I think what I got you is much better. That’s if I decide you’ve been good,” he said.

You didn’t give a fuck what he said. You were grinding on his fingers while he pumped them inside you. Your arousal made you grip his fingers and he groaned at the extra pressure. “Nahh, you been too naughty. Talking back, disobeying orders, potty mouth.”

You whined. “Please, I’ll do anything,” you panted.

“Anything?” He whispered in your ear. You nodded, wiggling your hips. Fuck! His fingers weren’t enough!

“Sit on my face then,” he said.

Your hips stuttered as his words sunk in. He couldn’t be serious. “I don’t want to squish–”

“I die, I die,” he said.

You laughed despite yourself. “I’d miss you too much if you did,” you said. Fuck. You wanted his dick and he wasn’t going to make it easy. How did he know you so well?

“Okay, okay,” you agreed. Fuck it. Santa chuckled as he withdrew his fingers again. He sucked on them, groaning at your taste. The small room was filled with the scent of your arousal. The thick musk tickled your nose. You felt naughty as hell. Okay, maybe there was something to this role playing business.

You stood up and the chair scooted across the hardwood floor, grooves be damned. Before the hearth, there was a thick bearskin rug. On top of it, there were two other thick blankets with smooth downy fabric.

You knelt down while Santa joined you. He got onto his back. The Santa jacket and boots had come off. His skin flickered with the light of the flames. Shadows played across his chest. You licked your lips as you straddled his chest. He scooted down while you scooted upwards towards his mouth.

Nerves made your hands shake and thighs quake. Your pussy moved over his face and he adjusted himself beneath you. He pressed his nose into your wet core and breathed deeply.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He flicked his thumb over the thin material before yanking your teddy to the side.

“Shit’s so fucking creamy, baby girl,” he said.

You moaned while he pulled you down onto his face. You tried to use your knees to hover, but he was yanking you down anyway so that you literally sat on his face. His tongue started to move, flexing with his jaw. He was in it deep already. His thick beard rubbed your pussy and you moaned uncontrollably.

“Oh my god,” you moaned. Your hands dropped to his head. Your body started to move, riding his face. You were flooding his face with your arousal. It practically dripped out of you and onto his chin, into his beard, and into his mouth.

He moaned while he ate you out. The vibrations made his lips tingle. Pressed against your clit just so, you twitched and were shaking out your release. Your moans bounced in the cozy cabin. You screamed it all out. Such undiluted pleasure had you seeing through the roof and into the starry night sky.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned.

Santa continued to slurp up your essence. The loud sucking made your pussy flutter. “So fuckin’ creamy, shit,” he moaned. Harsh breaths escaped him and you felt slightly guilty. However, not too guilty because fuck that was amazing.

You didn’t have to worry about crushing him or wondering when he would tap out with an apology. Your head was silent for once. You were just a vessel for pleasure and at his mercy.

“Roll over,” he said.

You climbed off of him and flipped onto your back. He moved and leaned up onto his knees, scooting in between your legs and dropped his pants. He pressed his massive thighs against yours, pushing you nearly in half.

He laid down into a push-up style position. His hands were on either side of you, pushing your thighs down even more against your body. He wiggled his hips and the tip of his dick swung lazily over your pussy.

“Oh please, baby. Please, please,” you begged with an edge of panic.

Your feet dangled over his shoulders and you pushed them inward, wrapped around his head. He finally lined up perfectly, and began to sink in slowly.

Your mouth dropped open and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. “Fuck, me!” You moaned.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” he moaned tiredly.

He ought to be fucking tired from all that teasing he did! You bit your lip to keep from cursing him till kingdom come. He knew how long and thick he was. He knew he needed to get you sopping wet before even attempting this shit. But a week? A week of fucking teasing?

Your tight hole squeezed his dick and he moaned, stopping about halfway in. “Breathe for me, baby girl. Breathe and let me into that sexy pussy,” he coaxed with a deep rumble in his chest.

You took deep breaths and willed your body to relax. You were just so excited, you didn’t know how you were still conscious. You relaxed enough for him to keep sliding in deeper. You jerked and moaned as he kissed your cervix. You grunted and groaned, a delicious burn working its way around the edges of your pussy.

Fully seated, he stopped and let you adjust around him. He didn’t wait long to pull out and then slide back in, rougher. Your thighs slapped together like a thunderclap. You panted and your legs shook over his shoulders.

Your hands flew to your knees to keep them closed around him. Otherwise, your legs would drop open and he’d split you in half. On second thought…

You let your knees fall open, opening you wider. Santa grinned, looking between your bodies at where you joined. His jaw worked, gathering spit, and spat on your pussy. An inhuman glint entered his eye as he fucked it into you.

Your moans continued to get louder as he slammed roughly into you. That long dick speared you from the inside out. But he was immediately hitting your G-spot. Your moans turned feral and animalistic as you felt indescribable pleasure.

Your thighs made loud and filthy smacks the harder he clapped your pussy. You gushed on his dick and the sticky suction noise joined the symphony of filth.

“I’m-I’m-I,” you couldn’t speak.

“That’s okay. You let me worry about that. Don’t you want me to feel it?”

You nodded and blinked into his eyes. He looked down at you. “Aww, look at you letting me hit this fuckin’ raw. You been such a filthy slut this year,” he said.

“Shit,” you moaned.

“You hear how hard I’m beating this shit?” He asked.

You could only nod. He licked his lips as he looked at your bouncing breasts, barely held in check by the teddy. “Pussy talkin’ hella loud.”

“Oh my god,” you breathed. You were shaking badly now, twisting and writhing beneath him.

“Mhm, keep talkin’. Keep talkin’ to me.”

You finally let go, the orgasm wrapping a giant hand around you and squeezed the very breath from your lungs. Your mouth worked, but all you let out was a strangled, incoherent moan.

“There it is. Ou, feelin’ so fuckin’ good. You such a filthy little slut, ain’t you? Gettin’ dick from Santa this year. Let me hear that pussy screamin’ for me,” he said.

Your chest continuously caved in as you screamed with pleasure. Screamed to the heavens above that you were getting phenomenal dick that constantly emptied your head of all thoughts. You operated on pure feeling now. The deep, long strong of his dick. The slap of his thighs on yours. His groans and grunts as he watched himself disappear inside of you.

You shook violently on your way down. You pouted a bit. He didn’t cum. You stuck your bottom lip out and he grinned. He leaned down into the pushup, pressing his lips to yours. He dominated your kiss, running his tongue in a circle around your lips. Then he dived his tongue inside. You still faintly smelled yourself on his breath.

“You think I’m done with you?” His lips hovered above yours and you whined, wanting to continue kissing him. He lowered but before your lips fully connected, he leaned back. You chased his mouth but he leaned too far away.

You turned puppy dog eyes towards him and stuck out your bottom lip again. He chuckled. He bit your bottom lip and pulled. His hips still worked roughly against you, fucking into you with reckless abandon.

“You’ve been a naughty girl this year,” he began to kiss down your body. He licked certain parts of your skin, before zeroing in your nipple through your teddy. You hissed and jerked, moving away from it. He held on, getting the fabric wet with his spit.

“Not even this sweet pussy of yours can make me put you on the nice list,” he said.

“Shit,” you moaned. You threw your head back as another orgasm tugged on your core. He leaned up and licked this thumb, pressing it against your clit. You growled as your pleasure seemed to ramp higher and go further. You clutched onto his forearms, too weak to say or do anything.

Your eyes crossed while his thumb furiously worked your clit. “Get that pussy talkin’ again. I ain’t hear her the first time.”

He slipped out of you while you were still shaking from the last orgasm. “Ohhh.” your lips moaned, a desperate echo making your voice warble. Your body twitched beneath him. He just watched as you squirmed. 1

“How many orgasms does it take to get me to bust?” He asked.

His dirty words were activating a different switch in your mind. You became competitive and pathetic as you gyrated, trying to shove his dick back inside. You wanted his cum and you hated that he turned you into an animal, too fucked out to care about how you looked or what you showed him in your eyes.

He scooted back and roughly turned you over onto your knees. You flopped around, your arms too weak to help yourself. “Get up on them fuckin’ knees.”

You whined and whimpered as you slowly got into position. He pushed your thighs further apart with his knees and entered you in one deep thrust.

“Fuck! Baby! Too much!” You pushed your hand back against his broad chest. He slapped your hand away.

“Nuh-uh, move that hand,” he said.

“Too much, Daddy!” You screamed. His strokes were hitting the deepest part of you and you were screaming the national anthem for all you knew.

“Oh! I’m Daddy now?” He asked.

“Daddy, please!” You whined. You slammed your ass on his dick with his help. His hand smacked your ass with such force that you fell back from the recoil.

“Fuck! Look at that shit go,” he grunted. Your hand pushed against his body again.

“Move that fuckin’ hand, now!”

Your wails were grating on your own nerves. You moved your arm. “You know what I wanna hear if you want me to stop,” he said.

No, you didn’t want to use that word. The minute you did, he would stop and want to check in with you. You didn’t want words now. You didn’t want to reason and explain yourself. You just wanted to blow your hip out.

You gripped the sheets beneath you and held on. “Yeah, that’s right. Good girls listen to Santa,” he said.

You gripped his dick and rode him like your life depended on it. He landed a few more smacks to your ass. “Watching this ass shake, hmm, I’m ready to bust. You think this one gon’ be it?”

You drooled onto the bed as your orgasm crested once more, putting pressure on your lower belly, and gripping him tighter. You bit the blanket beneath you as you groaned. Your eyes rolled and eyelids fluttered.

“Hmm, don’t she talk so pretty,” he moaned.

He grunted as he finally spilled inside of you. Fuck, there was so much of it. You worried briefly if you wouldn’t get fucking pregnant off of this. You were meticulous about your birth control and you weren’t ovulating.

But you could believe it if you ended up pregnant off of this dick tonight. If he had some type of magic dick that got you pregnant with a single thought. He fucked his cum into you, plugging you full of it.

“Goddamn it, baby girl,” he grunted. His leg shook as the final pulse pushed into you deeper.

He retreated slowly. His cum immediately pushed out in a thick, creamy wad. You groaned as it slid down your pussy and dripped beneath you. You wouldn’t be able to look at bear rugs the same.

“Shit,” he panted. He spread your ass cheeks so that he could watch himself leak out of you.

“Might fuck around and give you some kids, baby girl. Would you like that? You want my baby?” He asked.

He rubbed your ass as he continued to watch his cum leak from your body. You probably looked like a stuffed donut.

“Nahh, not yet. I’m not done spoiling you,” he said.

You sniveled as tears ran down your cheeks. You were so full of love for this man. How he always took care of you and pampered you. You didn’t have to lift a finger when he was around. It was so intoxicating. You feared that one day you truly would let him spoil you and not give two shits.

He wiped your tears away and brought it to his lips. He moaned when he sucked your tears off. “Fuck, baby girl. You wanted some more dick, this is how you ask,” he said.

He entered you again and you cried out. You fell face forward onto the blanket, your face facing the hearth. Heat waves warmed your face instantly. The light cast long rays in your vision as it swam with tears and bliss.

Your fingers were too weak to properly hold onto the blanket. Your cheek rubbed against the damp spot from your spit.

“She got somethin’ more to say, huh?” Santa asked.

You nodded and moaned as your wails reached a new crescendo. You gripped his dick again, sucking him deep into your body.

Santa moved his left hand to palm your scalp. He flexed his fingers and pulled your hair back. His right hand smacked your ass once and then he was pushing it into your anus. “Oh shit!” You moaned.

“I’m gonna have to bring you more of these from the North Pole, baby girl,” he said.

“I bought two of every color,” you said.

His hips snapped forward as he unloaded again inside of you. Hot splashes of his cum pushed against your G-spot and you cried out, sinking onto his dick with a powerful, gut-wrenching, mind-blowing orgasm that twisted you like a pretzel and folded you like a bagel.

He lazily continued to fuck into you as he groaned and spent every ounce left in his balls. He leaned forward and bit your shoulder.

“Damn, baby, thank you,” he whispered and kissed behind your ear. You were too fucked out to respond. You just softly moaned.

He dropped a kiss to your cheek and you felt him smile against it.

“Wait till you see what I do to you on New Year’s.”

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 6 months ago

Text

the counterpart

chapter 8 — fly on the windscreen (final)

wc: 11k~ (a lengthy one, i know, but i spent two months on this for a reason).

more angst, chess metaphors and depeche mode references (sorry). but i promise i fixed it. and besides — who doesn’t love a good makeup sex scene? oh yes, i went all out with that one. you’re welcome.

—

In 1956, at the chaste age of thirteen, Bobby Fisher made history.

Game of the Century — that’s what people dubbed it, and it sure did deserve the title: a teenage boy defeated an international master, and with precision so oddly fascinating, that it instantly put the whole chess-world in a strangling chokehold. You never paid that event much mind — young geniuses are not that rare of a thing in this pedantic industry. But Viktor claimed it impacted him — he, too, won his first significant tournament at thirteen, and therefore related to Fisher immensely.

You remembered the day he told you this in explicit detail: it was the third evening of your affair — right before the mangled bouquet incident. He showed up a tad later than he usually did — and you smiled, realizing that such time-defining adverbs were now acceptable to use while referring to his treasured visits. He was wearing a plain, frayed shirt: a smear here, a patch there: had to help his professor in the lab with something awfully urgent. You rushed to get him out of that sordid thing. Helpful hands popped all buttons open and nudged him softly into the shower. You liked him to enter the filth of your bedroom clean, so the traces of it last longer afterwards. He always complied.

By the time you set up the board and settled on the comforter, cross-legged, he was done bathing. His skin no longer smelled of dust and machinery, the slippery swiftness of it longing for your attention. He walked out bare — both due to the lack of spare clothes, and because you’d shed them off of him even if those happened to be thrown somewhere nearby. His chest swelled under your hand, flushed and wet.

You made love. It’s funny how fast you stopped calling it just ‘sex’ or ‘fucking’ — oh no, with him you suddenly saw the act of letting someone into your flesh gentle, and, accordingly so, couldn’t just abide by those two simple terms. Sometimes they failed to embrace the concept.

He tastes of soap and salt when it’s over. Sweat politely intrudes the new, fresh smell of him, and you kiss its tiny drops off his clavicles — two beautiful dips, fragile masterpieces of skin and bones. He laughs and lets his eyes rest. You watch his pupils move under the veiny eyelids, and his lashes tickle your finger when you swipe it gently over those delicate things: to feel the soft movement underneath, to absorb every internal shift in him — his heartbeat, his wincing, the fall of his stomach when he exhales. You wonder if he does the same when you don’t notice.

“Can I show you something?” It comes out of him strangely flimsy, in a much thicker, throatier timbre. You nod, and he reaches for the board.

He shows you the Game of the Century. Has it memorized by heart: goes over each move with excited commentary, and his eyes beam almost as passionately beautiful as when he looks at you, dreamily mesmerized.

“I don’t get it,” you murmur. Your head rests on his lean thigh, pieces a shaky, hlack-white horizontal blur. Scrawny fingers tangle little loops into your hair. “Why did Byrne never take Fisher’s queen? It was right there in front of him the whole time!”

Viktor chuckles. Bends down to kiss you softly on the temple and smirks discreetly when your pulse touches his mouth, rapid and intense. Playing chess with him always gives you lovely headaches.

“Because Fisher offered it to him on purpose. He wanted to perform a Smothered Mate.”

“Oh.” You humm.

Now you saw it.

—

You roll over to intercept the little affection. Prop your back with both elbows. Let him comfortably straighten his spine. It’s sweet that he allows it to twinge for you, even if just for a moment, but you don’t appreciate such sacrifices.

Teeth hurt a bit from a sudden clash, but he soothes it when tongues twine, circling lazy patterns. It’s slobbery — a tad clumsy, even, but you like it that way: wet, raw, and terribly, sorely tender.

He takes you again. Disperses a hundred breathy ‘laská’s all over your pliant skin — neck, and shoulders, and breasts, and thighs. They’re still there, even now that he’s gone — now that you made him go, but the traces of him are no longer sweet and darling. They’re bits of pleasure you were never worthy of, a constant reminder of how you treated that soft man. Not as boldly dark as they used to be: plum started to dissolve into faint, flimsy yellow. The plague of his lovebites, the lasting symptom of his fondness.

You think of that evening again.

“Thank you. For showing me this.” You nod to the board and hop on the windowsill to light a cigarette. His heart tries to find its way out of his sternum, muscles still twitch in the afterglow of his orgasm. Both a vision: him — a tired one, full of delicious soreness, you — candid and gorgeously smudgy.

He rolls on his stomach and cocks a brow, meets your gaze with a warm half-smile. “And here I thought you weren’t interested in a tutor,” sasses delicately. You threaten to throw a lighter at him. You both laugh. And when the balmy sound dies down, his intricate eyes narrow cat-like. They cautiously slide over your form with a quizzical little flicker, and you know he’s contemplating something — it’s visible in his every motion, in the humm he makes before finally daring to be bold.

“Could I request something… a little risqué?” he finally asks.

That intrigues you. You take a hissy drag and lean on the glass behind you, wincing when smoke comes out of your nostrils. “I don’t know,” you muse tortuously, “could you?”

“I would appreciate it if you dropped the obstinacy.”

“Viktor. I’m probably giving a view of my naked ass to god knows how many people in the building in front of us. How much more risqué can it get?”

“And yet, I prefer to be certain. Don’t taunt me here, milackú. Please.”

Please. You love it when he says that. There’s something so syrupy about getting this word out of him, and you’re not sure you ever wish to bid farewell with that little addiction.

He crawls to you out of a damp mess of sheets, pale skin almost peachy where the evening sun embraces each bony slope of his. Thin arm reaches for something on your nightstand and snatches it. Has you smiling in curious bliss when he leans closer, almost falling off the edge of the mattress. Finds some leverage in your hanging off the windowsill legs and clumsily curls around them, pressing the gentlest of kisses to each knee. Now you rise above him, gorgeously drowned in a forthcoming sunset, and light peeks through your fingers when you spread them to catch a hold of your cigarette.

Viktor hands you the ‘something’ he stole an instant earlier. It’s your seedy “Canon”, with its murky lens looking up at you, reflecting the perplexed frown of your face. You run a finger over its cold, metallic frame.

“Does this have any film in it?” Viktor asks. Places his chin on your thigh and stares, beautifully hopeful. You shrug.

“Most definitely. It might be expired, though. Why?”

He gives it a thought. Leans into your touch and sighs gratefully when you cradle his cheek and stroke — a loving swipe of a trembling thumb over his hollow features. His kisses strike again — now to the inside of your palm, a whisper of a touch, warm and a little ticklish.

“I want to take your picture,” he finally mumbles.

You almost choke on the filter. Ashes fall on your skin and Viktor rushes to blow the damage away —soothes it gently before it burns through.

“What? You mean… now?” Your voice is weak when you say this. Not due to shame or some other internal quandaries — you’re astonished, and it entertains him, makes him laugh again when you pull away to stare at him mid inhale, smoke a bitter halo around your disheveled hair. Yes, he wants to capture this. He absolutely has to.

