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emmiesoverthemoon · 2 days ago

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⭑ come back to me

Pairing: g-dragon/ kwon jiyong x reader

Word Count: 4,550

Summary: Three years after you left your ex-boyfriend after he insulted your small modelling career, you reunite at a prestigious annual fashion gala.

Tags: second chance, hurt/comfort, slight angst, happy ending, exes-to-soon-to-be-lovers

cross posted on ao3 here

Today, you are one of the biggest names in the fashion industry, known for your beautifully authentic and original image that deserves the largest frame in an art gallery, the centre point on a stage, the brightest on a runway. Your confidence is effortless, your alluring demeanour sparked inspiration in many brands, designers, and agencies. You are the world’s muse, and clothing garments are their medium, created perfectly for you with intentions of highlighting and enhancing your natural elegance and grace.

No matter how dim a room’s lighting scheme could be, Jiyong could always spot you in a crowd. To him, your spectacular warm, inviting glow reflected upon any surroundings and ensured that any space you were to enter became infinitely more beautiful. Selfishly, all he wanted to do was bask in your luminescence and indulge himself into you, worshipping you as if you were a deity, deeming him fortunate enough for you to call his very name. He once did indulge himself, and held this to be his most favoured hobby, but he had ripped himself away from participating. He had some regrets, but some much, much larger than others.

The one that lay the heaviest on his conscious was you.

You, the one he once had the honour of calling his, and if he didn’t screw it up, he still would hold it close. You both had been an item for three years, the public being blissfully unaware of your relationship, as Jiyong knew how ruthlessly critical a portion the internet could be toward his potential suitors. He strove to keep you to himself; his sweet sweet little secret.

Of course, knowing the circumstances of his fame and career, you were okay with this. Naturally, however, you did yearn to be able to be a ‘normal’ couple; to be able to go out to dates, to hold hands in public, hell, even to just be able to leave the house together. But you never held him as responsible for your animosity towards the prying eyes of the media. You knew it was not his choice.

What was his choice, on the other hand, was how tightly he held the reins of his pride. Jiyong was a prideful man, he had every right to be, considering his achievements and successes. When you both were together, you were building yourself into the famous model you are today—attending as many castings as your manager could book you, walking as many shows varying in size as your heels could carry you, etc.—and obviously you were not as globally recognised as Jiyong. And on one evening, he made it apparent that he knew it well.

“Because you aren’t enough out there, unlike me. To them, I am leagues beyond you. I can’t have my image tainted with that."

The words sliced through your mind, each syllable lingering, replaying over and over. The weight of them felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the pleasant evening you had just shared moments ago. Not long ago, the two of you were laughing over dinner in his expansive, dimly lit home, talking about an upcoming gala. Jiyong had been invited for yet another year to one of the most exclusive fashion industry events, a cocktail affair where the names everyone recognizes congregate like icons in their own right. Your manager had miraculously secured you an invite—your first time attending. Your excitement was palpable, but so were your nerves.

This wasn’t just another party. This was your debut among the greats—the designers, the supermodels, the editors, all the ones whose names spark a fire in every aspirant’s chest. Your chance to cement yourself amongst your idols as someone who deserves their place alongside them. You were already second-guessing your wardrobe choice, wondering if your impression would hold up among legends. And the thought of possibly being seen with him, Jiyong, the elusive industry titan who you had been quietly involved with, made the evening feel like a balancing act. A part of you wanted to break the silence, make things public, even if just with a casual greeting, so that you could stop pretending in front of the world. But when you brought it up, Jiyong immediately dismissed the idea, his tone heavy with disdain.

A simple suggestion from you, one that felt innocent enough—a “meeting for the first time” in front of the cameras—was met with cold, condescending logic. “It would raise suspicions,” he had said dismissively. You tried to explain, to assure him that it would be harmless, a natural first step toward unveiling your relationship. But he wouldn’t hear it. “You” weren’t ready, “he” wasn’t ready—“the world” wasn’t ready, according to him.

And then, the words tumbled out of his mouth like a heavy, painful truth: “Because you aren’t enough out there unlike me. To them, I am leagues beyond you. I can’t have my image tainted with that."

The sting of his declaration hit you like a physical blow. You could feel your chest tighten, the air in your lungs suddenly too thick to inhale. In an instant, you stood up from the table, your chair scraping loudly against the floor, the echoes of the sudden movement cutting through the thick, glossy silence of the room. You didn’t look back. You grabbed your purse, hands trembling slightly as you made for the door. Every step you took toward the exit was a battle against the burning, threatening tears that hovered just behind your eyes. But you would not let him see you break—not now, not ever. His words had revealed something you couldn’t ignore: he had made his opinion clear, and it wasn’t one you could reconcile. You were beneath him. And you refused to let that stand.