“I’d like to savor this,” Viktor explains. “In a more… tangible way. If only you’re willing to indulge me, of course.”

Of course.

He says he doesn’t want you to pose. A rather hard request, considering the scenery: it simply calls for a pretty arch, for any method of glamorizing your crippling addiction and sheer immodesty. But you aim to please him. Your shoulders laze, narrowed eyes try to sneak a sly peek when he presses the shutter button. He tempts you to smile — the way he bites his tongue in an earnest search of a flattering angle. The flawless intimacy of taking a boudoir picture. You wonder how the local CVS workers handle those. Then chuckle, realizing they’ve probably seen much worse.

Viktor clears his throat.

“Can I… have it? After you develop those?” His plea is careful, hushed. Always so sickeningly polite.

“What for?” You torture him again, letting yet another stub rest in a porcelain grave of cigarette bums. Viktor shrugs.

“Oh, I… I suppose I could keep it in my wallet. After I receive your permission to be that bold.”

“In your wallet? How scandalous!”

“Scandalous?”

“Exactly. I’m wearing nothing but thin air in there. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” He shakes his head so innocently it makes him look grotesquely oblivious. “Should it bother me?”

Your foot softly presses into his chest and pushes him back on the bed. He meets that fate with a dainty laugh, and it’s even lovelier when the rest of you follows along, mindful not to make him wheeze. A harmless vengeance, a tacit promise of what’s to come. And he welcomes it, each hand awfully tender in a cautious hold of your rear, curled in the most adoring of squeezes.

You hover above his face, smiling. “I doubt it came out beautifully.”

He smiles back. “Of course it did. It has you in it.”

And he’s almost right. Because it comes out perfect instead.

—

Here you are, in the mighty fervor of your bareness, your cigarette a sparkly scepter between delicate fingers. It’s a little grainy, yet still lush with saturation — all yellows, pinks and reds, flowing prettily into terracotta precisely where sun wraps around the curve of each breast and dark nipples — those gorgeous lines of stilled tenderness. Head thrown back, mouth parted to let out a livid smoky mist — he must’ve caught you mid exhale: so conveniently brusque. Pure art in the obscene privacy of your bedroom.

…But it’s been a torturous week of avoidant silence, and your bed, albeit filled with memories, feels terribly empty — wraps you in its reproachful mess and strangles relentlessly, and you have no desire to come back to it anymore; seven languid dawns met anywhere but in the sheets.

All because comprehension is cruel, and it deprived you of resting, solace long gone alongside him — his tenderness, his touch, his patience. Oh how you longed for it, how agonizingly jealous you grew towards that proudly naked version of you from the picture: she was yet to find out how the lack of him really feels, how heartwrenching his resentment can get. It pierced through you — that all-consuming, frightening realization. And precisely when you first got your hands on developed film, too: Viktor will never have it. He doesn’t want it anymore.

Heartbreaks always come with additional obstacles: finals week made college feel like a coffin, tight, and suffocating, and overwhelmingly grim. It reduced your days to a torturous routine of turning in essays and sneakily running around the campus in between exams: made you attend to every single precaution in the book to avoid bumping into him.

You even stopped visiting the engineering department to catch Jayce for once obligatory debriefs by a cigarette — the risks weren’t worth exchanging even the messiest dirty rumors. Besides, what’s there to tell him? ‘I started fucking your ‘grandmaster’, developed a feeling I’m afraid to admit even to myself and screwed it all up by letting my wrathful tendencies take over’? Yeah. That’s not exactly an event one boasts about.

So you found salvation in misery. Stuffed yourself full of its moping weight, wore it like a veil, showed it off whenever something called to leave your self-prescribed hermitage — an ostentatious ‘Look, I did this to myself!’ So craven. So pathetic.

And you couldn’t look at chess anymore. The image of his sinewy hand was now forever attached to the only board you owned, hovering above the pieces in its usual pensive manner. It wounded you. Filled you with some visceral, peculiar rage — and you couldn’t even tell towards who exactly. It’s like you were suddenly deprived of all the other feelings and now had to make do, seeking solutions in disposing of everything he ever touched in your room. But that would also include your skin, so you quickly abandoned the thought. If only the memories of that last draw were that easily escapable. You swallowed yet another frustrated swear.

Something about it all seemed oddly… awry. Specifically his queen moves: Viktor was never the one to open harshly, he attacked much deeper into the game and preferred initiating trades — rude invasions were more your style, after all. But that day he developed your approach: you were certain of it, trembled whenever reminiscing hit you.

And tonight it hits you right in the gut.

—

You’re down to your last cigarette and it makes your throat wail — you’ve had more of those tonight than there are hours in a whole day. Lost count of desperate, big gulps of wine, too, and even considered asking the Lord himself to turn all the water in your apartment into more of that life-saving beverage. The irony hears your prayer, making you cackle, and ‘Sweetest Perfection’ slowly fades into the sexy guitar riff of ‘Personal Jesus’. But instead of reaching out to touch faith you touch the stop button. It’s hard to appreciate music when a headache is splitting your head in twain.

An utter mess — that’s what you were, scrunched on the floor in your underpants, trembling fingers tracing chaotic circles over the surface of your favorite record, the tournament notes wounded with a wine stain. Your board laid tiles down, crushing the pieces, evidently knocked over in what looked like a livid splutter.

Viktor could’ve won. He should’ve, actually — it came down on you when wrath died down just enough to finally set the pointless self-deprecating aside. Better late than never, and yet living in ignorance didn’t seem that agonizing now that you deigned to analyze his moves.

He didn’t offer you a queen exchange. You were certain he chose to refrain from it on purpose: because that would’ve extended the match, allowing him to move his king someplace safe. And, concurrently, aim for a winning position. Viktor, of all people, wouldn’t miss it — which meant he showed you mercy. Always so goddamn caring — fuck, how blinded one must be to overlook something so gallant?

He still cared about making you leave with a good rating, swallowed his pent-up pride to evolve all that into a draw. Played with his heart for once. A charity, of sorts, and normally you despised that — would tear him a new one for even assuming that you needed such leniency. But not this time. Not after he responded to your onslaught with chivalry.

Your world is fuzzy when you reach for the door knob — all astigmatic spurts of light, drunkenly smeared and heavy. It’s a night of spontaneous decisions and you commit to it like a martyr: first deciding to indulge in game analysis, then drinking yourself to death over each new discovery.

And now you wince, slipping into your loafers, feeling their harsh press into those swollen spots under each buckle-bone. No socks. No pants, either. Just half-naked fervor and a long leather coat to loosely wrap around yourself — the only armor you need to run outside and head straight towards his dorm, shivering when chilly air softly creeps up your bare legs.

It’s terrifying how fast decisions are made when you rely purely on liquor and shaky crumbles of messy sanity; with what menacing speed you rushed for him, breathless and murky-gazed. Fingers fumbled with the sharp edge of that erotic monstrosity you slipped into your pocket before running out the door: something kept restraining you from disposing of it, made your hands twitch whenever you held that picture above the weak fiery tongue of your lighter. Viktor deserved to take a glimpse at it. Even if he decides to burn it himself immediately after.

You swiftly sneaked past the concierge in awkward, wasted excellency. Stumbled over a threshold with a sobby grunt. Almost expected someone to catch you, to enquire why could you possibly be headed to a young man’s room at two in the morning, with just a weary leather cover compensating for your lack of decency.

But you’ve made it. Stood by his door before dazed mind even managed to realize just what you’re about to do, knees so pitifully shaky you might just be swept off your feet. Figuratively, first, when your white-knuckled fist dares to knock. Literally, when his footsteps shuffle in your direction.

You know he’s not asleep. It’s almost like he never is — except for those sacred hours when you somehow manage to tire him out: a rare occasion, a calming little tribute. Your heart shrinks when his hand peeks out, tightly curled around the door knob. He’s tense: more so than ever, weariness prominent in a heavy lean on his cane, eyes dreary and red at the inner corners. They flicker in mistrust — stare through you in a way only he possesses, intricate enough to reach your very gut, chase down the drunken audacity and cut it abruptly at the base. You’re not sure if it can save you the embarrassment anymore.

Viktor snaps out of it — blinks his momentary awe away and frowns, quizzically hostile. Pale wrist flicks in a sudden rush to fix his unbuttoned shirt: he doesn’t know you came to beg for a truce yet, thinks you might just go for his throat if he doesn’t put up a defense quick enough.

It pains you. Stabs your own neck and twists that thing a few torturous times before you finally remember how to breathe. A silly thing, a craving to lay your heart at his feet — to be bold, or desperate, or either of those at once. Easier said than done, because your courage is in shambles as soon as his lips twitch, and the crease of a pretty mouth you grew to adore suddenly feels like a vicious personal attack. And it only intensifies when he sighs, utterly forceless.

A rocky start. Even rockier now that he huffs your name out like it’s a swear, and disbelief contorts him, deep and flush-cheeked.

“Why are you indecent?” He all but hisses it, the perfect mad man — all awe-struck copper and audacious glimmer in the depths of his wide-snapped eyes. Has you hiding both quivering legs behind the leather closure of your coat, suddenly shamefully aware of your state of undress. Should’ve never let that impulse win, should’ve waited until morning, but how were you supposed to fight something so potent, so atrociously urgent?

“I had to see you.” A whisper, a silly blunder. Like a pathetic attempt at getting out of a fork — a sacrifice of a piece to postpone a checkmate.

Viktor blinks at you in bewilderment. His throat is dry — it’s prominent in an awkward cough he chokes on, in the way he averts his face.

“That doesn’t explain much,” mumbles finally, staring into the floor. Bites his cheek to muffle an angry comment, watches you sullenly with repressed bitterness. “Why are you here?”

It’s a simple question. A straight-to-the-point one, too — he doesn’t move an inch, pierces right through you with the pressure of his anguish. And it’s only fair, after all — you butchered his heart and vanished into a week of soul-crushing silence, only to return with no purpose, answers and pants. If anything, he’s being quite charitable by even letting you in.

“I couldn’t sleep.” God, would you just tell him already? How much longer can you drag this madness out, how much more liquor do you have to consume until it finally drowns your sorrow? No, that won’t do. And Viktor thinks so too — scoffs with a rageful glare, grabbing a hold of the door knob again.

“Then I suggest you retreat to your room and take a melatonin. Good night.”

“Viktor. Viktor, please—“

You cling onto that appeal with every ounce of your desperation, his name a harsh clash of consonants on your wagging tongue — a slurred and rhotic last resort, a hasty mess of shaky syllables. And, strangely enough, it works: urges him to recoil, to return the tremulous stir, to let you see that blend of hurt and confusion in the blown out voids of his pupils. It’s almost like you’re pushing him to the verge of his kindness, bearing witness to every inner change. Here he is, grim and distant — all clenched jaw and enraged inhales, softening into promising mercy. Through a condescending sigh, no less, but you’ll take it. Oh, you’ll take it alright — because this is not a negotiation. This is redemption at any cost.

Viktor resigns. Whispers a tired “Come in” and points to his bed, watches you limp inside with a weak, disapproving head shake. It’s a walk of shame — grumpy sounds of skin as bare feet drag pitifully on the floor, shoes and coat shed off carelessly somewhere at the entry.

An abrupt sound of him fumbling with the lock, then a few light thuds of his cane — you absorb it all, waiting for your execution, eyes nailed to the parquet, skittishly following little wooden patterns. You don’t know what to say to him, and it’s terrifying — sure, wine must’ve triggered the motive, but it can only get one so far. And now you crumble, shrinking when the mattress bends by your side, the cross of his lanky legs cloudy in your peripheral. He keeps his distance, seated at a good arm’s length: too close for a shot, too far for an embrace, just enough to add to your agony. Rubs his forehead with a somber wince, turns to look at you with a harried pout, so tragically handsome. A bunch of veins twined tensely on that pretty ivory neck.

“Please, say something,” begs you hoarsely, setting his cane aside. “Don’t torture me with your silence. It depletes me. And, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of that.”

You swallow thick, pushing that lump down your throat with immense effort, bitter sticky spit foaming at the tip of your tongue, threatening to come out if you don’t shove it down your stomach quick enough. Tastes of drunk, delirious promises. And you must spew them out before they drool out on their own.

“I’m sorry.” This comes out slurred too, but you don’t mind the stumbling as long as it gets the message across. Viktor scarcely cocks his head, all flushed ears.

You proceed.

“For the tournament. Well, for what I did to you before our game, I shouldn’t have— Fuck, how do I even put this? I shouldn’t have done it. All of it.”

Your tear is in your mouth before you know it, and you swipe your tongue over a chapped lip, rushing to get it out the way while he remains still, simply waiting for you to continue with a straight, cold face. Almost kills you with that indifference, or whatever it is he’s trying to sell for it, but you don’t even think of backing off. You have to look at him. You ought and want to.

“I was cruel,” you confess, gulping down a sob. “Extremely so. It’s the rage, you see. I’m a fucking slave to it. So afraid to be hurt that I rush to do the hurting myself. But you… You, with your good intent, and your endless kindness — you, of all people, shouldn’t suffer from that ugly flaw of mine. And I’m sorry for being so full of it. For making you a victim of my crudeness. And for disappearing to bask in it, ever so selfishly. I didn’t run away because I don’t care. I ran away because I’m a coward.”

He simply nods. Tortures you with a few more seconds of painful silence, sitting up with a curious humm. Locks both trembling hands together and lets his thumbs take turns, circling over each other. Wheezes out a careful ‘Are you, now?”

You huff. “Of course I am. It took me a week to say this to you.”

“But you’ve made it after all.” Viktor shrugs. It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic, especially when his gaze keeps crashing you with all its reticent spite.

“Yes, but this is not the way to approach this. It’s not like I didn’t consider crawling here earlier, though—“

“Crawling?” he interrupts. Treats you to a minute of quiet turmoil, waits for you to clarify with a sharp inhale. Props himself on a fist and scoots closer, hovering above your face to scrutinize it intricately. “Are you intoxicated?” finally guesses when the evidence hits him in the nostrils.

You shrink away, blinking in confusion. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Yes,” you respond in a skittish whisper. “And I’m sorry for that too. I just… I couldn’t bring myself to come to you earlier, but then… That draw, you see. It didn’t sit right with me, and so I tended to some self analysis. I noticed what you’ve done. Noticed what you sacrificed to make me walk out of there with a decent rating. Even after the way I’ve treated you. It made me hate myself so bad I felt the need to flush it down right that instant. But it only got more unbearable to endure any longer. So I simply… Ran out the door to tell you this. I shouldn’t have. Well, now I know that I shouldn’t—“

You’re rambling, and it’s a lengthy, fidgety monologue. So utterly terrified that you can’t even keep track of those ugly cries anymore — they fly out in between words, cutting into a fusion of your candor and hysteria.

But Viktor doesn’t soften. If anything, he’s even sharper now, frowning deeper with every new sentence you throw at him. Cuts you off with a scoff, wagging his head in bewilderment — like he can’t stand to even look at you, let alone listen to any more of these heartful babbles. Curses in Czech under his rapid breath.

“Unbelievable,” he blurts out, turning away. “So that’s how you view me? That’s how you view us? A meaningless, casual affair you can abandon whenever you please and then repair with a few desultory ‘sorry’s? Is that what I am to you? A foolish suitor undeserving of a proper, sober apology? Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not one of your pawns. And I won’t put up with it — not in a hundred years.”

Your panic comes back, drawing a snappish bawl out of stinging lungs, and you sniff, trying to push those unsavory tears back where they belong. Unkempt nails bite into your palms, leaving a violent pattern of rouge, deep punishment.

“You don’t have to put up with it,” you speak again, trying to redeem that heavy home truth. “I don’t want you to.”

“Stop mentioning that,” Viktor demands with a furious scowl, making you gobble up that stupid semantic. “I’m in no need of your elaboration.”

“But I truly mean that!”

“Mean it all you want, but don’t expect my approval just because you finally deigned to throw a plea at me. I did nothing to merit that. Both the insults and this mess of a repentance.”

That one does the job. Peels the scab off your wounds, urging each evil goosebump to rise — and thank god for the soft bed under your trembling form, because your knees feel like soaked cotton, unsturdy and doomed to fail.

But you force them to obey, springing up above him in a snappy jerk. It’s a classic, of sorts, like a denial of a King’s Gambit: he doesn’t take the piece you offer him, aiming for something else instead. Something more crucial, and so inherently fragile. Stares up at you with his head thrown back, threateningly beautiful in the sheer shadows that blinds cast on his face. Urges you to seek silly symbols in the way your lack of clothes contrasts his utter modesty.

Here you are — raw and exposed. One step from shameful nakedness, standing trial in this state of non-sexual, sudden nudity. Here he is — armed with thick fabric, not a smidge of his usual emotive range prominent in both expression and attire. All edgy cheekbones and pure, unfiltered anger in the slight twitch of a bushy brow. So snarky when it arches, challenging you to keep going. To fight for forgiveness for once.

“You’re right.” It’s a simple statement — a calm, casual acknowledgement. Still teary-eyed and puffy, but those are merely debris. You wipe them away, ready to strike again. “I am a mess. A mess like no other, that’s for sure. I don’t expect you to fix me. I simply paid you what’s due, and you’re allowed to send it back — I’m in no position to demand you forgive me. I never wanted to do that anyway. I’m simply sorry. For mistaking your help for malice, for letting the fear of losing my silly independence win, for prioritizing it over the bond we’ve built. And for not giving you the apology you deserve. Truly. That might just be my biggest regret so far.”

Viktor doesn’t respond. His chest feels heavy, swiftly falling after each deep breath. He’s taking you in — bare legs, bare soul, bare feelings. A sweet contradiction, a living oxymoron in the suspenseful darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t know what to do with you, how to save either of you from the power you hold over each other.

This calls for a solution. And you come up with one, attempting to step away, already eyeing the corner you’ve thrown your coat into.

“I should go,” you propose, carefully inching towards the door. “That would be the wise thing to do.”

But Viktor’s views on prudence evidently differ. Because his fingers gnaw at your wrist, startling with the tight strength of their gentleness. Such a warm handcuff — it reminds you of your starvation, of just what you’d cross to experience him like this again — insistently gracious, caring to his very core. Pulls you towards him, biting a cheek when you don’t slip away. Realizes the extent of your desperation and sighs, admitting that his own reaches the same depth. Wins a silent staring competition when you blink, completely dazed, finding your voice in a weak ruckle of his name.

“No,” he drawls, squeezing firmer, “you’ve done enough ‘wise’ deeds tonight. I’m not sure I can endure one more.”

“I know, Viktor. That’s why I need to go.”

“You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you walk out of here in that state. You came to apologize, after all. It would be quite counterproductive of you to storm off sobbing instead of achieving your initial goal.”

Your lashes flutter again, flicking a tear. It crawls back into your eye, blurring the world around you, and you rush to rub it out of there, freeing your hand out of his insistent grasp. He lets go, surprisingly reluctant.