Jiyong called after you, his voice rising, a mixture of immediate regret and desperation. "I didn’t mean it that way," he tried, but the excuses came too late. "I didn’t word it right." He sounded pitiful, but you weren’t interested in his explanation. You had heard everything you needed to.

The door slammed behind you, cutting off his voice.

You didn’t hesitate. The last words you spoke to him echoed in the cool night air: “I’m sorry that I’m not good enough for your pathetic ego. Go find someone more famous than me who can knock you down a peg.”

That was the last time you saw or heard Jiyong. And for three years, you pushed the memory of him away. But tonight, as the gala approaches again, you find yourself standing on the cusp of another year, another invitation, another flight from Korea to Paris in anticipation. The past feels so distant now, but the thoughts of him, of that night, have a strange way of creeping back into your mind.

The gala is everything you’ve come to expect from a night like this—elegance woven into every moment, a sense of timeless luxury that settles over the room like a soft velvet curtain. The ballroom is vast, the ceiling high, adorned with grand crystal chandeliers that catch the light and scatter it in soft, sparkling patterns across the polished marble floors. There’s a gentle hum of conversations, laced with laughter, punctuated by the clink of champagne glasses. The air is fragrant with an intoxicating mix of expensive perfumes, floral arrangements, and the ever-present scent of Parisian sophistication. Soft jazz plays in the background, its notes curling through the air, blending perfectly with the low murmur of voices. The walls are draped in opulent fabric, gold accents framing the large windows that offer a glimpse of the twinkling stars against the night sky draped as a veil, casting cool night air over the city.

As you glide through the room, it’s as though the very space parts for you. Your presence is magnetic, not because of a need for attention but because it’s undeniable. You've been here before, after all—many times now. You’ve grown accustomed to this world, not as an outsider, but as one of its beloved stars. Fashion knows you well, adores you, and respects you. You are a staple at these events, not just because of your work but because of the way you carry yourself: effortlessly divine and poised. There's a sense of ease about you tonight, a calm under the bright lights and all the eyes that flicker toward you as you pass. Your gown, a delicate yet striking creation of silk, catching the light with every step. It moves with you, flowing like liquid metal, the intricate beading of the fabric shimmering like constellations scattered across the dress. You look flawless—radiant, understated, yet undeniably captivating.

The whispers of admiration follow you as you walk, but there’s no need for words to validate your presence; your confidence speaks volumes. Designers, photographers, models, and influencers all acknowledge you, whether with a simple nod or a quiet compliment. To them, you are more than just a face—they know the hard work, the hours of preparation, the dedication you pour into your craft. You’ve earned your place here, not by chance, but by sheer, unmatched talent and authenticity. And as you move further into the crowd, you are greeted by those who have become familiar faces—the editors, the stylists, the creatives who have watched your journey unfold and who continue to champion you. Tonight, as always, you are the epitome of elegance, the pulse of this glamorous world that thrives on beauty, ambition, and artistry. There’s a quiet power that radiates from you, a reminder that in a room full of luminaries, it is your presence that lingers longest in their minds.

Your heart skips a moment when you catch the sound of a strikingly familiar laugh from across the room. A sweet jingle the back of your mind yearned to hear over and over again, despite the hurt. Although it had been approximately three years since you left Jiyong’s home that night, a small part of you still missed him. You were unsure if you truly missed him, or if it was the idea of what your relationship was; his effect on you, the way he spoke to you, the way he knew exactly where to touch to have your eyes widening and your heart racing. You often wondered if your mind was trapped in a prison cell of nostalgic wonder, constantly torturing you with flashbacks to moments you once held dear.

You let your eyes gracefully and subtly wander across the room, trying to spot the source of the laugh. Once you spotted him, you subconsciously let out a small flinch; you caught him staring back at you. An unreadable expression was scrawled across his smooth complexion, trailing across your face, your neck, and down your figure as he soaked in the view he yearned to see the moment you left that night.

Your heart began to race—not pleasantly, no, alarmingly, the heightened walls of the ballroom begun to constrict around you, suddenly envisioning everything becoming a whole lot warmer, tighter. Once over yonder you would dream for this warm, cozy feeling, for caterpillars to deem your stomach a safe haven for them to cocoon into beautiful butterflies, fluttering and fuelling the blood to rush to your cheeks, creating a beautiful crimson hue that he adored seeing you clad in, knowing he was the reason for its existence in the first place. But now, the warmth was smothering, asphyxiating.

You were the first to break eye contact, your eyes nervous—no; anxious and stressed. The weight of his focus on you was too suffocating, too overwhelming, just too much to handle for even a second longer. You needed an escape, a sanctuary where you can breathe freely for god’s sake. The lurching of your heart into your trachea, the trembling travelling from inside your bones through to your intrinsic muscles of the hand, which expressed exteriorly through the rattle of your fingertips, were symptoms of him—his charisma and magnetism, ones that you needed to experience not a single moment more.

You huffed, a futile attempt to alleviate some of the discomfort in your chest and lungs. You needed to get out of this room before it closed in and swallowed you whole.

You found yourself drawn to the balcony which was situated across a restaurant, playing melodic jazz music, as you gaze to the stars, a melodic saxophone is there to provide a tune rich with passion and humanity to sway along to. You had expected Jiyong to be present once again, he was the G-Dragon, you were just foolish in assuming that the ballroom would be full enough to avoid his attention.

Unfortunately, this balcony-made-haven was not as safe as you might have assumed. Your trance of relaxation with the woodwind instrument snapped, your bubble burst by the sound of a door sliding open and closed. Damn you for assuming you’d be safe.

Jiyong steps out onto the balcony, his presence immediate, like a gust of wind before the storm. You decide to give him a glance over your shoulder, and suddenly you can’t help but feel the familiar heat return, the way his eyes have a way of pulling you in despite your best efforts. Jiyong’s small grin is knowing, enticing, a familiar curve of his lips that used to be your favorite sight in the world, and your favourite place to touch with your own cheesy smile. Used to be.

“I knew you’d love the view from here,” he says, his voice like a silk thread that winds around you, pulling tighter with every word. “You would always tell me that a clear view of the night’s sky could draw you out of anywhere.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you turn to gaze at the bustling townspeople below, feeling the weight of the moment. Your chest tightens. You want to breathe in the night air, let it fill you and wash away the old memories, the ones of warmth and tenderness that feel so distant now. But he won’t let you have that peace.

“Still alive up there?” Although his words are light and hold no room for depth, his words drift toward you like his old cigarette smoke, curling, adhesive, and insistent. An invitation for conversation you did not want to open.

You force yourself to focus on the glow of the Eiffel Tower, the steady pulse of the lights from across the Seine. It’s easier than meeting his gaze, easier than acknowledging the quiet storm stirring between the two of you. You couldn’t believe your ears; after all this time with no attempt to contact you with an apology, he opened your first conversation with him with fallacious teasing.

“I’m silent for a reason, take a hint,” you say, intending to remain sharp, but the words are too soft, too hesitant. You don’t want to give him that satisfaction, but your heart betrays you in the quietest of ways.

Jiyong steps closer, the heat of his body seeping into the cool night, his scent—familiar and dangerous—wrapping itself around you. The tension crackles in the air like static before a lightning strike.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, his voice lowering to a dangerous level, the kind that still sends a shiver down your spine. “Don’t pretend you’re unaffected by me.”

His fingers brush against your arm, just enough to remind you of how well he knows the geography of your body. You swallow, biting your lip to keep the words in check. You feel your heart beating, begging you to fall back into him, but you know better. You cannot betray yourself like this.

“I’m not pretending,” you say again, but this time the words are hollow, thin, as if the very act of saying them is a lie.

He moves closer still, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your neck, stirring the tendrils of your hair you spent so long to perfect. You can almost hear the beat of your pulse in your ears, the thrum of your blood, and you hate how it betrays you.

“I don’t want this,” you say, the words carrying edge now, cutting through the fog of memories that cloud your thoughts. “I don’t want that... pain from us.”

The words hang in the air, heavy, like the scent of rain before the downpour. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, his eyes fixed on you as though he’s searching for something. A crack. A softening. A moment when he can slip back in.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

You turn away, arms folding across your chest as though that could shield you from him. But it doesn’t. It never has. The tightness in your throat threatens to spill over, but you won’t let him see. You won’t let him win.

The balcony creaks underfoot as he steps closer again, his hand brushing against the railing as if searching for something solid to hold onto. You know the feeling. You’re both teetering on the edge, balanced precariously between what was and what will never be again.

“You’re still angry,” he says, his voice a low hum now, vibrating in the space between you. “You’re still upset that I... said that to you. That I caused us to fall apart.”