“I thought we’ve already established that I’m in no state for this conversation.”

“Indeed, we have. Which is exactly why you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, so your wits are about you when we’re back at it in the morning.” He then clears his throat, fighting a sad, hopeless smile. Loses when the corners of his mouth inch up, adding a sarcastic “I would, actually, lend you a melatonin, if it weren’t for the consequences of mixing it with alcohol. But your loss, I suppose.”

He’s quieter with that remark. Spares you a moment of familiar, light-hearted comfort — all hushed chuckles, lost, frustrated glances, and fidgety, lonely hands.

The embodiment of confusion, of bitterness that still fights to linger around, but doesn’t stand a chance against longing. Reducing the smartest person you know to a love-struck man that has no idea how to save this, yet wants you to stay so badly. Even worse when you look him in the eye, shyly asking if there’s any hot water left for you to use.

The world makes sense again. Or so it seems.

—

Your dream is lucid — a blend of bizzare, threatening images stirring you awake every time the thing gets too real, forcing bloodshot eyes to snap open and search for him in the opaque darkness, pulse a racing, unpleasant thump in both sweaty temples. Only simmering down when you manage to make out the skews of his shoulders: distant, but so darling. So many torturous inches separating your back from his — it’s more gaunt than you remember, the lopsided arch of it suddenly more bitter than ever, and you quit stealing discreet peeks, nuzzling back into the clean, mint-scented comfort of his pillow. Drifting back to yet another frenetic vision, thinking about how strange it is to share a bed with Viktor without lying tucked under his sharp, bony chin.

You wake up morbid and, expectedly, hungover. Still wearing both scandalous garments you barged in — numb fingers slide over an exposed thigh, then rub the bridge of your nose hard enough to snap the delicate cartilage. You watch the ceiling tarnish full of flimsy black holes, whimpering as it cleanses of them just as swiftly when your sight repairs itself after a long squint. Shaky arms rummage around, stilling mid slow caress over Viktor’s side — still warm and slightly bent inwards, that overwhelming evidence of his presence. He left you an aspirin and a silly note:

“I have a final to take. Will be back at 10. Don’t you dare run away.

P.S.

Please, don’t drink coffee. Your head will kill you.“

Your finger stumbles, covering the sharp ‘V’ in the lower corner. An excessive little gesture — as if you wouldn’t guess the sender if he didn’t sign it. You put the sweet warning away and swallow the pill, wincing when it scrapes its way down your throat.

The morning finally starts.

Sore for whatever reason legs still hang back, and you force them to oblige, scrunching over the sink when those bratty, boneless appendages finally get you to the bathroom. It’s a lifeless, automatic routine — except you have to smear the toothpaste all over your teeth with a trembling finger. You thought of buying a brush to keep next to his for the nights you’re over, but now it repulses you, urges to avert your tired eyes from the mirror: what if you fucked it up beyond return? What if there’s no ‘for when I’m over’ anymore, but only ‘for when I used to be’?

You don’t embrace that revelation. It appalls you, makes you crave the tasteless comfort of a cigarette — but you ran out of them last night, and, concurrently, respected Viktor’s strong preferences for keeping your favorite vice at least out of his room. And it’s not like this horrific anticipation should last much longer — self-doubts were kind and time-consuming, carrying you through fifty five minutes of tedious, head-in-hands agony. And when the key finally clangs, albeit a quarter later than expected, you rise from the unkempt bed, untangling from the blankets.

He looks collected: walks right past you, rushing to rid that lanky neck off the strangling tie. Softly hums an unbothered ‘Good morning’, sparing you nothing but a reserved nod, and you writhe upon that calm violence, watching him tend to yet another languid habit — as if both the tournament and last night never existed, as if him simply coming back from a tiring final is the only thing that’s happening in this room, and you’re going to watch him settle back into his domesticated, quiet life.

But no, you’re convinced that it’s a vengeful punishment — a silent treatment to make up for the one you put him through during your endless days of lacking courage. And so you sit, mouth agape, while he fetches his notes out of a shabby bag, flipping through them with a casual yawn. Plugs the kettle into an outlet, running a hand through a short row of tea boxes on the desk (you only managed to notice that little collection now), then shrugs, picking out a random one with a casual finger-flick. Stills in a half-turn over an angular shoulder, cursory inquiring what flavor you prefer. Driving you deeper into tremendous confusion.

“I.. Whichever you like,” you mumble from the bed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Only stopping when it starts to slightly taste of iron.

Viktor understands. Hands you a steaming mug and pulls out a chair to be seated right in front of you, and it all resembles a pitiful, canonical therapy session — even the way you stare at your tea (chamomile, so it seems), shamefully making out the floating, whimsical reflection of your face in the brownish liquid. Wondering if it’s hot enough to burn your tongue. Preferably, to a decent degree.

Viktor coughs. Crosses his legs again — always chooses that pose for uncomfortable conversations, whereas you always shrink embryo-like — a disparity to his almost professional manner. Oh just how he sits, vestless and relaxed, taking a slow sip. Makes you wish you were the cup, so he could wrap his hand around you and squeeze — to death, or bliss, or revulsion. Anything, but apathy. Please, no more of that. Please please please.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Grabs the mug by its rim and holds it like one does a wine glass, lets you see the tension in each fingertip. You return to staring down, unsure how to approach the question. Really, though, how do you feel? Scared? Excited? Nauseated? Sorry? You’re sure he gets it by now. And, therefore, all this — is a penalty. It’s only right. It has to be.

You shrug, letting a whiff of fear invade every sharpened sense. Chamomile joins in, too. This time, evidently.

“Are you punishing me?” you finally croak. He frowns at that, treats it like the silliest nonsense to ever be said out loud. Rushes to shake his head, to deny and prove wrong. And it confuses you beyond belief, forces an exchange of wide-eyed, bewildered gazes.

“No,” he insists. “Of course not. I’m asking because I want to be certain that you’re able to proceed with the colloquy. That wouldn’t be possible were you still under the influence of any… substances, would it, now?” He adds with a chuckle. Dry, and curt, and failing at easing anything at all, but you still believe him. You choose to, even if it’s hardly plausible.

“Yes.” You offer him a lie. “I want to proceed.”

It’s best he doesn’t know how not ready you really are.

He gulps, then. Waits for your confession to unravel, plowing through you with the sheer power of patient madness, even if that doesn’t make much sense — how can someone stare with such urgency, yet remain so gentle with it? You know you’ll find him drawn to you if your own eyes dare to move from the slowly growing lukewarm tea.

“Were you cordial with me last night?” He finds a way to pluck the answers out of you, appeals to something you’re convinced is always the case with your inept amends.

“Of course. I always am.” He arches a brow, causing you to reconsider. As if to cut you off with a silent, cheeky ‘Really, now?’.

“I meant… I’m always sincere with my apologies,” you try to recover, setting your mug down on the floor before it slides out on its own and shatters into pieces. Can’t have it sharing the destiny of your stability.

“I just… I’m really struggling to understand you here,” he spoke softly, putting his own tea away — and it’s left forgotten on his desk, like a non-verbal, inanimate testimony. “Why would you turn to anger in response to aid? I don’t think I’ll ever distinguish that, you’ll have to excuse me here.”

“No, that‘s a… really good question.”

“Answer it, then.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“That won’t ease our quandary.”

“I’m aware, but… Just let me think a little. Please.”

He lets you. Invites you to help yourself to all the time in the world, but you only take two minutes — it’s important not to squander his generosity. Especially when you don’t know exactly how much more he has to spare.

“It’s like… Caro-Kann, and I’m playing black,” you finally mumble, knowing he’ll ask to elaborate.

“Caro-Kann?” Viktor muses, visibly besotted. As if he expected you to think anyhow but in chess.

“Mhm. Seems so safe and solid, and yet the development is so slow, and the board lacks space for me, and white can be so unpredictable with their responses—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the disadvantages of this opening.” He raises a hand, stopping you from burrowing any further into tiring theory. “Please, get to your point.”

Your pulse thumps a march so terrified it echoes in your throat, swells above your left breast into something unbearably massive — capable of breaking the ribcage and rolling out to his feet. It reverberates in your temples, too, and you squint, as if enduring a migraine. Eyes shimmy down to pathetically shaky knees.

“When I play Caro-Kann, I prepare for an attack from white,” you continue carefully. Viktor looks at you, attentive to the bone. “But it doesn’t happen — and I panic. Like I’m all ready to be aggressive, to sting if you come any closer, and you just choose… not to. Here I am, with my developed bishop, threatening a check, but you ignore it and play something like… say, pawn h4. And I grow livid, and my pieces fly all around the board, but it all seems so useless, because you haven't taken anything from me yet. And I take first, and inevitably lose by taking more and more — because I was scared to let you do it to me first.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” he protests. Crosses both lanky arms on his chest, leaning into the chair. Rests his neck on the top back, glaring from beneath heavy lids. “You’re not supposed to play it like that.”

“Exactly. That’s why I like gambits. You always know what to expect with a gambit. Even if your opponent declines it, you know it’ll hurt later. For both of you. It’s predictable, and beautifully violent. It’s what I’m used to. Not only in chess.”

“As much as I’m infatuated with your skills at merging logic with poetics, metaphors are not my forte. I’d much rather you explain in layman’s terms.”

Hearing Viktor call himself that sounds almost blasphemous. But you don’t argue with his wording. You fix your posture and recline, mirroring the angle he looks at you from — your one last death rattle before resignation. And he waits, fumbling with a rolled up sleeve. Getting more vulnerable, inviting you to follow suit. His eyes fill with contradictory, somber candidness. ‘Get right with me,’ they beg of you discreetly.

But begging is hardly necessary. Not when he’s entitled to knowing the truth.

“I see you as a threat to my independence. Not just you, I suppose — anyone who’s not responding in a way I know how to handle.”

Viktor nods. “So you’re implying that you only know how to handle… mockery?”

“Correct.” You stop to gasp for air, the sharp pang of its scarcity pinching at your lungs. “I’m sorry,” you add in a mumble, and he sees just how vehemently you mean it, pupils so wide they almost steal every bit of your beloved copper.

A creak of a chair when he gets up, sighing harriedly. Has you stirring, utterly convinced that he’s about to fetch his cane out of its convenient spot against the desk — but he never reaches for it. Finds leverage in a sturdy hold of your knee instead, leans on it with a wistful smile and settles right into the notch of sheets next you. Not quite where he sat last night, but much closer — evidently so. And when he doesn’t move, letting your bare thigh freely rub against the thick fabric of his trousers, you know he accepts the truce, even with no verbal confirmation. Bless the mighty power of his languid body language. Careful, when he takes your hand in his, covering the tracery of palm lines in lovely strokes. So darling. So familiar.

“You,” he emphasizes with sweet indignation, “are incredibly gentle. I don’t ever wish to hear that you’re incapable of handling kindness. You simply ought to learn not to bite at the hand that feeds you. And that requires playing more Caro-Kann. I’m willing to help with that. As long as you’re willing to learn.”

His touch grows firmer, suddenly flowing into a squeeze, and you bate a breath, tongue a swirling little drill into the slopes of your palate. But Viktor goes on, keeping you close — practically face-to-face, and so very, very intimate.

“And no more returning to stupid vices when you’re facing a nuisance,” he demands. Means it with every ounce of his being. The veins on his neck swell again, menacingly handsome.

“Yes.” You gulp. The knot in your throat dissolves. “Of course.”

“I see it now. The reason why you think I’m encroaching on your autonomy, that is,” he muses, a bit sorrowful. “It must feel torturous — having to keep your guard up all the time. And I detest those who put you in such misery. However, I don’t like to be mistaken for such a man. I spoke up because I don’t tolerate disrespect. Not because I was trying to assert… ownership of you.” He trailed off, eyes filled with awkward sheen. “Although, I do admit that some possessiveness was involved.”

Your chuckle turns into a sonorous laugh, but it’s hardly mocking. Insightful, more so.Like the one people emit after solving an equation with the most simple of formulas, like finding out that a confusing answer was sickeningly obvious all along. He allows you to touch him, stays still when you dare to entangle a hand in his hair, brushing through it with a little tug. Lets you know that he’s starving, too. For conversation, for skittishness, for what it augments into when the tension softens.

Shivers run all the way up to tense shoulders when he wraps an arm around the arched curve of waist, pressing flush against his side to fetter into a desperate embrace. You giggle, dragging a fingertip over his flushed ear. Catch the shift in his breath, so abrupt and delectable.

“You know, I really did threaten to kick that prick in the crotch,” you murmur.

“Oh, I’m aware. Should I be concerned for my own, er… testicles?”

“No. Well, not in a way that hurts. If you’ll have me.”

A sheepish grin pulls at the corner of Viktor’s lip. “Now?” prods so huskily that it paints his motives unhallowed, and you hussle in his grasp, wondering if the implication is really there. Wondering if his hunger had suddenly merged with yours.

And, well, that’s certainly a way to secure an amnesty. One you’re conveniently very eager for.

So you decide to be bold. “Like I said.” You lean closer, tipping your head down. “If you’ll have me.”

Viktor chortles. “Is that even a question?”

Oh fuck.

The malt of his tongue sliding sloppily into your mouth — a kiss so lewd it has your world tumbling indistinct under fluttering eyelids, blurring completely when he steals your breath, ardent and tumultuous when your gasps turn into whines under that persistent, sweet pressure of his lips — starved enough to bruise, to bite a chunk out of you if only he tried hard enough. So wet it threatens to get into your throat, or drip down both of your chins in a glistening little trace — and you open up for him, always so incessant with that reciprocation: tongue, and teeth, and lips so pliant at his disposal. Doesn’t matter if you’re choking. You want to pass out under that gentle mouth, so warm, and inviting, and pressing into you in the most perfect of kisses. Even more strangling when his fingers dig into your hip, holding in place, eager enough to linger there for a few hours in speckled red, engraving his sheer desperation. You can hardly control your own, pulling at one messy chestnut strand. And it earns you a moan — gorgeously wheezy as he sucks at your bottom lip, teeth a sudden sunk into it when he senses the sharp affection and returns it right that instant.

And you’re putty in those sinewy hands, arching backwards and falling senseless onto the sheets, tangling them with every new jerk of shaky legs. Spiraling into immaculate, tingly madness when Viktor exhales a chuckling breath somewhere above the collarbone, grabbing an overbearing hold of your chin. Coaxing your head to tip back and make some place for his teeth; thirty two little prickles plunging into your throat with pent-up vigor. Pulling at your skin in a not-so-gentle lovebite. More canines than anything, overwhelmingly so.

But you let him, and meet it with a moan, needy, and high-pitched, and utterly unfeigned — an invitation to suckle more of you into his eager mouth. So he accepts it, freeing a soft breast out of the loose hold of a lacy shirt — and suddenly you’re grateful for that rushed choice of attire, so fitting for the way he squeezes, and twists, and selfishly laps up to tease a soft nipple to delicious stiffness. Watches the fleshy shade of it darken, growing hard under a playful lick. Smug, when he looks up, going in for another taste, pinch slow and torturous when he pulls at that tender nub, prideful for the way you keen, twitching with a fistful of his hair between lithe fingers. And so indecisive, too: does he want it nice and slow, or impatient, hasty and salacious? So many options to choose from.

He’s leaning towards the latter, however. Lurches the shirt off your chest, tucking it to hastily ruffle around your waist — thank god for the lax straps, so helpfully hanging off both shoulders. Always teasing the lack of a bra.

Warm palm lingers over the dip of your solar plexus, so gentle between the spread of breasts. And when it creeps higher, lingering over your chin, you force him to be even bolder. Stealing a sharp, dazed exhale when you capture his wrist, leveling those talented digits with your open mouth. Cheeky as you guide them inside, tongue a hot, wet fondle between ring and middle finger. And he shudders, enthralled by the sight, swallowing a whimper as you taunt him. Dragging out that debauched pop when you wrap your lips around them and suck hard, looking up with needy, impudent eyes.

Such a filthy thing. Even dirtier now that you’re done with your little performance, head drooping to the side, adding to the complacent smirk. Viktor heaves out a laugh.

“You’ll be the death of me,” whispers sweetly. Presses a peck to your shoulder, smiling when you trace the sharp line of his jaw. Tilts a hollow cheek into your touch, stilling above you. Steams pure admiration, pulling you closer. And you let him have that, so sickeningly starved for his love, grateful for the kiss he plants on the corner of your mouth, shivering when his caring hand — still a little spit-slick at the fingertips — brushes somewhere dangerously low, tickling at the pelvic bone.

“Wouldn’t that be a good way to go?” you muse. The ever indefatigable tease, gorgeous, as you wrap both arms around his neck, noses pressing together for a split second.

“I can think of a better one.” He shrugs. And when you humm, asking to elaborate, he simply clings to your thigh, thumb a fleeting brush over the damp edge of your underwear. “Crush me,” he pleads, “while I taste you.”

“That’s hardly fair. I want to taste you too.”

And he falters, coyly chewing on a thin lip.

“I think there’s a remedy for that.”

Always a sight when he rises to undress, fumbling with the impressive amount of buttons. Makes it feel like a striptease, of sorts — an unintentional, lazy show. But this time he’s a little hasty. Almost tears that shirt apart, cocky when it gets to you, thin and immaculate — the pretty tautness of what little muscle he possesses, a shadowy slope of his navel and the curly black fluff running down right into his trousers. Besieging what you know must be really hard to keep in there when you look at him like this — so achingly desperate. Nimble, when you kindly help him with a belt, grinning vixen-like when the buckle budges. Normally, you’d palm him through all those layers, perhaps adhering to some languid torment. But today you’re undressing him rather crudely, eager to pull every cover down long legs and grab a hold of that lovely cock, fingers curling at the base to lay it flat against your restless tongue.

But he stops you. Grabs a gentle squeeze of your hair somewhere at the nape, coaxing to meet the lustful scold of both glowing eyes. The slight twitch of a lopsided smile, weakly melting into an open-mouthed gasp.

“Not yet,” begs of you so softly you can’t help but comply. With a reluctant whine, no less. And Viktor dismisses it, crawling back in between parted legs, fingers the sweetest of hooks into your underwear, then an eager drag of it all the way down and off the ankles. Dazed, when he notices a slick little stripe precisely on the pliant inner thigh. Cheeky, when he nudges legs apart again, and nuzzles into the delicate wetness, tongue darting out to lick the trace away — a tad sour, but he adores it, wants to bury his face in that divine flavor, to drench his fingers full of it.

“Tease,” you accuse. His chin rests in that sweet spot between your thumb and index when he leans in for a kiss, grinning almost ear to ear. Can’t taste yourself on his tongue yet, but that’s a question of lust and a few more minutes of fervent devouring. It’s manageable. Exciting.

“Bold of you to assume I can last through all your tortures,” Viktor murmurs, a little strangled. Falls supinely on his back, staring lazily from under dark lashes. “Although, I’m flattered. You give my stamina much more credit than it deserves.”