You choose not to indulge him with your gaze, but you can feel his gaze like a weight on your back, pulling you toward him. You don’t want to talk about it. Not now, not here, not with him. But you can’t ignore the truth in his words.

“I’m angry because you didn’t care,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper, as though the confession would break you if it were louder. “You didn’t bother to try to reach out to me; I would’ve answered my phone, you should’ve known be better than that. You let me go without a fight.”

His breath hitches, a moment of surprise before he steps even closer, too close now, his body pressing into yours like an immovable force.

“I’m still fighting,” he murmurs, the words brushing the shell of your ear, trying to engrave a promise in your eardrum.

You shake your head, pulling away, forcing space between you. But the crack in your voice betrays you. “It’s too late for that.”

And for a moment, the world seems to still. The city below, the hum of voices inside, the thrum of the night—it all fades into the distance. All that’s left is you and him, tangled in the past, standing on a precipice, neither one of you willing to take the step toward what might come next.

He watches you closely, his eyes darkened by something unspoken, a regret buried beneath the surface, and for a split second, you almost think he’s not the man you left behind. But then he smiles, a slow, arc of his lips that makes your stomach twist.

He says nothing, but slowly raises his arm to brush against your waist. Slowly enough so that if you so pleased, you could move away, move him away. He would respect that.

But you let it happen.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” He whispered, he’s close enough that you can feel the teasing, sensual tone licking against the slope of your neck where it meets with the base of your ear, reverberating through your head. He chuckles, his voice lowering, dripping with seductive teasing, forming a warm pit form in your stomach, “That is, if you want me to.”

You want to, oh god, you want to give in. You know he’s right, you were always one to give in to him; you were melting to fall right back into in his hands, and you knew it, he knew it. But instead, you don’t respond. You look out over the city once more, the lights shimmering beneath the weight of your silence. You wonder how much longer you can pretend that you’re not still tangled in the wreckage of everything you once had.

Juxtaposing your desires, you are a stubborn woman, and you need him to be aware of the pain he inflicted before he can be let in so easily. You suck in a deep breath, and your heels take one small, rushed step away.

“You know what?” you say, your voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “I’m tired of you pretending like you didn’t hurt me. You really think you can just waltz back into my life because you flash that damn grin and speak like that to me in that damn voice? Well, guess what, it’s not working anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him get a word in. You’re not finished.

“You said I wasn’t enough for you. And you didn’t just insult me verbally—you destroyed everything I thought we had. You invalidated and belittled everything I had worked toward at that point. Every single thing you said, every promise you made? It faded to nothing. You think you can apologize your way back in with some pitiful little look in your eyes? I’m not buying it.”

The words pour out of you, each one drenched in the venom of old wounds. You can feel the heat in your chest, the fire that’s been simmering for so long now rising to your throat. It’s so much easier to be angry than to be hurt, so much easier to tear him down than let him see how much he’s broken you.

“You don’t get to walk in here, after how high I have built myself, acting like I’m just supposed to forgive you, to fall for your charm. Do you think I’m naïve?”

There’s a moment of silence, and you take a second step back, finally meeting his eyes. But you see something you didn’t expect—something like regret, something deeper than just his usual smugness. And it stops you in your tracks.

“I’m not done,” you say, more quietly now, the edge of your anger still sharp but softer. “But I’ll tell you one thing—you don’t get me back with your words. Not with any of…” You wave your arms around, gesturing to the air between you. “This. You have to earn me back. You have to earn my trust again. And I don’t even know if I’ll let you. So, no, you don’t get to come back into my life that easily.”

You’re not prepared for the way your voice falters then, how it cracks and slips as you finish the last sentence. You hadn’t meant to break, not like this, but now that the anger is gone, the sadness rushes in. You don’t even try to hide it as the tears start to fall, hot and furious, blurring your vision. Your chest tightens, the lump in your throat suffocating you.

And there he is, standing in front of you—his eyes no longer filled with that arrogant glint, but something more raw, something that makes your heart stutter in a way you haven’t felt in months. Small tears brimming his eyes as well, he reaches out, his hand tentative at first, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

Jiyong’s hand lands on your arm, and the sensation of it feels like a remedy on a burn. He offers an embrace to soothe you, and you impulsively fall into him, not allowing your mind a chance take the wheel. You despise yourself for needing him like this.

“I was an idiot,” he says, his voice low, not the usual playful tone but something real, something genuine. “I know I hurt you. I know I hurt us. I wasn’t fair to you, and I can’t change that. I can’t take back the things I did, the things I said, but I am sorry. More than I could ever say. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me, if that’s what it takes.”