“Oh please,” you scoff, turning around. Gasping, when long fingers curl into your waist, each thumb a press into your back dimples. And he pulls you onto him, nudges to throw a quivering leg over his neck and drift higher – until your knees press into the matress, and you’re hovering above him in a clumsy squat. And he’s gorgeous beneath you — hair sprawled out on the pillow into a myriad chestnut strays, eyes instantly meeting yours when you throw him a lustful look over your shoulder.

“Sit.” His breath is syrupy against you, making the slick of folds feel somewhat cold when he exhales into that darling flesh.

“On your face?” You want to be sure, to coax the obvious answer out of him. It’s a delicious offer, and you wonder if it still stands — as if Viktor’s hands digging into your sides with such firmness is not enough of a confirmation.

“Precisely,” he rasps. Strokes each haunch in admiration, slowly making his tender way to your ass, spread slow and gentle, yet so achingly lewd it has your face blushing a pretty coral. Twitching, when he smooths a palm over one soft curve and fights the urge to leave a pink trace of a loving slap. And he smiles when you leak at the touch, tongue peeking out to deliver a shuddering lick, to circle the lovely orifice loose, sucking gently on your swollen clit. And you arch backwards again, mouth agape and stuffed full of your own fingers — to muffle that loud whine of a plea, preventing a noise complaint. And Viktor stirs your heat awake again, kisses coyly at the entrance before his index effortlessly slips inside — pumping, and curling, and making a nice, wet sound. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “Please, don’t crouch. Sit. I beg of you. You don’t know what it does to me.”

And he’s right. You don’t know, yet his cock teased full of blood gives you a decent idea on that. So you melt, sighing when your clit lands exactly where you prefer it: on Viktor’s precious tongue, always so eager to please, to whisper filthy words or confession-like Czech nothings. And it’s a pleasant fusion: you know his eyes snap wide open when you reach to push him into your mouth, licking off the musky bead at the reddened tip and humming at the familiar, salty taste. He follows suit, meeting every bob of your head with the loveliest of little wet thrusts — tongue and fingers working together to earn yet another clench, while you tense up, gagging when he tickles the back of your throat. And you’re struggling to take him full, yet yearn for it with such genuine madness: so determined to please and be pleased, merciless with each persistent grind on the seediness of his tongue, grateful for the white-knuckled grip sturdily keeping one hip in place. And it consumes you, that earnest chase of dizzying undoing, the need to memorize the patterns of the throbbing veins on his cock, each slippery, muffled gulp as you swallow around him, keen on having him paint your throat in warm, slightly bitter spurts.

But you could also have him find that release inside you. How precious that must be — the tempting stretch of him, gorgeously raunchy, the sounds of skin slamming against Viktor’s narrow hips so utterly debauched. How good he’d feel, pulling you apart, coated in sweat, and slick and your greedy kisses. How breathy you’d plead him to fuck you stupid, moaning things so obscene your ears might still burn hours later. Yes, you’d rather finish him off like this. And you almost feel sorry for that impulse, yanking your mouth off his cock. Deft, when you slip from his grasp, turning to find him flushed and almost drunk on sensations. Oh, he was so, so close. How cruel of you to dispose him of that bliss.

But you’re about to offer him so much more. So darling when you roll onto your back, open legs a lewd, tantalizing invitation. Beckoning to slide back in — deeper, heavier, closer. And he whimpers at the loss of you, hands immediately aching to gnaw at whatever they can reach.

“Didn’t want you to cum yet,” you murmur. “Not until you’re inside me.”

That breaks him. Urges to accept the endeavor, rolling swiftly atop your sprawled out form and into the tender twine of limbs. “Milackú,” he keens through a shaky sigh. Pointy lips tremble against your neck. “Oh, milackú. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I can think of a certain verb. Four letters. Short and sweet.”

And Viktor’s eyes lance your very heart when he whispers “I can think of two.”

“Mmm, I’m not sure I want you to ruin me. ‘Fuck’ will have to suffice.”

“Not the word I was referring to.”

He’s gentle when he pushes in, hooking one thigh over his hip, thrust slow and deliciously torturous — more so to savor, to feel every crevice of yours wrap around him tightly.

“Viktor,” you plead, wheezy and breathless, but he cradles your face and tips it towards him, aching to have you crumbling under his foggy gaze, drawling a high-pitched whine as he slides in hilt-deep, leaning in to lick a slippery kiss to the side of your neck.

“I want to love you,” he pants. “Four letters. Short and sweet.”

It courses through you, that tender revelation. And he means it, stroking a thumb over your bottom lip, gently nudging your mouth open for another heartful collision. Pours his whole being into that tangle of tongues, glides two shaky fingers over the swell of your clit and presses, stealing moans, twitches and incoherent mumbles.

You want to let him love you, to emit something that isn’t a muffled cry of his name, needier with every motion. And it’s so inherently filthy. The arc of your back over the damp sheets, the debauched stumble of your words as you whisper that confession back, nails a deathgrip into his shoulder when he thrusts again, gently working you through a release. Always so keen on making you cum first, on hearing more of those lewd squelches. And when the stretch stings you for the umpteenth sweet time, it takes him only a few more flickers over the sloppy mess of your clit to coax the final plea out of your sore throat, uttering a praise so dirty it has your toes curling tight enough to spread the tension all the way up to calves. Makes you feel the delicious pain of an orgasm spasm in all its candid beauty — perfect, loud, and hard, swathing around his cock in the loveliest of squeezes. And Viktor claims it like his greatest achievement, moaning into your ear as he finally allows himself to follow suit, lean body a tired collapse on your chest when it waves through him, sticky and so, so warm. Must be the result of a week’s long obstinacy or the plain desperation he nourishes when it comes to you, but you know you just have to make him cum like this again — unarterlably inside you, with every twitch of him so clearly palpable against slippery walls.

And you’re full of him, overflowing, pulsating and suffocating, the ripples on the ceiling indistinct when you rest your slightly teary eyes. Viktor slides out, stealing a glance at a white little trail running down your thigh in a way so salacious he almost bites his tongue. Breathes so heavily you can feel every shift of his lungs under a flushed cheek. And you notice just how he holds you, basking in the weary afterglow, his chest a heaving pillow for you to nuzzle into. There they come — the loving trades of glossy glances, the smiles when you notice a bold scratch on his scrawny shoulder: he’s going to wear you for days, grinning whenever he passes a mirror naked.

Naked. It strikes you, the little thing you still have to do. It’s right there, in the pocket of your leather coat, probably a little crumpled. But you rush to fetch it nonetheless, ignoring Viktor’s confused humm of a protest. Laughing when he tries to stop you from making your way to the peg, so nimble even with your wobbly, fucked out walk.

“You wanted to have it.” You grin, handing him the picture. So excited for the gasp when he reaches for it, weary eyes still adorably puzzled as you slip back in bed and under his gentle arm. Giggling when he unfolds the thing and utters an insightful ‘oh’.

He remembers now. Holds it with a knowing smile, amber eyes gliding over each divine line of you, eyeing first your version from the windowsill, then looking back at the real thing with even more striking appreciation. Like he couldn’t believe that a gorgeous creature from the photo is actually sprawled out in his bed; that he’d touched her, pleasured her, been inside her.

“Thank you. It’s breathtaking.” His forehead presses against yours, and you flick a few wet hairs off its salty, sticky skin. You both need a shower, terribly so.

“Do you really want to carry it in your wallet?”

“Oh, I intend to. If you approve of it, of course.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at him in a theatrically mocking way. “Mmm, I don’t know about that. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I suppose I could make an exception for the man I love.”

His laugh wraps around you, warm and dear, muffling against your mouth when you lean to kiss him again — to ensure he doesn’t doubt you, to show him that you’re certain. Sighing when mouths part, but he’s quick to offer you his hand instead, and fingers carefully coil together, tender and still shaky. And Viktor bows his head, settling a soft peck against your knuckles.

“Go take a shower. I’ll get the board. We’re playing a lot of Caro-Kann today.”

—

i want to thank every single one of you. this fic has been A JOURNEY. it gave me a better vocabulary (because writing viktor requires research, especially when english is not your first language), a chess addiction and a stronger nicotine one (you don’t want to know how many cigarettes i’ve smoked during those long writing sessions, and neither do i — i’ve stopped counting for a reason). i don’t know if i’m pleased with how this fic turned out. it’s my first multichapter, so of course it’s not exactly perfect, but it was a fine ride nonetheless and i’m glad so many of you loved it. so excited for season 2!!!! so excited to write more for my favorite boy!!! but as of now, i’m taking a small break from writing.

oh, and i wanted to do something special once i’m done with this au. so here’s a spotify playlist dedicated to this fic: the c(o)unterpart

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

#the cunterpart #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor smut #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #no beta we die like men

158 notes · View notes

starmapz · 7 months ago

Text

shame on me || chapter five || departure

gojo satoru x female vessel reader

❝gojo satoru is the strongest sorcerer. when you come along with power to match his own, his responsibility to the world gets the best of him and his first impression is poor to say the least. when he needs your help, by some miracle you're too kind to deny him. or maybe he's just manipulative enough to convince you. either way, you're stuck training his student, a vessel like you. what could possibly go wrong?❞

warnings || 18+ only. contains explicit content. enemies to lovers. extreme angst. graphic descriptions of injury and death. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. fluff. major character death. anxiety. panic attacks. extreme slow burn. eventual smut. p in v. oral (f! and m! receiving). praise. overstimulation. unprotected. fingering. mating press. slight nanami x reader. happy ending!

additional tags || gojo is a dumbass but very lovable. very very very minor love triangle, will not be a main theme. no competing. takes place after season 2. au where gojo is not sealed and the shibuya incident does not go down the same. nanami is alive. choso is around. no major manga spoilers but will contain themes and ideas touched on later.

wc || 8.6k.

edited but not beta-read.

a/n || just want to give fair warning for this chapter that the warnings above apply quite heavily.

series masterlist || main masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

“Good morning, darling.”

Gentle words whispered softly against your skin had become your mantra. A reminder of not only what you had longed for for so long, but also that you no longer felt the need to face the world alone.

Of course, you weren’t exactly alone, but it often felt that way.

“Morning, Ken,” your voice is hoarse as you wake to strong arms enveloping you, kisses being peppered down your jaw and along your neck. You hum contentedly, tilting your head to allow Nanami access before his lips part from your collar bone. His deep mahogany gaze lifts to take in your smile, a sight mirrored on his own features. Propping himself up on his elbow, he leans down to kiss you, his lips softly moving against yours.

Waking up with your boyfriend was a treasure you never truly knew you were missing out on. The way he would wrap you up tightly in his embrace, his length pressing into your ass as he passionately nipped and licked the sensitive skin at the nape where your neck met your collar bone was a feeling you could never grow sick of.

Before you can indulge in such a feeling, Kento interrupts the sounds of shuffling and gentle moans that fill the room.

“Are you teaching today?” His voice is low and groggy, a timbre you’d grown accustomed to hearing over the past few weeks as Kento’s visits had become more and more frequent now that you were dating. Your calls and texts had grown so constant that it made more sense for him to come home to you every night. You had never imagined the cabin you had so begrudgingly agreed to live in could possibly become your home, but now it held such fond memories you couldn’t imagine it any other way.

“Mhm,” you hum in response to your boyfriend, who kisses your nose.

“Shame,” he says, “I was hoping to have you to myself.” His hands find your waist, brushing the bare skin of your stomach. You jump at the feeling of his thumbs tickling the sensitive skin, giggling at the sudden feeling of being awake. Kento’s chest rumbles as he appreciates your reaction, leaving a gentle kiss along the top of your spine.

“I wish,” you groan, turning your head to check the time. Slowly, you push yourself out of bed to get ready for the day. Kento isn’t far behind as he makes his way down the stairs to make coffee. It had become somewhat of a tradition to share coffee together before going separate ways and you treasured that moment each morning, ensuring you always had enough time to bask in one another’s company.

When you emerge from the bedroom dressed in a floral tank top and black skirt, Nanami’s gaze travels the length of your figure. A blush finds your cheeks as you smile sheepishly at him. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt, though it isn’t fully buttoned up or tucked in as it usually is, and a pair of gray sweatpants. You can’t help but adore the more disheveled look on him, something about it so painfully screamed “boyfriend” and it screamed of the adoration you two shared.

“You look beautiful,” he hums, clearing his throat of the obvious lust in his voice.

Grinning, you giggle as you take the coffee cup he’d prepared for you from his hands. “You look as handsome as ever.” Your cheeriness earns a warm smile from him. Taking your usual spot leaning against the counter beside him, you cozy up to the warmth of his side. Even in the warm summer heat, it was hard to tear either of you from the other.

Domestic moments like these, your heart soared at just how grateful you truly were. Never could you possibly have imagined a world where you would get to enjoy such slow and soft mornings filled with adoration.

A knock at your door earns a sigh from you and a knowing chuckle from Nanami, who sets his coffee down on the kitchen counter and runs a hand through his disheveled hair, answering the door.

As you finish up your coffee and throw on a petite red leather jacket, you can hear Nanami and Gojo sharing mild pleasantries, though Gojo’s version of pleasantries seemed to be aimed towards annoying your partner. Sliding up behind Nanami, you pull his attention back towards you and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” you tell him. He nods, wrapping a muscular arm around you to pull you in for one more chaste kiss before letting you go. You both choose to ignore Gojo’s noises of complaints as you kiss. When you part, you spot a frown pulling at Gojo’s lips, but had you blinked you would have missed it. He turns his attention back to you, hands in his pockets, as he turns to lead the way towards the clearing.

Bounding down the stairs after the sorcerer, you follow his pace as the sun warms your skin from between clouds. It’s the first overcast day in a while and although the sun peeks through the clouds on occasion, it’s a nice break from the blaring summer heat.

“I’m having one of the second-years join today,” Gojo comments, smirking your way.

“Okkotsu?” You recall your conversation with Yaga from over a month ago. Rolling his shoulders back, Gojo nods.

“He’s strong, I think it’d be valuable for him to learn a thing or two from you.”

Your steps almost falter as you tilt your head to look up at him. His head is tilted upwards with a smile, seemingly enjoying the break from the heat as he paid you no mind. In his own way, that was a compliment. Though you had grown more accustomed to Gojo, it didn’t mean either of you got along any better.

You had taken Yuji and Megumi out for lunch a couple of weeks back to discuss what Sukuna could want, insisting that they would be fine together while you were there though the conversation had ended up skewing more towards why Gojo acted the way he did towards you.

You weren’t sure of Megumi's relation to Gojo, though to your surprise he seemed to know him quite well and had chalked it up to him feeling some sort of disdain towards you. You had suggested that maybe he felt threatened but both Yuji and Megumi had insisted such a thing was impossible.

After all, Gojo was the strongest. Sure, you’d heard it from Gojo on more than one occasion and Miriko had her reservations on him as the user of the Six Eyes and Limitless techniques so you knew he was strong, but to hear both kids insist that he was the strongest and couldn’t possibly be threatened was strange, albeit a bit insulting with you sitting right in front of them.

Approaching the clearing, you shake your head of the memory. You notice Yuji sitting alongside a boy with jet black hair and sunken eyes, the poor boy looked rather tired. He was smiling and laughing while talking to Yuji, waving to Gojo as you approached. Gojo takes a seat beside Yuji and opposite you while Okkotsu stands to bow politely, although you insist it isn’t necessary as he introduces himself.

The lesson goes smoothly as it always does, both students are quick learners and eager to take in any information they can. You’re surprised to find that Yuta is another special grade sorcerer like you, one of very few.

“I need to get stronger,” Yuji hums, staring at a clenched fist. You’re pretty sure he’s talking to himself as the group was all getting ready to grab lunch, but you blink at him in surprise. He was always determined, but the way his brow was furrowed made you wonder where this was coming from. He seemed nervous.

“You are,” you insist to him quietly, watching his eyes rise to meet yours. Yuta and Gojo, noticing the conversation, both pause to listen.

“I know,” he sighs, shaking his head. “But I need to make sure that whatever Sukuna’s got planned, I’m strong enough to stop it. I need to get as strong as you and Gojo. You too, Yuta.”

You tilt your head sympathetically, a bittersweet smile pulling at the corners of your lips. Leaning forward over the table, your voice is quiet as you speak. Gentle, even. “I know you want to protect your friends but that’s a tall order,” you tell him, running a hand through your hair as the breeze blows a few strands into your vision. “Not because I don’t think you can do it,” you insist with a confident smile, “but because I don’t think you should aim for that.”

“Why not?”

You pause, quietly examining the grain of the wood beneath your hands. “It’s lonely,” you say quietly as an admittance of the error of your own ways, if you could even call it such a thing. “Being at the top with no one able to touch you.”

You glance between Yuta and Yuji, who are deep in thought, before locking eyes with Gojo. His lips part and though you can’t read his expression from behind the black fabric that covers most of his face, his contemplation is evident. You’re not sure what it is about your words that has him staring at you in such a way, but before you can question him, your thoughts are interrupted.

BAM.

You jump, twisting to stare behind you. You don’t see anything from where you’re sitting, but when the sound is followed by an ear-splitting crack, all four of you are on your feet in an instant. Birds fly out from the nearby trees in a panic at the sudden noises, their squawking filling the air around you.

Gojo teleports away as Yuta zips after him through the trees to see what was causing the disturbance. Yuji stays nearby to protect you but your mind is elsewhere as you take off through the trees without a second thought.

Kento.

Making your way through the forest, you take in the scene before you. There’s a fire raging in the trees near the front entrance and several grade two curses were attacking anything that dared to move.

“How is this possible?” You exchange an incredulous glance with Yuji, knowing there was a barrier protecting the school. Yuji doesn’t seem to have an answer either, though you had heard this wasn’t the first event of this happening.

“y/n, Yuji!” Kento’s voice is relieved as he sets a strong hand on either of your arms, his gaze taking in your appearance as he searches for injuries. He then repeats the process with Yuji, before turning to face the chaos before you, satisfied to find neither of you are injured.

Now that you know Kento is safe, you turn your attention to the curses moving wildly over the training grounds. They’re-

“They’re the same.” Yuji’s voice is equally as confused as you felt.

Each curse was a familiar green, decorated in the same strange red markings as the curses you had been ambushed by so long ago. Though, this time there seemed to be hundreds of them. It was a strange attack to launch, given that nothing seemed to be above grade one, and even then there were far too few of them for it to make sense.

Regardless, Nanami instructs you to stick by Yuji and keep one another safe as he makes easy work of the small and mid-size curses. You know you have no reason to be concerned for him, but regardless it’s hard not to worry, your eyes following his every movement.

He’s swift and elegant as he takes out smaller curses with one strike of his blunt blade, slicing off the appendages of any curse large enough to survive an attack before maiming them mercilessly. The way he dances across the landscape in a display of almost elegance makes your heart flip, but now isn’t the time for that.

“Something isn’t right,” Miriko’s voice sounds and both you and Yuji stare down at the toothed mouth on your hand. “If this same curse has returned, then the one we killed was not the main body.”