You blink, a part of you wanting to reject it, to slap away the apology and keep holding onto your anger. But another part of you—the part that’s still so so tired—wants to believe him.

“You broke me. I trusted you, and you just let me leave. A single call would have been better than silence. I felt like you quickly moved on without even caring what your words did to me,” you softly cried, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

He steps closer, his hand still warm on your arm, and you don’t pull away, “I know. And I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I was a coward. I was selfish. And I hurt the one person I never should’ve hurt.”

You swallow, another sob catching in your throat. You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him to apologise like this, so carefully, so thoughtfully. You didn’t expect him to look at you like he was the one who needed to heal. It does something to you, something you don’t know how to handle.

“I don’t know if I can ever trust you again,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I don’t know if I can forget how easily you let me go, after such a long time.”

He nods, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t deserve that trust, not yet. But I will work every single day to earn it. I’ll show you, if you’ll let me. I’ll earn your heart again. Not because I think I deserve it, but because I want to. Because I’m sorry—and I’ll show you that I can be the man you deserve.”

You sniff, gently wiling at your face, angry at yourself for letting your guard down, for feeling even the smallest glimmer of hope. But that’s the thing with him—he has a way of making you believe in something, even when you were sure you’ve shut that door and thrown away the key.

“You’ve got a long way to go,” you say, voice hoarse, but there’s something in it that feels like forgiveness. Not full forgiveness, not yet. But maybe—just maybe maybe it’s a start.

“I know, my love. I know,” his voice was no louder than a whisper, allowing you to fill space with your thoughts over his. He presses his lips against your forehead, which sends nostalgic sparks from the crown of your head, all the way through your torso and limbs, then inside your chest, electrifying your heart.

You remain in his arms for a moment longer, the weight of it all pressing in. You don’t say anything more. You don’t have to. The words, the apology, the admission—they hang between you like a fragile thread, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a sliver of something you thought was long gone.

Maybe you can forgive him. Maybe you can let him back in. But not now. Not yet. That is not something that can happen in just one night.

And for the first time in three years, you feel something more than anger. You feel hope—faint, fragile, but still there.

hey everyone! this is my first fic here! so i hope you like it! i was a bit nervous to post this :)

if there is anything specific youd like from me please don’t hesitate to let me know and i’ll do my best! :3

#gdragon x reader #bigbang x reader #kwon jiyong #gdragon #kwon jiyong x reader #bigbang #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction

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bktempted · 3 days ago

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Her voice. You can’t get it out of your head. You’ve been pacing your apartment all evening, restless, the familiar itch building between your thighs. It’s been like this for weeks now — your body refusing to cooperate unless you hear her voice. Your best friend. She’s oblivious, of course, always happy to pick up when you call, her tone warm and easy, like she’s got nowhere else to be. You love that about her. You love a lot of things about her, but lately, it’s the thrill of what you do while she’s on the line that’s got you hooked.

You grab your phone, thumb hovering over her number. One tap, and it’s ringing. Your pulse picks up, a steady thrum in your chest, and you shift your weight, already feeling that heat pooling low in your belly. She answers on the second ring.

“Hey! Was just thinking about you,” she says, her voice bright, cutting through the quiet of your room. “How’s your day been?”

“Oh, you know, same as always,” you reply, keeping your tone light, casual, even as you sink onto the couch and let your free hand drift down to the waistband of your leggings. “Just wanted to hear how you’re doing. Work still a pain?”

She laughs — a sharp, quick sound. “Yeah, you could say that. My boss had me redo this whole presentation today. I swear, she’s trying to kill me.”

You hum in response, listening, your fingers slipping beneath the fabric now, brushing against yourself. You’re already slick, embarrassingly so, and it’s only been a minute. Her voice does that to you — unravels you without even trying. You press a little harder, biting your lip to keep the sound from spilling out.

“What about you?” she asks, oblivious. “Anything exciting happen?”

“No, not really” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. You shift the phone against your ear, trapping it between your shoulder and cheek as you work yourself a little faster. “Tell me more — how’d that presentation turn out?”

She launches into a detailed breakdown, something about charts and deadlines, but the words blur together. All you can focus on is the rhythm of her voice, the way it dips and rises, the little huffs of frustration she lets out. Like she’s performing for you — showing you all the sounds she can make.

Your breath hitches, and you clamp your lips shut, swallowing the moan that threatens to escape. You wonder, not for the first time, if she’ll notice — if she’ll pause mid sentence and call you out. But she doesn’t. She just keeps talking, and you keep rubbing, chasing that edge.

“You still there?” she says suddenly, and your heart lurches.

“Yeah — yeah, I’m here,” you say, too quick, your voice a little shaky. “Just, uh, stretching. Leg cramp.”

“God, I get that. Sitting all day is the worst.” She sounds so normal, so unaffected, and it drives you wild — the contrast between her innocence and what you’re doing. You’re close now, so close, but one hand isn’t enough anymore. You need more.

“Hold on a sec,” you mutter, fumbling with the phone. You tap the speaker button and toss it onto the cushion beside you, freeing both hands. The sound of her voice fills the room now, louder, closer, like she’s right there with you. “Sorry, just getting comfy.”

“No worries,” she says, and you hear the faint clink of a glass on her end — she’s probably pouring herself some water. You picture her in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, completely unaware. It’s too much.

You tug your leggings down just enough, spreading your legs wider, and now both hands are at work — one circling, the other dipping inside. The wet sounds are unmistakable, loud in the stillness of your apartment, and panic flickers in your chest. She’ll hear. How can she not? You force yourself to speak, to cover it.

“So, uh — any weekend plans?” Your voice is strained, but you pray she doesn’t notice. The squelching gets louder, and you shift, trying to muffle it against the couch, but it’s no use.

“Probably just hanging out at home,” she says, casual as ever. “You should…come…over”

“Ahh — that sounds nice.” you breathe, too soft to be a real answer, but it slips out anyway as your fingers hit just the right spot. Did she say it like that on purpose? No, there’s no way. Your thighs tremble, and you tip your head back, eyes squeezing shut. You’re there, teetering, waiting for her.

“You okay? Anything I can do to help?”

“No — just — ahh, it’s okay — just reaching for something” you gasp, and then it hits, a sharp, shuddering wave that locks your whole body up. You bite down hard on your lip, stifling the cry, but a small, desperate sound escapes anyway — a whine you can’t take back. Your hands slow, slick and trembling, as you ride it out, her voice still in the background.

“I should probably let you go. Sounds like you’re finishing something up over there,” she says, and there’s something in her tone now — a lilt, a knowing edge you can’t be sure of. But you’re probably just imagining it, projecting through the haze of your release. No need to get paranoid.

“Yeah, you know me, always multitasking.” you pant, forcing a laugh. “But hey, same time tomorrow?”

“Of course,” then her voice lowers, softening, curling around the words, “as long as you promise to be a good listener.”

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kiwriteswords · 1 day ago

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Thank you for the tags, @dudeitiskarev and @solardrop! I love Tumblr games--I wish people would do them more often!

This is for a current WIP that I have yet to decide if I want to abandon it or not (the original date on the google doc is December 28th...so not feeling too confident here, lol). I keep coming back to it, which makes me feel like I should continue it, but I also feel like the overall premise of the story is repetitive to other stuff I have shared. So, we'll see!

Aaron Hotchner x shy!Fem!Reader flirtatious tension story I have been working on, where Hotch sees how much he can fluster shy!reader.

The first few times Aaron Hotchner caught you off guard, you convinced yourself it was a one-time thing.

A fluke. A slip of restraint.

A rare moment where he let himself say what he was thinking instead of keeping it locked behind the walls he’d built for years.

But now?

Now, sitting in the BAU bullpen, surrounded by agents, the hum of paperwork being shuffled and keyboards clicking filling the air--

You realized you had been very, very wrong.

The office was alive with the usual post-case exhaustion, a strange mix of relief and tension still lingering in the air.

The team had only gotten back this morning--after a case that ran for days, a case that left you exhausted but wired, adrenaline still flickering beneath your skin.

Most of the team was wrapping up reports, lingering in the bullpen with coffee cups and sighs of relief that they finally had a few days to breathe.

And you?

You were sitting at your desk, typing up the final notes, trying to focus but finding it impossible.

Because you could feel him. It was this magnetic pull. This energy shift.

Hotch was in his office, his blinds half-drawn, his body partially turned toward the window.

And he was watching you.

You knew, because every time you glanced up, you found him already looking.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice.

Not in a way that said, “hey, something’s happening here!”

But in a way that sent a warm, twisting pulse through your stomach, in a way that made your fingers hover just slightly over your keyboard, in a way that made you forget what you were even supposed to be typing in the first place.

Damn it.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to refocus, fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, the words forming on the screen feeling far less important than the heat creeping up your neck.