You nod in agreement. Was there a special grade curse lurking somewhere?

Nanami glances in your direction, panting heavily. A good portion of the training grounds were clear of curses and you could see a couple of the second years taking a moment’s break behind your boyfriend as well.

You motion for Yuji to follow you to where Nanami was standing at the treeline, bringing a hand up to check for any injuries, though the blonde seemed unharmed. Yuji dashes off to his friends, checking on them as you tell Nanami what Miriko had said.

Nodding in agreement, he grimaces. “There are too many spirits to pinpoint the location of the main body,” he hums. “It’s some sort of distraction.” But of course, without knowing who they were after, you couldn’t be sure where they would-

A strangled gasp leaves your lips. You stare down at the sharp appendage that shoots straight through your chest, blood spurting from your lips as your hands shake. Shock was keeping you from keeling over in pain, though it was also keeping you from making a movement. Your confused expression reaches Nanami, whose jaw is clenched as he lifts a hand in an attempt to- oh god. His chest had been pierced through by the same appendage, but there was a stark contrast between you and your boyfriend that was a grave reminder of the dire situation you were now in.

Nanami can’t use the reverse cursed technique.

A strangled cry of his name leaves your lips as you’re both yanked back painfully and enveloped in liquid. It stings and burns as it eats at your skin, your throat, your eyes, blinding you. Flailing around helplessly, you retreat to allow Miriko to take over. She’s calm as she works to heal you while what she can only assume is a strong curse’s stomach acid eats away at your form. Taking a moment to evaluate the situation, she finally grabs a hold of whatever appendage is pierced through you, sending death and decay through it without mercy. A shrieking noise meets the action as Miriko’s hands crack with the same decay.

The curse dissolves, dropping Miriko on the grass with a soft thud. She coughs the liquid up, working to heal your hands and eyes as the grass and earth below you crack and crumble. Her glowing gaze blinks once, twice, as she adjusts to the light, staring down at the hole in your chest as she focuses on healing it before turning her attention to Yuji.

“y/n- Miriko?”

“I’m okay,” she sputters, rolling her shoulders as she pushes herself up and brushes grass from her palms.

“Where’s-?” Yuji’s voice comes as a reminder of what had just happened as you physically rip control of your body back from Miriko, leaving you momentarily dazed. The moment the fog over your brain lifts, you frantically whip your head around.

“Kento? Kento?” Your heart is pounding as you search desperately for him. Whatever ate you was big, surely he was just in the treeline. He had to be.

“y/n,” Yuji’s voice breaks through to you. It’s broken, angry. It’s not the tone you want to hear. Not when you knew the bond he shared with Nanamin.

On the ground sits Nanami’s blunt blade. It looks rusted and the material usually wrapped around it is nearly fully dissolved. There’s no sign of your beloved sorcerer, but there doesn’t need to be to understand the scene laid out before you.

“No.” You can barely muster the word as you jog over to Yuji, who's doing everything in his power to keep his tears in. You, however, aren’t that strong. Tears pool in the corners of your eyes before falling freely down your cheeks. Your knees buckle beneath you, burning slightly from the acid that slowly dissipates on the grass. “No,” you choke out again.

Reaching out a shaky hand, you grip the handle of the blade as a sob wracks your body. Yuji’s hand is on your back, but his touch feels distant, everything feels distant. It’s as though you exist in a universe separate from your own, where this is all some sort of sick nightmare. But that’s never the case, is it? The world couldn’t let you have peace, not when you housed the symbol of death itself.

“Miriko,” you beg desperately, although you already know the answer to your pending question. “Please, bring him back.” Your voice is broken, your words hanging in the air unanswered. She has no reason to respond since you know she’s unable, but still you plead with her again. “Please,” you cry out, your knuckles white as you cling to the blade.

She answers from the back of your hand. “I cannot, y/n. There is nothing to bring back.”

He’s gone.

“His soul,” you sputter out. “Can- Can you- find it?” Your desperation claws at your throat, threatening to drown you in your pain. Miriko falls silent, her face disappearing. She knows there’s no arguing with you about being left defenseless, knowing that if she doesn’t comply you’ll use her abilities whether she likes it or not. Regardless, Yuji was still with you. You were safe.

After a moment of waiting, you feel a familiar pull. Low moans fill the air as your body sways with the movement of the ship below you.

You blink away your disorientation as the blade you were holding is no longer in your hands. You lift your head shakily, locking eyes with the serpentine curse that stares back at you. Your lips part as your eyes land on him.

He blinks once, twice, three times. Brown eyes take in the dragon, the slowly rocking ship, the echoes of spirits heaving the ship from side to side. Then, slowly, they land on you.

He’s wearing your favorite outfit on him, a gray jumper over beige slacks, green glasses you don’t recognize over his eyes. Both of them. Burn scars no longer cover his side, and he no longer has a need for the eyepatch he normally wore. His hair is combed back neatly and in spite of the situation, he seems calm.

He glances at Miriko as though he needs permission to approach you. When she nods, he takes a couple of steps towards you, kneeling before your hunched over figure. He reaches out softly, his hand ghosting over your cheek but the warmth of the touch never reaches you. Your lip trembles at the realization that never again would you feel his love against your skin, so warm and so real.

He bites down hard on his lip. You know that expression. He’s trying hard to be the strong one. Even in death, he was doing everything he could for you. You gasp for air as a sob wracks your body when you reach out and can’t feel him, shutting your eyes to try to stop the tears that stream endlessly down your cheeks.

When you open them again, your boyfriend’s soul is wrapped tightly around you. Physically you can’t hold him, but you can feel the moment burning itself into your soul like a photo. You tremble in his embrace, bringing a hand up to wipe your tears and take in the sight of two mahogany eyes observing you with all the care and adoration in the world.

You can see it in his eyes, the desperation and desolation that eat away at him in his final moments. Emotions he’s trying so hard to hide to stop you from crumbling in his arms. So many dates left undone, actions unfinished and things left unsaid.

Yuji’s words ring in your head. No sorcerer dies without regrets. Words imparted to him by Yaga.

Kento’s eyes hold his regrets, as well as his heart, as you stare up at your own reflection within the deep pools of sienna. A gaze that normally imparted comfort and happiness, now replaced with the claws of heartbreak that were beginning to tear through your walls.

Miriko shifts suddenly, her tail swaying in Nanami’s direction. You recognize this as a sign that she’s unable to keep his soul in place for much longer, your eyes wide with terror.

“Please no,” you beg, your voice strained. Kento’s lip trembles, his chest rising and falling as he takes a breath.

Though he can’t speak, you see his lips form the words be strong, but it has the opposite effect on you as your arms reach for a warmth that isn’t there. He stands tall above you, facing the terrifying reality of parting from his body, parting from the world, yet not once does he allow the facade of a tough exterior to break. You know he’s only doing it in hopes you’ll be able to hold yourself together, but the ease he hopes to leave with you never comes.

“It is time,” Miriko warns.

Your sobs choke you as you fall forward, your fingers splayed on the wood before you. Every breath is a struggle, as though your chest is being crushed by the loss. You drag your fingers over the chipped wood lining the ship, but the physical pain you’re hoping to focus on to ease your agony never comes. You can’t be hurt in Miriko’s domain.

You gasp as you manage to catch your breath for a moment, wide teary eyes locking on Kento one last time. The ship halts under a familiar light, one you’ve seen only once before. Your boyfriend turns to face you before allowing Miriko to usher him to the afterlife. His shoulders shift as he puts on a brave face, a sad smile forced to his lips as his mouth forms the words you never got to say.

I love you.

–

There’s no reason for Satoru Gojo to get involved in a fight against low level curses. He trusts his students to handle them. He had taken note of Nanami joining the fight as well, who was always one to hang on until the end. He had no reason to be concerned about the outcome of the fight, only the reasoning behind the attack.

Hanging silently in the air in search of the main body of whatever curse was toying with them, Gojo’s attention is pulled to Yuji as he cries out for help. Huh. Yuji isn’t one to ask for help. At least, not like this.

He drops down to where Yuji’s hand is flailing, flashing his student his reassuring smirk.

“It’s y/n.” He’s breathless, his eyes wide. Gojo grimaces. He’d prepared for the moment that Miriko would turn on him, turn on them all. He’d been sure to keep you and her at arms’ length for this moment. He’d known all along you couldn’t be trusted, but he had hoped to get more use out of you.

It was the cold reality of Gojo’s life, and he accepted it. There was no world where he could allow himself to get close to someone like you, so he would use you. After all, from the day he was born he was little more than a weapon. The strongest. So a weapon he shall be.

Still, it didn’t stop him from selfishly wishing for a different end when your words and actions would tug at him. It didn’t stop the guilt from seeping through the cracks as he angered and pushed you away when you showed him cordiality in spite of his actions.

Yuji leads Gojo to your side, but when you come into view, it isn’t Miriko at all. He takes a step forward to take in the sight of your shaking figure, hunched over Nanami’s blunt blade. His eyes widen in realization.

Loss is like an old friend to Gojo. He’s familiar with the way it crushes you, gripping at your throat and leaving you sputtering for air. He’s familiar with the feeling of drowning in agony. He knows what it means to lose the only person who understands you. The only person who grounds you.

He rounds your figure, realizing suddenly that much like the second time you two had met, you’re not conscious. You’re with Miriko, likely with Nanami.

It’s not the place of the snowy-haired sorcerer to interrupt. He frowns, a muscle in his jaw rolling as he exchanges a glance with his student. His eyes are wide with worry, so Gojo assures him you’re okay.

As if on queue, a sob wracks your body. Gojo waits patiently with crossed arms, prepared to take you off-site, somewhere safe, but that moment never comes as a strangled gasp escapes your lips, followed by a mumble about things not being fair.

The strongest can’t allow himself to react, not in front of his student, but guilt pools in his stomach at the realization that after all the arguments, all the frustration of working alongside one another, he had caused the exact pain you had been trying to avoid this whole time. Not only that, but the loss of Nanami hangs heavy in the air over him too.

For the first time in a long time, Satoru feels a weight tug deep within him at his heartstrings. He could admit he was at fault for much of your discontentment without much of a second thought, but this was a guilt so genuine that he found himself unable to watch as you gripped at Nanami’s blunt blade until blood began seeping from your palms where your nails dug into them. Not an easy sight to watch.

Gojo prepares to lean down and do what he can to console you before removing you from danger, when suddenly your body moves in an unsettling way. From behind his blindfold, his blue eyes widen, taking in the way you claw at the ground. A whimper escapes you as your hand turns gray and contorts suddenly.

His lips part in disbelief as the gray cracks spread up your body.

Were you dying?

The answer to his question comes in the form of a guttural growl. He grits his teeth, taking in a breath as he watches with disdain as your graying arm crumbles, giving way for a clawed arm to take its place.

Gojo raises a hand, launching Itadori away from you as your form crumbles, leaving in its wake a draconic figure that the sorcerer can only assume is Miriko. Guilt gnaws at his form as he realizes he likely drove Miriko to do this, but he has no choice. He prepared for this. He knew this day would come and he knew it would be his job to kill you both, even if the cost was another piece of his sanity.

Funny, the way you would bear witness to the way the strongest sorcerer would crumble on more than one occasion, but you would never know it.

Miriko towers over him, her massive form giving pause to the entire battle. She was unlike any other curse. She was somehow majestic, her pearlescent scales shining in the sun while her silver mane was ruffled gently by the breeze. Her tail flicks as she cries out and even in this form, Gojo recognizes the tone of her cry. Agony.

Gojo teleports a small distance away, pulling his blindfold down to rest on his shoulders as he watches Miriko’s movements. In any other situation, he would have, should have, killed you without a second thought, but as he brings his hand down from his blindfold to rest over his heart, he presses his lips into a thin line.

Why was his heart beating so fast?

Miriko takes a step forward, oddly unsteady as though she wasn’t used to the body, followed by another, and another. Gojo trails steadily after her, unable to raise a hand as he watches what she does. When she finally stops, her long neck lowers to face someone, something. Standing proud before her are two special grade humanoid curses, each one with a sinister grin. Their skin matches that of the lower level curses and clearly Miriko recognizes this. This is her revenge.

Gojo can only watch as the two parties stare at one another, before Miriko lets out a shrill cry and her chest seems to light up. Gojo’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s taken too long, hesitated too much.

Miriko bellows strange gray flames from deep within her, shocking the two special grades as they effortlessly crumble beneath her power. The flames lick and lap at the trees and woods, disappearing as fast as they appear. They were unlike real flames, leaving no heat in their wake, only an eerie graying decay that cracks and crushes everything it touches.

Yuta calls Gojo’s name, snapping him out of his trance. He shoots Yuta the familiar reassuring smirk he always bears, teleporting before Miriko’s form that had begun flailing around and billowing flames in every direction, crying out in pain and… fear? No matter, Gojo couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

He raises a hand as he faces Miriko, a hand sign familiar to anyone that knows him. This time, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Miriko’s head raises to meet her new assailant, locking eyes with the Six Eyes sorcerer.

He told himself he wouldn’t hesitate. He prepared himself for this moment. He kept you at arms’ length and angered you at every turn to keep himself from this exact moment, but as your crimson eyes lock with his, his smirk falters. His breathing quickens, eyes widening as he realizes that the eyes looking back at him aren’t glowing. They aren’t Miriko’s eyes, they’re yours. It’s your eyes looking back at him in unbearable distress. A silent plea for help.

Miriko hadn’t turned on them.

Gojo’s hand falls to his side and he can only watch as you snap your head forward, sharp teeth bared as you went for the kill. He should move, he should teleport away. He should defend himself.

But he can’t. He can’t even manage to protect himself with his Infinity.

Mere seconds from snapping around his body and devouring him, your form stops abruptly. You let out a wounded cry before beginning to collapse. Yuta pulls his katana from your head and Gojo feels something twist within him at the sight. He locks eyes with his student, whose sunken expression holds an understanding deeper than Gojo could ever know as Yuta hops to the ground beside your slumped body. Miriko’s form begins to decay and in its wake, your form collapses to the ground with blood pouring from your wound.

Whatever it was that twisted within Gojo digs further into him and he takes a deep breath, staring at the pooling blood from your wound. Had both you and Miriko passed out? Or were you dead? He’s not sure he can bear the weight of the answer.

Yuta stares at his superior again, pulling your form into his arms. The everlasting tired expression on his face doesn’t leave as he pauses to stare at Gojo, frozen in place. No words are exchanged as Yuta dashes off towards Shoko, leaving the strongest standing alone in the midst of the decay around him.

Blue eyes follow your limp form in Yuta’s arms as you’re carried off. The way your arm dangles from Yuta’s grip strikes him like a wound and he worries his lip between his teeth. He isn’t sure how long he stands staring after your body even once Yuta has disappeared into the building, but the taste of iron on his tongue pulls him from the trance.

When movement catches his eye, Gojo locks eyes with the real assailant behind this attack. His figure is an endless stain on Satoru’s own life. He carries a different face, but the stitches staring back at him haunt him while he wakes and sleeps. It was like the curse wanted nothing more than to taunt him. But the sorcerer had no interest in a chase, a grisly feeling of emptiness ripping at his ribs and threatening to burst at the seams.

He does nothing but watch as the man zips away, carrying in his arms a limp figure Gojo doesn't recognize. One of the special grades you had torched maybe? Whatever it is, it's disfigured beyond perception.

Gojo swallows hard as he takes in the scene before him. Blood stains and soaks the grass beneath his feet, a bitter scent of iron coating his every breath. Decay litters the horizon, fissures splitting the earth and splintering trees around him, spreading as far as the eye could see. All caused by your pain. All caused by Gojo’s ignorance.

He was meant to be the strongest. He knew his role and he could play it well. But today he tasted the bitter feeling of guilt he had longed to rid himself of. The taste of an old friend he loathed.

Satoru Gojo has only ever hesitated twice in his life before and he vowed he would never let it happen again.

Today, Satoru Gojo hesitated once more.

–

The first thing you became conscious of as you awoke was what felt like a weight on your chest, threatening to crush you. Then came blinding white lights, an incessant beeping, and steady exhales.

Your lashes flutter as your eyes adjust to the harsh light, your head pulsing with each blink. You groan, bringing a heavy and weak arm up to your head in an attempt to ease the horrible pulsing of the pain.

“Shit,” a feminine voice breathes, followed by the tapping of heels across the floor.

“Hm?” This time, a masculine voice.

Your arm falls to your side as you meekly begin to make sense of your surroundings. White walls cascade around where you’re laying, a hospital bed in the center of the room. You recognize the room, you’d chatted with Shoko here one or twice before.

“Hey, y/n,” her voice is soft as you squint up at her.

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out, as though you haven't spoken in a long time. It’s almost as though your body was forgetting how to function. You try to clear your throat, letting out a breath at how oddly sore you feel.

“Take your time, Hun.”

You take a few breaths before managing a weak sentence as Shoko listens to your breathing through a stethoscope, cold against the skin of your chest.

“Where’s Ken?” Your voice is barely a whisper. You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Shoko swallows hard and glances to the side. You follow her gaze, expecting your boyfriend but the black shades that you find at the end of her gaze don’t instill comfort in you. “Gojo?” Your mind is hazy as you question him, hoping he’ll answer.

“y/n…” Gojo’s voice is eerily gentle, as though you would break should he speak up.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Shoko interrupts with an uncertain smile, lifting her stethoscope and laying it over her shoulders. She exhales quietly, writing something down before taking a flashlight and shining it at your eyes. “What do you remember?”

You hum in thought, struggling to keep your eyes open as Shoko continues her examination. “I don’t know, I had a lesson and…” You trail off, narrowing your eyes in thought. Shoko sits down as she turns the light off, nodding. She checks your blood pressure as you stare down at your hands, trying to recall the last memory you had.

“Take your time,” she smiles, finally sitting to give you her full attention.

“Do you remember meeting Yuta?” Your head rolls to the side slowly, vision focusing on Gojo. He wasn’t wearing his usual teaching uniform, but rather a white t-shirt and black joggers. Though his eyes were covered by his black shades, you recognize the gaunt look he wore. He was exhausted.

Your head feels heavy as you lift it up to look between Gojo and Shoko.

“Okkotsu?” You ask, bringing a hand up to rub your eyes.

“Good,” Shoko smiles, writing something down again.

“Where’s Ken?” You ask again meekly.

Shoko and Gojo exchange a look. “We can talk about him lat-”

“Where is he?” Weariness drips from your words as you turn from Shoko to Gojo. Gojo being the more blunt of the two, you could only hope you had a better shot of squeezing the truth out of him.

“y/n…” It’s still the only thing he’s said since you’ve woken up, but this time his voice is cautionary. Like you were pushing for answers you wouldn’t want. A warning.

“Gojo.”

“He’s gone, y/n.”

Air leaves your lungs as though it’s physically stolen from you, pain searing through your chest. The feeling is familiar as suddenly a painful memory plays itself out in your mind.

I love you.

You never got to tell him you love him too. That you still do.