And then--

"Agent, a word?"

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain must have shut off and lost track of time or the atmosphere because, for one moment, he was up at his desk looking at you with those eyes--now? Now, he was standing at his door, pulling you from your thoughts. Your scrambled, less than work-appropriate thoughts.

Because fuck, that voice.

That low, even tone--just professional enough that no one else would think twice about it, but you?

You felt the weight of it.

You exhaled carefully, schooling your features before standing, aware of Morgan’s knowing smirk as you passed his desk.

"Getting called to the principal’s office?" he teased.

You shot him a pointed look, but it lacked any real bite, because truth be told, your brain was already spiraling.

Because Aaron Hotchner wanted to see you in his office.

That should not have been a big deal.

But God, it was.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, the usual scent of coffee and paper filling the space.

Hotch was behind his desk, one hand resting on a case file, the other rolling a pen slowly between his fingers. The faint sound of the air conditioning hummed in the background, a stark contrast to the palpable silence that fell between you.

"Close the blinds."

You blinked, confusion mingling with the sudden spike in your pulse. The blinds filtered the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across his stoic face, giving him an almost ethereal glow that didn't suit the gravity of the moment.

"What?" you managed to stutter out, your hands unconsciously tightening at your sides.

Hotch lifted his gaze slowly, and fuck, the weight of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

"The blinds," he repeated, calmly, smoothly, like he wasn’t already unraveling you from across the room. "You don’t want an audience, do you?"

Your pulse spiked.

Because Jesus Christ.

What did that mean?

Your pulse spiked, adrenaline coursing through you as if you were on the edge of a precipice. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls inching closer, filled with the scent of leather from his chair and the faintest hint of his cologne--a sharp, clean smell that was all too familiar.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly against your side, your throat suddenly dry, because this was not the Hotch you were used to.

This wasn’t the man who delivered briefings with an unreadable expression.

This wasn’t the Unit Chief who kept his emotions locked down so tight that you sometimes wondered if he ever let himself feel anything at all.

This was someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And fuck, you weren’t ready.

"I--" You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat spreading through you, the fact that your hands were trembling slightly as you reached for the cord and tilted the blinds shut.

When you turned back, Hotch was still watching you.

But this time?

This time, his head was tilted slightly, his gaze slow, assessing, his fingers tapping against his desk in an almost lazy rhythm.

"You’re blushing." It was less of an observation and more of a fact.

Your breath hitched.

"I am not." You moved to go sit at the chair in front of his desk, but your legs felt wobbly. Your palms sweaty.

Hotch hummed--low, thoughtful, like he knew you were lying, like he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don’t know," he mused, leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping slower against the wood. "I think you are."

Your stomach twisted.

Because what the hell was happening right now?

"Did you need something?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady, but fuck, it was so much more complicated than it should have been.

Hotch just watched you for a second longer, his expression unreadable--except, this time?

This time, you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"Yes." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like this was some mild inconvenience to him, and God, that only made it worse.

Then--

"Come here," he instructed, his voice not commanding but inviting, which was somehow more unnerving.

You blinked, startled, your fingers pausing against the back of the chair you had barely pulled out.

"What?"

Hotch didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

He just sat there, calmly watching you, like he had all the time in the world, like this was nothing unusual at all.

And fuck, something about that made your pulse kick up.

"Aaron--"

"Come here," he repeated, smoother this time, his tone velvet over steel. Your stomach flipped, heat curling low in your spine at the way he said it--smooth, even, just a little too controlled.

Like he already knew you were going to listen.

You exhaled, cautious, unsure, but you stepped forward anyway, the room suddenly too quiet as you stopped just in front of his desk.

Hotch didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, assessing, his gaze dragging over you, the air between you thick with something you couldn’t name.

And then--

He reached out.

His fingers hooked into your belt loop, pulling you forward, slow, unhurried, until your thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. The touch was light, but it might as well have been a chain for all the escape it afforded you.

Your breath hitched.

"Aaron."

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you all morning."

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him, pulse hammering in your throat, because Jesus Christ, what?

"You--" You swallowed, brain short-circuiting, your fingers gripping the desk for support. "We’re at work."

Hotch hummed, unbothered, his thumb skimming lightly over your waistband, just the slightest touch, but God, it burned. "And?"

"And--" You exhaled shakily, completely thrown, because what the hell was happening right now? "And the door isn’t locked," you finally managed.

Hotch’s lips curved, his gaze flicking up to yours, something dark and knowing glinting behind his eyes. "Would you like me to lock it?"