“I didn’t-” your words die on your tongue, choking on a sob. Clutching your chest, you weakly pull your knees to your chest, something that takes a surprising amount of effort in your weakened state.

The silence surrounding you feels loud as your sobs cut through the sterile air with the grace of a jagged knife. Shoko’s hand reaches out to squeeze your arm but it offers no comfort. You never allowed her the chance to get close to you and now you never would. You couldn’t. Not when the risks were so great.

You aren’t sure how long you sit and sob to yourself, embarrassed to be seen in such a manner, especially by Gojo who now stood at the side of your bed. Your breathing begins to regulate finally although all your senses feel dull, as though you can’t feed them the oxygen they need to function. Tired eyes lift quietly to glance at Shoko. She’s rubbing small circles into your arm, though she can’t seem to bear to meet your eyes.

When your sunken expression meets Gojo’s, you barely notice the way his arm falls to his side. He’s frowning and you almost wonder if for once he feels guilt, anger bubbling in your chest. You could only hope he did, hope he understood exactly what his cocky and overconfidence caused.

“I took care of your dog,” he sputters as though the silence was unbearable. Your eyes widen suddenly, mustering the strength to wipe your tears. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“He shouldn’t,” you tell him with the faintest hint of a smirk. “He’s trained to tell me when you’re near.”

Gojo’s expression is somewhere between snide and disgruntled. “Right,” he avoids your crimson eyes, lips pressed into a line. “That explains a lot.”

“I want to go home,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. You didn’t mean your cabin but it would have to do for now. You shudder at the realization of how empty it would feel. How Kento’s toothbrush would never again move, his phone charger laying under a sheen of dust for eternity. His coffee cup that you had so carefully chosen for him never to house his favorite blend with milk and sugar again.

“I’d like to keep you for monitoring at least until-” Shoko tries to stop you as you slowly move your feet off the bed, but you had no intention of letting her do so.

Your knees, on the other hand, they might stop you.

Legs shaky beneath you, your chest rises and falls with urgency as you try to hold yourself up. Why in the hell did you feel so weak? How long had you been out?

Gojo hesitantly reaches out to attempt to allow you to steady yourself on him, but you swat him away with a blazing hot fury. “Do not touch me,” you hiss vehemently with an anger that has even him recoiling. Your vexation bled through your every action and word at him, fading to a more mild neutrality with Shoko.

“y/n, just let me help,” he insists, reaching out again.

“No, you’ve helped enough, Satoru Gojo.”

Had you blinked, you might have missed the way he flinched. He rolls his shoulders, stepping back with his lower lip worried between his teeth. You observe him carefully before addressing Miriko. Surely she wouldn’t have let you get this weak.

Miriko, can you heal me?

…

Miriko?

Reaching out, you realize her presence feels oddly shallow. Your grip on the edge of the hospital bed tightens as you suddenly feel like you’re about to collapse. Had your whole world fallen apart? Your chest constricts against you, the lights flashing as the edges of your vision begin to darken.

“Gojo-!” Shoko warns, recognizing the telltale signs of your desperate gasps for air, shaking figure and blank expression.

A strong pair of arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against a warm chest. It’s not the familiar warmth of your boyfriend, it’s foreign with a woodsy scent you don’t recognize. Your head begins pounding as you gasp for air.

“Bed, now.”

The warm chest parts from you as you’re moved in a blur. A light is shone in your eyes before Shoko comes into view, talking you down from your panic attack.

There’s no comfort in the way she talks you down, through a medical step-by-step list. Say what you can feel, what you can see, what you can smell, hear. The grip of panic releases slowly as she walks you coldly through the steps of your anxiety.

Your heart is pounding fast, beating against your chest as you dig your nails into your palms in an attempt to distract yourself from the pain that’s too much. It’s all too much.

“Miriko?” Barely audible, your voice doesn’t reach Shoko. But Gojo, who you hadn’t realized was gently brushing your arm in an attempt at comfort, answers quietly.

“She’s okay. You drained her cursed energy. She’s recovering.”

“I did?” You question.

His lips press into a thin line as he contemplates his next words carefully. To your surprise, he turns away, grabbing a chair to sit next to the hospital bed as he walks you through the destruction you caused, making sure to detail that no students, faculty, or bystanders were injured. It’s uncharacteristically gentle of him and you find your anger towards him quelling, if only for a moment.

“Did you talk to her?”

“I did,” he tells you, leaning forward on his knees as he links his hands in his lap. “She healed you but you’re on your own to recover until she can too.”

“Oh,” is all you can muster, as much to Shoko’s dismay, you swing your legs over the side of the hospital bed again.

She mutters something to herself before trying to insist that you stay for her to keep an eye on you, but your mind was made up.

“If um- Miriko- can’t heal you, then I need to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m fine, Shoko.” You insist, standing on shaky legs. Gojo remains seated, watching your movements. It isn’t until your legs begin to buckle that he finally stands up and ducks under your arm, holding you up. Begrudgingly, you realize you’re in no place to deny his help.

“You can stay with me.”

Shooting him a bewildered sneer, you shake your head. “No, absolutely not.”

He sighs. “Look, your dog is already at my place and our cabins are the same.”

“The cabin isn’t the problem, Gojo.”

“Can you cooperate for one second? I’m trying to help-”

“Like all the other times you helped me?”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Guys!” Shoko closes her eyes, patience tested. Her hand drops from the bridge of her nose as she stares between the two of you. “y/n, I’m sorry but someone needs to keep an eye on you. You either stay here with me, or you can go with Gojo back to his cabin.”

Your head pulses in pain at the thought of either option, but the bright lights of the sterile room threaten to drive you mad even before Gojo could, as infuriating as he could be.

“Fine,” you give in, still hanging off of Gojo’s shoulder. “I’ll go with you,” you mutter almost incomprehensibly, shifting on your feet to try to relieve some of your weight from hanging off of the white-haired sorcerer, though it didn’t seem to bother him.

“At least I’m better than the hospital,” Gojo’s grunt has you nearly changing your mind as you shoot him a warning glance.

“Just take it easy for a few days, y/n,” Shoko insists, turning to her clipboard. “We’ll do rehab once you’re feeling better.” You nod at the school’s resident doctor. “I’ll report that she’s awake.”

“No,” Gojo pauses midway through a step. “Let her recover first.”

Shoko hums as she eyes Gojo, recognizing that in doing so, they were keeping information from the higher-ups. Regardless, she turns away as Gojo leads you out the door.

You hate the feeling of being weak. The feeling of needing to rely on someone. More so now than ever before. Each step feels like a walk of shame hanging onto Gojo in order to stay upright. The idea of being seen in such a way is humiliating.

“How long was I out?”

“Uh, two weeks I think.”

You stare at the ground, each step is an effort as you slowly make your way down the long hall. When you reach the door, your steps stop. You find yourself needing to grip Gojo’s shoulder hard in order to hold yourself up at the sight before you. He doesn’t complain, adjusting his grip on your waist in order to keep you upright.

You would recognize the sight anywhere. Gray fissures splinter in every direction towards the entrance, the telltale sign of Miriko’s ability, only on a scale of grandeur you had never seen before. The entire left side of the campus looked like a different world, ravaged by a monster.

Yuji had mentioned that the campus had been destroyed once not too long ago by Gojo and that it had been fixed relatively quickly all things considered, but this… there was nothing to fix. At the end of the day, the buildings were intact and there was simply no time to worry about the plants.

“I did this?”

Gojo’s fingers curl slightly against your waist before he takes a step towards his cabin, urging you forward. He knows you don’t need an answer.

Rustling through his pocket, he pulls out a key and unlocks the door to his cabin. When you make your way inside, you’re immediately met with warning barks.

“See, this is what I’ve been dealing with,” he sighs.

“Taro!” You let out a relieved sigh, slipping out of Gojo’s grasp down to the floor with arms outstretched. Taro’s barks cease and turn to happy whines as he throws himself at you, his entire body wagging with the motion of his tail. “I’m so sorry, baby boy.” You hug him as tightly as you can muster, tears rolling quietly down your cheeks. He really was all you had left now.

When Taro finally relaxes a bit, his tongue lolling out happily with his belly up before you, your eyes search the cabin.

Its layout was the exact same as yours, though his was slightly bigger with a guest room tucked into a nook behind the living room. Thank god. Apart from that difference, you can’t help but notice how oddly barren it is. Almost as though he doesn’t live in it. No curtains or decorations, no blankets or flowers. The only noticeable item that showed any sign of use was Taro’s bed, which he must have grabbed when he took Taro in.

As you look slowly around the room, your eyes eventually find their way to Gojo, who’s bent over searching for something in the fridge. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair before turning to face you with a can of soda in his hands. It looks sugary.

His sunglasses are laid on the counter, the gaunt and pale appearance you had noticed before now more apparent than ever. His eyes were sunken and he didn’t have the usual attitude you had come to expect from him.

“Thank you, Gojo.”

He raises an eyebrow questioningly, hand on his hip.

“For- watching Taro,” you start, eyes flickering uncomfortably down to your dog as you busy yourself with petting him. “And for stopping me.”

He hums, turning to his table to sit down as he pulls out a chair. “Wasn’t me.”

“Who-?”

“Okkotsu,” it comes out strained as he refuses to look at you, his normally bright blue eyes dull and glued to his phone as he types out a message. Seeing Gojo so somber was oddly off putting. Between the sunken look he’d carried since you woke up and the way he was being agreeable, his behavior was already throwing you off. The way he was refusing to look at you now, though? Was it shame, embarrassment? Anger? You had no way of knowing.

“Oh.” It’s all you can manage as a response. You aren’t sure how to act around this version of Gojo, it’s like he’s a different person. When he leans forward and rubs his face, you can only stare. You want to ask him to help you to your room, but the words feel foreign around this person.

After an extended silence, you clear your throat. Gojo’s head spins to stare at you, his hair falling into his sight from where he’s leaning on the ball of his palm.

“Do you have a shower I can use?”

He nods, pushing himself up from the table as his chair scrapes the wooden floor. He throws his sunglasses back on before leaning down towards you. He offers his shoulder and hauls you upright, leading you to the guest bathroom beneath the stairs. You let go when you’re holding yourself up against the doorframe.

“Do you, uhhhh, need help?”

Your face contorts. “Don’t even suggest that.”

To your surprise, Gojo cracks the smallest of smirks at your retort.

“I’ll grab some stuff from your place and leave it outside the door?” It’s a statement phrased more as a question and you nod. “I need to steal some mugs ‘n things from your place anyway,” he says as he glances back at the kitchen, scratching the back of his head. “Shoko took all of mine to stock yours.”

“Oh, sorry.”

He shakes his head, putting on a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

As you sit in the shower, you thank the gods that Gojo left as the tears finally overflow. Pain wracks your body, wrenching through your gut with each sob that parts your lips. Not even the sounds of the shower could have masked your grief.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take Gojo nearly as long as you had hoped to gather what he figured you would need as he sets the clothing outside your door.

He stands unmoving for a moment at the door, the familiar jaws of guilt entrenching him within them as he hears your sobs.

There was nothing he could do to subdue your pain, and so he would force his usual smile onto his lips and play the role he was meant to play.

series masterlist || main masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

a/n || i'm so sorry, please don't hate me 😭 Believe me when I say this hurt to write, I adore Nanami with my whole heart and he deserves the best in every universe.

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euphoricfilter · 10 months ago

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hearts for dinner ~ drabble 1:

pairing: yandere! taehyung x demon! reader

genre: fluff || smut || non-idol au || established relationship || yandere au

summary: the lust of kim taehyung

tags/ warnings: he films her without her knowledge. smut in the forms of: phone sex/masturbation, cumming on thighs, fingering, mentioned oral, sort of cum play, first kisses!!

notes: takes place before the previous part :D

<- previous || where you can read my other stuff!!

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

the first time taehyung had invited you over to his house, it took every single cell of willpower to not lock the door and demand you move in with him that very second.

it had only been a couple of months since he’d asked you on your first date, seconds after meeting you enough for him to be entirely enamoured by your mere existence.

the pretty little dove he wanted to cage and keep to be cherished by his all consuming love for the rest of time.

there was only so many nights he could watch you through the camera he’d planted in one of the flower pots he’d given you before he was desperate to feel your flesh against his.

waiting for you to be tucked under the plethora of blankets on the bed before he’s snatching his phone off the desk, calling you.

he needed to be the last thought before you fell asleep, treading through your dreams, following you into the real world. he needed your mind as full of him, as his was of yours. needed you to understand the tight squeeze of his fragile heart every time he thought of you.

he needed your reason for life to be him, to want to breathe his air, touch him. he wanted the spiral of love, pulling the both of you so far into the black hole of raw desire to be the only thing that surrounds the both of you, as he moulds your very own paradise.

even on the nights you’d be sleepy as he calls, he can see the faint outline of a smile, barely there on your lips when you hear his voice.

and even on those nights it wouldn’t be hard to rile you up, smooth timbre of his voice ever so sweet as he tells you how pretty you are. how as he closed his eyes he could see the outline of your body, how much he wanted to mark you as his for the world to see.

teasing as you go quiet, hand palming his cock as he asks if you’re wet. if you’d be a good girl and press a finger through your folds, press a thumb over your clit.

he’d watch on the screen of the laptop, mound under the blanket where you’d slipped your hand into your panties.

he’d have to stave off his orgasm, always such a good thing for him. some nights you’d get a little hot, covers slipping onto the floor, and tae wouldn’t be able to help the ropes of cum that paint your face on the laptop screen at the little peek of your pretty little pussy, the perfect treasure taunting him.

you’d always been so shy, so to have you wriggling beneath the sheets as he tells you how to pleasure yourself made his heart soar, cock throbbing with the incessant want to cum between your walls, the rawest form of claim.

the night of your first kiss— that wonderful day you’d finally come over to his place, will forever be ingrained in his mind. how red your cheeks had been, ever so flustered. fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as you blurt out your admission of never having kissed anyone before.

so unsure of yourself he was convinced he wouldn’t last the night with you sat in his bed, a vulnerable little thing.

“it’s okay, pretty” his thumb had brushed down your cheek, gentle reassurance. caramel sweet words soothing the sheer panic you’d felt.

there had been a quiver in your fingers as he leaned forward, eyes squeezed tight as his lips brushed over yours. the briefest little kiss, teasing you.

you’d chased after him, desperate for more. pressing a soft peck to his lips.

he hadn’t known you’d get so excited, hand shoved between your thighs as you try to relieve some of the growing arousal.

“oh sweet thing” he’d crooned, hands holding both your cheeks as he’d kissed you, tongue pressing into your mouth.

he remembers how you’d rubbed your poor little cunt on his thigh, how you’d admitted no one’s ever touched you before.

you’d watched as he’d tugged your panties down, showing you how to play with yourself. his fingers spreading your folds, thumb slipping into you.

the first time you moaned his name, he came over your thighs, slapping the head over your cunt to watch his seed mix with your arousal pushing it into you afterwards, making you push it all back out only to make you swallow it after.

it didn’t take much to convince you to stay over his house after that, tucked away sleeping in his bed with his head between your thighs, or your hand wrapped around his cock.

because taehyung knew you were perfect, your own version of love slowly forming into the raw sort of need that he had for you. your souls slowly becoming one, with every moment you spent together. because you even met in your dreams.

your life, be it awake or in the world of dreams, taehyung had taught you his way how to love.

#bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts smut #bts #bts x reader #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung fic #bts fic #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung imagine #bts imagines #taehyung scenarios #taehyung x you #kim taehyung imagine #kim taehyung x reader #kim taehyung fluff #bts non idol au

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 1 year ago

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“(Don’t) Hurry Down The Chimney Tonight” - Dean x Reader

Rating Explicit

Dean x Reader

Tags: Christmas (Holiday) Smut, Red Ribbons, Candy Canes, Peppermint Sensations, Sleigh Bells, Sexy Santa References, Dean is Tied Up, Edging, Oral Sex, 69, Vaginal Sex, Reader is a Naughty Little Vixen, Dean deserves a proper (sexy) Christmas.

Word Count: 2700

Summary: Dean saved Reader from the supernatural on Christmas Eve years ago. Every Christmas since, she has always found a way to show her unending appreciation.

Notes: This smutty little fic is a holiday gift for @jessjad for the 2023 SPNFanFicPond Secret Santa Fic Exchange. I hope you enjoy the reader’s sexy times with Dean.

Big thanks to @sam-is-my-safeword and runawaydr3amer (AO3) for reading the first draft and helping with a great many awesome smut ideas. Additional thanks to runawaydr3amer, who also beta’d this fic and packaged it up nice and shiny.

Merry holidays!

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo, and this part will fill my "Edging" square.

Resources:

Collage created in Canva

Pic found on Google (Fanpop)

Song Reference: Santa Baby by Joan Javits and Philip Springer (listen/watch this version sung by Eartha Kitt)

Dean sinks those pearly whites into the flesh of his bottom lip. His top lip pulls up and back into a painful sneer. The usual rosy, pillowy fullness of that mouth is instead taut, whitening under the capture. You laser focus onto the pointy canine denting into the mouth you have debated sitting on since you began this teasing challenge.

jingle

You finish fashioning a sweet little bow with the ribbon. It’s ruby red and velvety soft.

“Well, I think that’s about the prettiest package I ever did wrap.”

jingle

“What do you think, Mr. Claus?” you ask, your voice as innocent and demure as you can manage.

Dean opens his mouth and expels a slow gasp. jingle “Fuck, sweetheart. You aren’t playin’ fair.”

“That’s the whole point.”

You rise from the edge of the bed and take in the entire scene. It’s magnificent.

He’s magnificent.

Dean is lying atop the forest green comforter of your bed. Naked. Well, not totally naked. A red ribbon - adorned with one single sleigh bell - binds his wrists together and anchors him to the headboard. His arms, jutting out and bent to create a diamond-shaped frame around his face, give you a prime ticket to the gun show. Biceps flex and tendons raise under the skin as he tries to remain as motionless as possible.

jingle

You aren’t a complete heathen. He’s got a fluffy pillow, the same deep green color as the comforter, to rest his head atop. Dean is anything but sleepy. He’s wound up. He stares back at you, the green of his irises electric and flaming with intensity.

You anticipate how sublime it will feel to strum the cords of his neck. Tickle your fingertips down that chest. You imagine Dean ring-a-ding-dinging and cursing himself if you take the time to trace the outline of his tattoo. Circle those perky nipples. Dip into his belly button and follow his treasure trail of baby-fine hair.

You marvel again at the other ribbon that you tied. You’d purchased a couple yards of red velvet at the craft store weeks ago with this in mind. With him in mind. You were ecstatic it had been enough to criss-cross around the crease below that fine ass. It wraps over a slight vee along his waist. The makeshift holiday jockstrap has Dean’s beautiful, now fully erect, cock sporting a bow.

Dean sighs. “Are you done decking my balls?” jingle

You giggle and fiddle with the belt of your robe. It’s red as well, but made of silk. “As we discussed, the end result of all of this is all up to you. Santa.” You flip a switch to turn off the ceiling light. The sconces stay on above the headboard. Two halos figure eight over Dean’s beautiful body, awash in a warm amber glow.

He’s a full print ad of holiday cheer and sinful debauchery.

“You’re being very naughty, (jingle) Mrs. Claus.” Dean licks his top lip—your core clenches at the deep timbre of his scolding.

You’ve been wet since you both finished Christmas dinner. Since you told him you had one more gift for him waiting upstairs. Since you left him in the bedroom with orders to strip while you changed in the bathroom. Since you pulled out the ribbons. Since you explained that if he was good and could keep his jingling down to a minimum through what you had planned, you’d fuck him into the New Year.

You inhale and shrug, then begrudgingly turn your back to the sight. It takes a few taps on your phone for you to get to the song. You stifle another giggle at the little jingles Dean can’t help as he waits.

Once you tap the play button, the festive and recognizable melody begins. A barbershop quartet bah-bums a bit before the sultry and smooth vocals of Eartha Kitt take the lead.

You look back over your shoulder at Dean and whisper along with Eartha.

You peel the silky robe off one shoulder then the other. Dean groans when the layer slips down to the floor. jingle

“Shit.” He moans and you grin in satisfaction at the hoped for reaction.

You turn back to face him, adding a dramatic hair flip. You're wearing a sexy little Mrs. Claus outfit. It’s a red velvet dress with a scandalously high skirt and a low-cut halter. White fur lines both the top and bottom. It’s all cinched nice and tight around your waist with a black belt and a gold buckle.

You bend at the knees and lean forward, shoulders folding in and hands resting on your thighs. It gives Dean the perfect vantage to ogle your cleavage. You purr along with the next line and modify the lyrics a smidge.

“Man, I must have been a really good boy this year.” Dean stares in awe, not even caring how much he’s jingling with his squirms atop the bed.

You let it slide for the time being, thrilled at the kid in a candy store grin plastered on his face and the way the bow sways with every twitch of his cock.

Dean tilts his head to the side. His gaze begins at your red-glitter heels and canvases every inch of skin from ankles to thighs. He pauses, stopping to stare at the hint of flesh under the skirt hem. jin-jingle jingle jin-jingle He pants out, “Mrs. Claus forgot her panties, huh?”

You lift a finger and wiggle it back and forth in the air. “Uh-uh-uh. Remember, really good boys stay still if they want their present.”

The bell jangles no matter how carefully he attempts to reposition himself. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbles and you laugh. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ll be good,” he whispers soft and sweet.

The heels tap across the hardwood as you walk over to settle beside Dean. You adjust your skirt to let the scant amount of fabric fan over your naughty bits. Being so close to him makes you forget the lyrics to sing along with Eartha.

You rest a hand on his chest. Through clenched teeth, Dean inhales at the touch, the rest of him frozen in place. The bell is silent. Your other hand grabs one of the candy canes you had left on the bedside table. For reasons.

Watching him fight every urge he has to reach out and touch you is fascinating. And the power you have over him gives you a head rush. You continue the tease, twirling the candy between your fingers, then laving the cane’s hook with your mouth and tongue. Dean garners some pity from you as he whines, brows downturned, eyes attentive to your every swirl and suck. You swing the cane close to his mouth. “Wanna taste?”

He swallows. “Wanna taste you,” he states, the hint of hope escaping around the edges of a soft moan.

The thrill of his need quickens your pulse. No other man has loved and adored you as thoroughly and exuberantly as Dean Winchester. You nod. “You will. But, first,” you rub the wet-slick candy cane over his bottom lip, “show me what that mouth wants to do.”

“You know what this mouth can do,” he reminds with a little sass, letting the candy cane tap against his bottom teeth.

But soon enough, he indulges you. He slips the hook between his lips. His tongue slides out under the curve of peppermint, lapping at the sticky sweet. Again and again. Your breath hitches into your open mouth as you watch, enthralled at the ministrations of that thick and powerful muscle. He sucks the confection in a little farther, pursing his lips. The sounds he’s making, enjoying the treat, are downright pornographic and send any extraneous bell ringing to the back of your hearing queue. The red food coloring coats them like lip gloss by the time you break from the spell of his show. You guess it’s been minutes since Eartha finished her rendition of ‘Santa, Baby.’ The rest of the playlist you created has soft and dreamy instrumentals.

“My turn,” you cajole. You tug on the cane. He relinquishes, but not without some resistance. A little pop escapes his mouth once the hook is freed. You marvel at the progress he made. The hook end is substantially shorter and thinner than when he began.

He sniffs and tilts his chin up in pride. jingle “Your turn with that, or my turn with you?”

The cane slips back into your mouth, your fingers sticky from all the handling. You stand, kick off your heels, and climb back onto the bed on your knees. You grin as you suck on the candy.

His eyes soften. “Be careful, baby. Don’t want you to choke. Well, at least not on that.” He smirks.

He’s right. Safety first. You toss the candy onto the bedside table.

“You are so (jingle) fucking hot in that (jingle) outfit.” He grins and waggles eyebrows in anticipation. “Gonna let me down your chimney, Mrs. Claus?” jingle jingle jingle

The actions in the next few seconds are a blur. You wonder if Dean has some sort of Jedi mind control ability. Because even though you are supposed to be the one making decisions this evening, his seductively god-awful puns find you sitting on his face, reverse cowgirl.

“You might get the golden ticket to all my secret places if you’re lucky.” Your fingers tip-toe down his chest like a grinch about to steal someone else’s presents.

jingle jingle jingle

“Fuckin’ hell,” Dean murmurs under your skirt. Hot breath bathes your inner thighs and other areas you hope will soon be explored.

Your hands rest in the little divots created by his pelvic bones while you take his body in and plan your method of attack. You pull on the ribbon and release his cock of the bow. Then, you’re deep throating him like he’s your last meal.

Not one to be outdone at an all-you-can-eat buffet, Dean’s entire face gets in on the feast as well. Nerves respond to the tingling sensation of the residual peppermint on Dean’s lips and tongue. You shiver at the gloriously heightened sensitivity when he pulls back to blow on your pussy. “This is so much better than milk and cookies.” He moans and groans and jingles all the way.

As much as you’re loving the taste of his precome, the velvet texture against your tongue, and the way the tip triggers a tiny gag reflex at the base of your throat, it’s time to remind him of the consequences of all that noise he’s making. You release the hard length from your mouth and try to concentrate on your own breathing during the absolute virtuoso way he’s eating you out. As much as you’d love his fingers to get in on the action, you know you’d have no control over the situation. You sigh in relief that he’s trying to adhere to some parts of the game. The pitiful, half-hearted ribbon shackling of his hands to the headboard is no match for Dean Winchester.

You steady yourself on wobbly knees and one shaky elbow. A firm grip around the base of his cock makes Dean gasp. He stills after that. In your mind’s eye, you picture the beauty of that mouth and how his luscious pink lips were slick with peppermint. You imagine how slick they are with you now. “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs and you feel him settle back onto the pillow. “I’ll be as quiet as I can. Can you blame me, though? Here I am, under your sweet little skirt, in the dark (jingle)... shit, sorry. But, you can’t drop a five-course meal in front of a starving (jingle) man and not expect him to wanna little taste.”

You squeeze his cock. “That’s part of the challenge.”

“I’m always up for a challenge. You always make me feel so good.”

You groan at the praise he bestows. Without releasing your hold, you shimmy off his chest. Channeling the prim and delicate sensibilities of Mrs. Claus, you crawl along the comforter and settle between nutcracker bow legs. With knees tucked under you and sat atop bare feet you accept him in your mouth again and get to work.

You take in the sight of Dean inventorying your every action. He’s gripping the top of the headboard with both hands to steady his upper body. You clock that the little stinker has also managed to palm the sleigh ball in an effort to silence or, at the very least, muffle it. You consider that move cheating. But he feels so sublime that you can’t bear to part with him to voice your irritation. He’s also whispering the sweetest filth to you while he watches.

“Damn. Yeah. Those lips of yours feel so good around my cock. You take it so good, baby. Wish I could fuck that pretty little mouth of yours, but I’d definitely jingle-jangle way too much.” A tongue swipe over his top lip accentuates the glossy look of his ruby-tinted mouth in the warm light. “You really are too good to me. You give the best Christmas presents.” He stiffens further with each downstroke. “Aw, yeah. Suck it.” Your rhythm increases. “So pretty. Wanna touch you so bad.” He gasps. “Fuck, I’m gettin’ close.” jingle jingle

You clamp around the base again and squeeze, freeze mid-swallow - your lips around the tip - as soon as he rings.

Dean squirms and grumbles.

You continue to bring him to the edge of orgasm, then halt. Your jaw is aching along with the rest of your body as time passes.

You’ve fucked Dean up in the best way possible. He’s blissed out, wound up tighter than a spring. You’ve got him begging. But his words grow into admonishments with each successive denial. “You can’t keep doing this, baby. There’s gonna be consequences. Santa’s gonna for real put you on his naughty list. Nothing but coal in your stocking,” he huffs.

You give your mouth a reprieve and stroke him. “Is that all that happens to naughty girls?”

He gnaws at his bottom lip before offering, “You really wanna find out?”

You nod.

The ribbon binding Dean to the headboard shreds with one mighty tug. He pitches the sleigh bell in the air. It jingles as it pinballs around the room.

You gasp as he cinches those hands under your armpits and drags you up his body. He crushes his lips into yours, tastes you with his tongue. The mixture of your arousal and a hint of peppermint melts you in his arms. Then, a sudden and swift rollover pins you beneath him.

He hovers, tosses your skirt up to your chest, and wedges between your legs. His hard, heavy cock slips into your folds and glides through your wetness. “I could drag this out. Or.” It’s his turn to tease. He notches snug against your entrance. You’re surprised your muscles haven’t pulled him into you of their own accord the way your entire body spasms with need. He whispers in your ear, “Let me be your Santa, baby.”

You gasp, “And hurry down the chimney tonight.”

He groans in victory and slides in, balls deep. He thrusts. One massive hand gathers your wrists together on the pillow above your head to anchor you in place. Fingers of his other hand grip the top of the headboard. Every sway in and out of you gets more frenetic. You’re screaming his name and he’s cursing yours.

“Good girls do what they’re told,” he states, out of breath, face reddening. His gaze locks with yours. He slows down. Releases your hands. Finds your clit amid the white fur and red velvet. Strums. Angles and hits your sweet spot deep within you with a harsh abandon. “Come.”

Minutes later, after you’ve both orgasmed, you’re curled into his chest. “That was…” you manage between heavy exhales.

“Yeah, that was awesome.” He kisses your forehead. “Every year, since I saved you from that ghost on Christmas Eve, you find a way to outdo yourself with the holiday cheer.”

“Well, you deserve it. I’m glad you can get away for a little while and get a special treat.”

He sighs. “You know, you don’t have to feel obligated to…”

You rest a finger atop his lips. “How I see it. Guy saves your life one time, you owe him the rest of yours.”

He smiles and pulls you in. “How about we just focus on tonight, yeah?”

You nod. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

#jacklesversebingo23 #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester smut #christmas smut #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #supernatural #spn #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic

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littlyamadeus · 2 months ago

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OKAY, SO I JUST STARTED TO FALL INTO THE PATTI LUPONE RABBITHOLE- DAMN

Okay, I'll start from the beginning.

As someone who started to call myself a musical nerd, I want to listen to more and more pieces and enhance my knowledge. This is also important to me since I live in a non-western country, seeing Broadway someday is my dream. So I mostly spend my free time listening new recordings and fixating on them till I jump to another.

And then, Agatha All Along happened. And god, did Patti Lupone rock my world. Her voice is just so strong and even I can feel there is a huge technique and experience in her singing with my non-musician ear.

Then of course the re-discovery of her "Anything Goes" performance just blew me away. So, my musical obsession plus AAA, I decided to listen other musicals she was in.

AND EVITA!!! God, it is GOOD GOOD. I only finished listening "Good Night and Thank You," so I am still at the beginning, but I just NEEDED to write here. Patti has such a good technique of using her voice that you can immediately recognize her timbre.

I am obsessed, she isn't just a national treasure, she is the TREASURE. And if there is anyone who just started to discover her genius, go and listen the 1979 recording of "Evita"!!! I promise you won't regret.

#patti lupone #musicals #musical theatre #evita #evita musical #anything goes #anything goes musical #agatha all along #lilia calderu

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syzygy-of-the-stars · 3 months ago

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In which Rilun discovers Pop Flowers!

#kirby oc #kirby ocs #kirby fandom #orikabi #kirby #syzygy of the stars #timbre of treasures #geo #rilun

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cevansbrat0007 · 2 years ago

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I’m feeling a little sick and in pain .. and I’m just chillin’ out rereading your trio fics for the zillionth time ( they’re AMAZING). I just wish I was Story for like 5 minutes 🥹 I could use some Ari cuddles .

In Sickness & In Health: A Trio Drabble

Summary: Daddy Ari takes care of you when you're sick.

Warnings: Fluff, Sick Reader, Daddy Ari, Daddy Kink, Implied Smut, Sex Toys (mentioned), Punishments (mentioned), Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Hope you feel better, my sweet anon friend! This drabble is a part of my Trio Series AU. Likes, Comments, & Reblogs are appreciated. All mistakes are my own.

___

"Well, look who's finally awake." Ari purrs as he takes a seat beside you on the bed. He strokes one big, slightly calloused hand across your damp brow - grateful that your fever had finally broken. "How are you feeling, sweetness?"

"Achy." You rasp. "I'm so sore, Ari."

"Mmm." Your man hums as he helps you sit up. "My poor baby." Once he's got you comfortable, Ari hands you a glass of water. But he doesn't let go. Instead he holds it to your lips, encouraging you to take your time with slow, steady sips.

Only when he's convinced you've had your fill does he set the empty glass back on the nearby nightstand.

"Good girl." He gently cups your face then, his thumb caressing the apple of your cheek. For a moment you allow yourself to get lost in his rich blue eyes.

This man, your Big Beast, had all but refused to leave your side for the past week as he sweetly nursed you back to health. He'd fixed you tea, fed you soup, and cuddled you close - all while a terrible fever had ravaged your body.

He'd even called off work for you, dismissing your feeble protests when you tried to assure him that you would be just fine on your own. Yeah, that absolutely would not fly with a man like Ari Levinson. He was your Daddy, which meant that it was his duty to care for you. Even more than that, it was is privilege.

Both in sickness, and in health.

And when you'd tried to point out that since you weren't married, those vows didn't apply he'd simply shushed you before pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

But you also had no idea how often Ari held your hand while you slept, his soulful gaze focused intently on your naked ring finger.

"Soon." He would whisper into the air, letting his quiet vow fill the room. "I'm going to get you all better, baby. And then I'm gonna work on giving you my last name."

Your Daddy has no doubt that you'll say "yes" to him one of these days. After all, he's a very persistent man, the kind who always gets what he wants.

And what he wants is you. For today, tomorrow, and every day after that.

Because you are a treasure worth keeping. So, yes. He will keep you - in sickness and in health.

The deep timbre of his voice inadvertently pulls you from your reverie. "Are you hungry, my love. Need more water?" Unable to be without you a moment longer, he pulls you close - gently hauling your small frame into his lap. "I've missed you, Bird."

Instead of responding, you bury your face in his broad chest and inhale his crisp, clean scent. Somehow Ari always managed to smell of clary sage and bergamot.

There was no use in trying to deny it - you were well and truly addicted to this man.

And while this man slept next to you every night, it had been days since he'd taken your body. Even now as you battled sickness, you still ached for him.

"You're not due for another round of meds for at least another hour. " He informs you, his heart seizing just a touch when you let out a pitiful moan. "What do you need from Daddy right now?"

You simply shake your head, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt as you contemplate the best way to undo the buttons.

Ari already knows. But he wants to hear you say it.

His nimble fingers tangle their way into your curls, lightly playing with the silky strands. "How else can I make my baby feel better? Are you still cold?"

"I want you." You mumble, briefly pulling away so that he can see the longing in your tired eyes. "I always feel so much better when you hold me."

Ari smiles down at you then, warmth suffusing his handsome features. "If that's what my baby wants." He scrubs a hand over his beard making quick work of unfastening those stupid buttons.

He was always wearing shirts like that - mostly because he loved how desperate you became whenever you attempted to undo them yourself. It usually ended with you ripping the damned thing in two, buttons scattering this way and that.

"I'm gonna set my alarm for an hour." He tosses the shirt to the side and then helps get you settled back in his king-sized bed. "And when we wake up I'm going to feed you and then you're going to be my good girl and take your medicine." He whispers a trail of soft, sweet kisses along your collar bone.

You'd already lost a little too much weight for Ari's liking.

"Okay." You whisper, snuggling into his comforting embrace.

"All of it, baby. Even the yucky stuff."

You make a face, choking back a weak gag.

"I mean it, little girl. And then Daddy's gonna get you into a warm bath. You want me to help you wash your hair?"

"Yes, Sir." You feel your eyes begin to droop. "Can I please have the pink bubbles too?"

"Of course you can, Princess." Ari coos as his hand rubs the small of your back.

"And my toys?" You're slurring now as sleep begins to overtake you.

Your Big Beast chuckles at that, the sound of his amusement rumbling deep in his chest. "I'm afraid not. You're still too sick for us to play any special games right now."

"But I'm not." You whine as the world slowly begins to fade away. All that mattered was Ari. As long as you were in his arms, everything would be okay.

"Hush, brat." He murmurs into your hair. "We'll make up for lost time once we get you on the mend. But if you keep pushing it, Daddy'll have to add a note about you being naughty to your punishment tally. Is that what you want?"

"No thank you, Sir."

"Thought so." Ari gives your ass a gentle squeeze and then a slap. Even sick, your man would never let you forget that he was Daddy. And his word was law.

"Sweet dreams, Daddy."

"You are my dream, sweetness. Now please get some rest. I promise I'll be right here when you wake up."

That's all you need to hear. Your Daddy continues to pepper your face and neck with more kisses as you fall asleep with the knowledge that you were in this together. For better or worse.

In sickness and in health.

END

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soulofapatrick · 1 year ago

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Enchanted Pages - Jameson Hawthorne x Reader

Summary: Jameson joins you in the Hawthorne estate library

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: none

Notes: I hope the anon requesting Jameson likes this! It was fun to write!!

Y/N's POV

The Hawthorne mansion library is a sanctum of wisdom, a hallowed ground where the scent of aged paper and the soft whisper of turning pages permeate the air. The room is vast, its shelves towering like ancient sentinels guarding the knowledge within. The mahogany bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling, each shelf adorned with leather-bound tomes that seem to hold the secrets of centuries.

I sit settled in a plush armchair, my fingers delicately tracing the embossed spine of a weathered classic. The soft glow of antique lamps casts a warm hue on the room, highlighting the ornate patterns of the Persian rug beneath my feet. The crackling fire in the hearth adds a touch of comfort, its flickering dance a silent companion to the tales contained in the countless volumes that surround me.

My gaze sweeps over the library, absorbing the grandeur of literature that spans genres and eras. Shakespeare stands shoulder to shoulder with Austen, while the poetry of Frost beckons from a distant corner. History whispers from dusty tomes, and the works of philosophers, both ancient and modern, share space on these sacred shelves.

The sheer magnitude of knowledge captivates me, and a sense of awe settles in my chest. Here, in this haven of words, I feel a connection to the countless souls who sought solace, inspiration, and escape within the pages of these books. It's as if each volume holds the echo of the minds that once dared to dream, to question, to imagine.

I had choosen a book at random, its spine cracked but well-loved. As I open its pages, the scent of history mingles with the musky perfume of aged paper. The words transport me to another world, a realm where time is fluid, and reality is shaped by the strokes of a writer's pen.

Before I can really get into it, the rhythmic click of polished shoes on the library's hardwood floor interrupts the quiet symphony of the written word. A familiar scent wafts towards me, a subtle blend of cedarwood and a trace of old books—Jameson's unmistakable fragrance. Without looking up, I feel the magnetic pull of his presence drawing near. The rustle of pages and the soft creak of the chair next to me signal his arrival. Jameson, with his tall and lean silhouette, leans against the bookshelf. His dark eyes, reflecting the wisdom accumulated through countless narratives, are fixed on the pages before me.

”Finding solace in the tales of the past?" he inquires, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. His voice, a velvety timbre, resonates with the same richness as the literary treasures that surround us.

I glance up, meeting his gaze, and invite him to join me with a nod. Jameson gracefully moves to the arm of my chair, a place that feels both familiar and intimate. His fingers, cool and elegant, find a stray strand of my hair, wrapping it around his digits absentmindedly. It's a subtle gesture, one that transcends the boundaries of mere physical touch. Each twirl of my hair seems to weave a connection between us, binding us in a shared moment within the tapestry of the library.

As he sits beside me, the warmth of his presence envelops like the embrace of a well-told story. The characters in the book come to life, their struggles and triumphs mirrored in the unspoken understanding between Jameson and me. The juxtaposition of the fictional world and the reality of his touch creates a beautiful paradox—a seamless blend of imagination and tangible connection.

Jameson's fingers, light as a whisper, move to ghost over my cheek. A shiver courses through me, a response to the delicate caress that seems to bridge the gap between fiction and reality. The characters in the book, once mere ink on paper, now witness a narrative unfolding before them—the story of two souls drawn together by the invisible threads of connection. His touch deepens, his fingers hooking under my chin with a gentle insistence that demands my attention. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he lifts my gaze, and suddenly, I find myself ensnared by his eyes—dark, fathomless pools of green that hold the weight of a thousand stories. Time seems to stretch, and the distance between our faces becomes negligible.

My breath hitches, caught in the delicate dance of anticipation. The paradox of our connection intensifies—the very real presence of Jameson Hawthorne and the fictional worlds we explore converge in this suspended moment. In his eyes, I see reflections of characters who have loved, lost, and found redemption, mirroring the silent tale unfolding between us.

As our faces draw closer, the boundary between reader and character blurs, and I become a protagonist in a story that transcends the pages of the books that surround us. The library, once a haven of literature, transforms into a stage where the chapters of our own narrative unfold.

In the charged atmosphere of the transformed library, Jameson's voice, low and laden with an emotion I can't quite decipher, breaks the silence. "You don't know what you do to me," he confesses, his words hanging between us like a promise written in invisible ink. His fingers, delicately holding my chin, tighten ever so slightly, an anchor in this moment. In the depth of those fathomless green eyes, I sense vulnerability, a rare glimpse of the man behind the enigmatic exterior.

The anticipation lingers, and then, with a tenderness that defies the rough edges of his life, Jameson leans in. His lips brush against mine, a touch so gentle it's as if he's unraveling the layers of his guarded self. The kiss is a revelation, a tapestry of emotions woven with threads of longing and a touch of sweetness that catches me off guard.

I taste the rich complexity of him, a blend of desire and restraint, as if every stolen moment has led to this, a communion of souls beneath the watchful gaze of literary giants. His kiss tells a story—a story of passion restrained, of emotions laid bare in the quiet expanse of a library transformed into a stage for our intimate narrative.

As our lips continue their passionate dance, each touch becomes a stanza in a poem of desire. The flame ignited by our connection dances through the chambers of my heart, casting a warm glow that reverberates through every beat. In this stolen moment, I become a keeper of Jameson's story, feeling the weight of the untold chapters that reside in the recesses of his being. The dance of tongues is a language of its own, a symphony of whispers and sighs that transcends the limitations of words. In the quiet library, our connection becomes a narrative, written not in ink but in the shared breaths and lingering echoes of our kisses.

Then, with a tantalising slowness, Jameson pulls away. The separation is a breathless pause, and in that moment, I catch a glimpse of a blush colouring his cheeks—a rare vulnerability that adds another layer to the enigma that is Jameson Hawthorne. His eyes, still reflecting the fire of our shared passion, hold a depth that defies easy explanation.

A tender smile curves his lips as he leans down to kiss the crown of my head. His lips press into my hair, a silent promise and a gesture that speaks volumes. The library, once a stage for the intensity of desire, now becomes a sanctuary of shared intimacy.

He settles back next to me, the warmth of his presence a comforting embrace. A smile lingers on his lips as he presses them into my hair, and I feel the echo of our shared moment lingering in the air like the fading notes of a beautiful melody. The pages of the book in my hands wait patiently, as if knowing that our own narrative has become a story worth telling—a love story written in the quiet corners of a library that has witnessed the blending of passion, literature, and the tender moments that make life extraordinary.

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

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The Inheritance Games Masterlist

#the inheritance games #the inheritance games x reader #the inheritance games x you #inheritance games x y/n #the inheritance games fluff #the inheritance games smut #the inheritance games angst #jameson hawthorne #Jameson hawthorne x you #Jameson hawthorne x y/n #Jameson hawthorne x reader #Jameson hawthorne smut #Jameson hawthorne fluff #Jameson hawthorne angst

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moku-youbi · 1 year ago

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Tell me you haven't read any Poe without telling me you haven't read any Poe.

All these fucking articles and reviews from major entertainment and news outlets, and posts on tumblr talking about the influences of each episode trying to bend over backwards to say how Tamerlane's story is an abstract take on Gold-Bug, simply because that's the name of her subscription box, even though there's nothing there.

They don't mention William Williamson at all, or even touch on the doppleganger aspect as Verna takes over her life. Like are you fucking kidding me? That's only one of his best stories. And it's not remotely subtle. I didn't even *notice* that her husband's last name was Williamson on the first watchthrough, or put together with his name being Bill...but I already knew she was William Williamson when she saw Verna in the background of the exercise video episodes before.

Goldbug is a cute wink at one of Poe's stories that didn't really fit with what Usher was all about. Tamerlane's Goldbug is a rare treasure contained with a box, and that's it. Meanwhile, William Williamson tells the story of a man meeting his own double, who shares his name. A man who wears the same clothing, has the same mannerisms--and OMG can we talk about Carla Gugino's performance as Candy, when she was pulling off the exact timbre and cadence of Samantha Sloyan's voice, so fucking uncanny!!. The double starts insinuating himself into WW's life, appearing everywhere, though his face is only ever visible to WW. He offers unwanted advice, and tries to intervene with WW is making poor life choices (to put it mildly, lmao), and finally, how does it all end? WW challenges his double to a duel, only when he strikes the final blow, he finds he's been standing in front of a mirror, and dies, having killed his own reflection.

Now, do I necessarily expect the average viewer to know this? Of course not. But I would think that the folks out there writing reviews of a series based on the works of a famous author should do the bare minimum research. Not a single episode is based on any one single work of Poe's. There are nods and hints and easter eggs and winks all over the place. And while all the other children's deaths are clear cut references, some of them nearly exactly the same as in Poe's work, like how fucking hard would it be to go "hmm, this doesn't seem to have anything to do with Gold-Bug. Maybe I'll do a google and see if the major themes of Tamerlane's episode are explored in any of Poe's writing..."

#fall of the house of usher #edgar allen poe #william wilson

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loonaflare · 6 months ago

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In the grand castle of the Rengoku Kingdom, where the sun's rays often painted the high towers in gold, there was a young maid named Y/N. She was known for her meticulous work, her silent steps, and the way she could make the most daunting of tasks seem like a dance. Her raven hair was always tied back in a neat bun, not a single strand ever daring to escape. Her eyes, a soft brown, held a quiet determination that reflected in every corner she dusted and every floor she mopped. Y/N was a creature of habit, finding comfort in the predictable rhythm of her duties.

Her mornings began with the crack of dawn, the castle still wrapped in the embrace of night. She would rise from her small cot in the maids' quarters, her body already attuned to the routine. The scent of fresh lavender filled the air as she donned her crisp, clean uniform, the fabric brushing against her skin like a secret caress. She moved through the halls with an almost ethereal grace, her figure casting shadows on the gleaming marble floors. The castle was her sanctuary, her world confined to its grandeur and the whispers of secrets that the walls had heard over the centuries.

Y/N had always been drawn to the quiet moments, the ones that most people overlooked. It was in these moments that she felt most alive, her senses heightened by the thrill of the unseen. As she worked, she often found her thoughts wandering to the inhabitants of the castle, the lives they led behind the closed doors of their opulent chambers. Her curiosity was insatiable, and she often wondered what scandalous stories the walls would tell if they could speak.

One evening, as she was tucking in the bedclothes in the prince's chamber, she heard a faint sound, a rustle of fabric that didn't belong t the usual night-time noises. Peeking through the crack in the door, she saw a figure standing by the windows, the silhouette unmistakable. It was Prince Kyojuro, a man of legendary status in the kingdom, known for his fierce prowess and piercing gaze. His presence was commanding, even in the dim light of the moon, which filtered through the stained glass windows to cast a kaleidoscope of blues and purples across his broad shoulders. Y/N felt her heart flutter, an unfamiliar sensation that she quickly suppressed. She had a job to do, and that was all that mattered. Or so she told herself.

As she turned to leave, she heard the prince's voice, a low, smoky timbre that seemed to wrap around her like a warm blanket. "Stay," he murmured, the single word sending a shiver down her spine. She froze, her eyes wide. He hadn't noticed her, she was sure of it. But when she turned back, his fiery eyes were locked onto hers, a smoldering intensity that seemed to burn through the darkness. For a moment, she considered running, but something about the way he looked at her made her feet feel rooted to the spot. It was as if he could see right through her, to the very core of her being, and the thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Slowly, almost tentatively, she stepped into the room. His gaze never left hers as he approached her, his steps deliberate and predatory. He was dressed in his night clothes, the fabric of his shirt straining against the muscles of his chest. When he was close enough, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his touch sending sparks of electricity across her skin. Without a word, he leaned in and captured her lips in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding. She melted into him, her body responding to his touch like a plant to the sun. His hand began to roam her body, his fingertips tracing the curves of her waist and hips, as if he were mapping the contours of a treasure he had just discovered.

The kiss grew more passionate, his tongue seeking hers, his teeth gently nipping at her lower lip. The biting kink she had always read about in the hidden books in the library suddenly didn't seem so strange. It was as if he knew exactly what she craved, what made her blood race and her breath hitch. His hand found its way under her shirt, his calloused fingers grazing the soft skin of her stomach. Her own hands weren't idle, either; they had made their way to his chest, where she felt the steady thump of his heart beneath the fabric. She could feel the heat of him, the power that simmered just beneath the surface, and she was intoxicated by it.

Their kisses grew more frantic, their breaths mingling in a symphony of need and desire. He pushed her back against the wall, his body pressing against hers with a force that was both thrilling and a little bit scary. But she didn't protest; she was lost in the moment, her senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the feel of his body against hers. Her hands found their way to the hem of his shirt, and she began to pull it up, eager to feel the warmth of his skin against her own.

As the fabric lifted, she could see the faint outline of scars that crisscrossed his torso, reminders of battles won and lost. Yet, they didn't make him any less beautiful in her eyes. If anything, they added to the allure, making him seem more real, more human. And as their kisses grew deeper, as his hands grew more insistent, she realized that she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

Their love was a secret, a dangerous game played out in the shadowy corners of the castle, where whispers could carry and reputations could be shattered with a single misstep. But in that moment, as they explored each other's bodies with a hunger that seemed to have no end, all she could think was that she would risk everything for him, for these stolen moments of passion that set her soul on fire.

The prince's hand slid down to her thigh, his thumb tracing the line of her skin as he pushed her skirt up. His eyes never left hers, the heat in them making her knees weak. She felt a thrill of excitement as his hand moved higher, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her undergarments. He was going to touch her, really touch her, and she knew that once he did, there would be no going back.

Her heart was racing, her breath coming in short gasps as she anticipated his next move. And when he did touch her, when his fingers slid beneath the fabric to find her wet and ready, she couldn't help the moan that escaped her lips. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, a sensation so intense it was almost painful.

The prince's eyes darkened with desire, and he kissed her again, his hand moving with a new urgency. He undid the ties of her dress with a swiftness that spoke of experience, the fabric pooling around her ankles to reveal her trembling body. His own clothes followed suit, discarded without care as he stepped closer, his bare chest pressing against her. The sensation of his skin against hers was electrifying, and she could feel the heat of him, like a brand searing into her soul.

With a growl, Kyojuro hoisted her onto the bed, the velvet comforter a stark contrast to the roughness of his hands. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, sending waves of pleasure through her body. His hand moved to her breasts, kneading them gently before his thumb found her nipple. She gasped as he rolled it between his fingers, the sensation shooting straight to her core.

With a low groan, he slid his hand down, his fingers finding the damp warmth between her legs. He stroked her gently at first, building the tension within her until she was squirming beneath him. Then, with a suddenness that took her breath away, he pushed two fingers inside her, stretching her and filling her completely. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, the sensation of his hand moving within her so intense it was almost unbearable.

He watched her face, reading her reactions like a map to her desires. His strokes grew faster, harder, his thumb circling her clit with a precision that had her arching her back. Each movement sent bolts of pleasure through her, and she could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter within her. She clutched at the bedclothes, her nails digging into the fabric as she tried to hold on to reality.

The room spun around her, the only constant the prince's eyes, burning into hers with a fierce hunger that matched her own. And when he finally leaned in to suckle on her breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, she lost all semblance of control. Her body spasmed around his fingers, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping for air.

But Kyojuro wasn't done with her yet. He pulled his hand away, leaving her feeling empty and aching for more. He climbed onto the bed, his body covering hers, and she felt the hardness of him against her thigh. He positioned himself at her entrance, and she could feel the tip of his manhood probing, seeking entry. With a single, powerful thrust, he claimed her, filling her completely and making her cry out his name.

Their bodies moved together in a dance as old as time, the rhythm of their lovemaking echoing through the castle halls. Each thrust brought her closer to the edge again, the sensation of him inside her driving her wild with need. His teeth found her neck, biting down in a way that made her toes curl, the pain melding with the pleasure until she wasn't sure where one ended and the other began.

Their breaths grew ragged, their bodies slick with sweat as they gave themselves over to the moment. Y/N's nails scored his back, leaving little half-moons in his skin, and he growled in response, the sound vibrating through her and sending shivers down her spine. This was more than just a physical connection; it was a claiming of the soul, a melding of two beings that were never meant to be apart.

Their passion built to a crescendo, each movement more frantic than the last. And when he finally reached his peak, his roar of release seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. She followed him over the edge, her body convulsing with pleasure as she whispered his name into the night.

In the aftermath, they lay tangled together, their hearts beating in unison. The room was still, the only sound the harsh panting of their breaths. Y/N felt a warmth spread through her that was more than just the afterglow of their love; it was the knowledge that she belonged to him, and he to her.

This was their secret, a treasure they would guard with their lives. For in the cold, unyielding world of the castle, where duty and protocol ruled, these stolen moments of passion were the only thing that made her feel truly alive. And as she lay in his arms, she knew that she would never be the same.

The prince, ever the gentleman, even in the throes of passion, took his time prepping her for what was to come. He kissed his way down her body, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When he reached her thighs, he paused, his gaze lingering on the juncture where they met. He spread her legs gently, his eyes dark with hunger.

With a feather-light touch, he kissed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, his breath warm against her. Y/N felt her body tense with anticipation, her eyes fluttering closed as she waited for the inevitable. And when his tongue finally touched her, it was like nothing she had ever felt before. He licked and teased, exploring her folds with a curious intensity that had her hips bucking up to meet his mouth.

Her legs quivered as he lapped at her, his tongue delving into her, tasting her in long, slow strokes. He took his time, savoring every bit of her, preparing her for what was to come. His teeth grazed her clit, sending jolts of pleasure through her body, and she could feel herself growing wetter, more receptive to his touch. His movements grew more deliberate, his tongue circling and flicking, until she was on the edge of another climax.

The prince's expertise was evident in every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth. He knew exactly how to make her body sing, how to coax the sweetest sounds from her lips. And as she felt herself begin to crumble again, she knew that she was ready for him, that she would take all of him, no matter how much he demanded.

Her eyes snapped open as he slid up her body, his own desire clear in the tension of his muscles. He positioned himself once more, his eyes never leaving hers. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through her very bones.

Y/N nodded, her voice a breathless whisper. "Yes," she murmured, her voice shaky with need.

With a final, gentle kiss, he pushed into her, filling her completely. She gasped at the sensation, her body stretching to accommodate his girth. It was a delicious agony, a feeling she never wanted to end. As he began to move, she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, needing more.

Their rhythm grew steady, their bodies moving in harmony, a silent symphony of passion and need. His strokes were deep and powerful, each one sending waves of pleasure through her. Her nails dug into his back, leaving marks that would be hidden by his shirt, a secret testament to their love.

Her breath grew shallow as the pressure built, her eyes locked on his, never wavering. And when she felt the first stirrings of another orgasm, she knew that this one would be earth-shattering. She clung to him, her body arching, as he pushed her over the edge once more, his own release following quickly after.

In the quiet aftermath, their hearts pounded in unison, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. They lay there, tangled in the mess of passion, the only sound the soft whispers of their names against each other's skin. It was a moment of pure bliss, a promise of a future filled with stolen kisses and secret touches.

Yet, even as she reveled in the warmth of his embrace, she couldn't shake the feeling that their love was a ticking time bomb, waiting to be discovered. But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the prince above her, the man who had claimed her in the most primal of ways.

Their secret love was a dangerous game, one they played with the very fabric of their hearts. Yet, as she kissed him softly, she knew that she would risk it all for these moments with him, when the world fell away and all that remained was the two of them, bound by passion and desire.

Their story was far from over, but for now, they had each other, and that was all that mattered. They lay there, in the moonlit embrace, whispering sweet nothings and planning their next rendezvous, their hearts forever entwined in the secret dance of love and lust that could never be fully contained by the cold, unforgiving walls of the castle.

#rengoku x reader smut

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