Your stomach dropped.

Your breath came uneven, your fingers gripping the desk tighter, because fuck, you were losing this so fast.

"Aaron," you hissed, voice quieter now, because you could feel your face burning, and God, you could not afford to be flustered right now.

Hotch just watched you, so damn pleased with himself, his fingers still resting against your hip, his throat bobbing slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. "See, you are blushing."

Your heart nearly stopped. "I am not."

"You are." His voice dipped, smooth and devastatingly confident. "And it’s because you like it."

You gaped at him.

Because holy shit, when did he start talking to you like this?

Tagging anyone who wants to play! I would love to see what people are working on!

#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #kiwriteswords #wip game

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moonlitsmile · 2 days ago

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hey, so I have this idea. In season 2 Junho was in coma what if the reader is visiting him, because she is like right hand of frontman but she as well don’t really agree with the games and in the past frontman protected/saved her (can u make her foreigner, like she is from Lithuania. Nobody knows my country😭😭) because of it frontman and her this connection (not romantic) and he says her to visit Junho. So she always brigs roses to him because it’s her favourite flowers and talks to him. And one day when he was patrolling he stopped her, and he kind of remembered her. Thank u!!!

𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 ༘♡ ⋆｡˚❀

hwang jun-ho x f! foreign reader

꣑୧ — 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Working for the Frontman, reader dosent agree with the games but stays loyal because he once saved her. When he asks her to visit his comatose brother, Junho, she brings roses and talks to him, never expecting a response. But one day, Junho wakes up — and he remembers her.

The hospital room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. The soft beep-beep-beep filled the space like a fragile reminder , he was still here. Still alive. But barely. She stood at the doorway for a moment, the familiar scent of disinfectant mixing with the delicate fragrance of roses, her roses. A fresh bouquet of pink ones was cradled in her arms, petals soft and perfect, untouched by the cruel mess of the world.

With a quiet breath, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. There he was, in the bed. He didn’t stir. He never did.

“hi Junho,” she said softly. Her soft light accent clung to the words, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile room. “It’s me again. You’re probably getting tired of my voice by now.”

She set the roses down on the bedside table, carefully unwrapping the old, wilted ones from the vase. She always replaced them — always kept them fresh. It was a strange kind of dedication for a man who didn’t even know she existed. But it felt right.

It was the least she could do.

As she trimmed the stems and arranged the new bouquet, her mind wandered, as it often did, to the man who’d asked her to be here in the first place.

The Front Man.

He had been… many things to her. A protector, once. A savior, maybe. Not a friend, they didn’t have the luxury of friendships in this world but an ally. Someone she owed more than she could ever repay. And when he’d asked her to visit his brother, she hadn’t hesitated.

Not because it was an order. But because she saw it in his eyes, that quiet, hidden ache he never spoke of. The same ache she felt when she looked at Junho lying there, unmoving.

“It’s been… a long day,” she murmured, settling into the chair beside the bed. “The games are getting worse. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending.”

She reached out, brushing her fingers against his hand, just for a second. His skin was warm, but he didn’t react. He never did.

But she kept coming back.

And she kept bringing roses.

she visited again. she wasn’t sure why it felt so heavy each time she went to see him. She’d seen worse, done worse — and yet the sight of him, pale and still against the hospital sheets, hit her harder than she expected. Maybe it was because she knew who he was. Even if he didn’t some what fully know her.

But he was still alive. And that was something.

The room was dim when she entered, the soft glow of the evening casting long shadows on the walls. She held a bouquet of roses in one hand and the quiet in the other, stepping in like she was intruding on something sacred. The click of the door closing behind her sounded too loud.

“Hi again.” she greeted softly, more out of habit than expectation. Of course.

She moved with practiced care, swapping out the dying roses she’d left last time for the fresh ones she brought today. The scent of them filled the room, sweet and light, and she found comfort in the familiarity of it.

Sitting in the chair beside his bed, she studied his face. She’d never seen him awake.

“I wonder if you’d hate me,” she said one evening, her voice low and thoughtful. “If you knew who I was. What I’ve been part of.”

The monitors answered for him in their steady rhythm.

She didn’t know why she kept talking, but it was easy to speak when no one was listening. It was easier than admitting her doubts to anyone else. She told him things she’d never say out loud, how she hated the games, how the blood was starting to stain more than just her hands. She told him about Lithuania, about the cold winters and the smell of the sea. How roses were her mother’s favorite flower, and how they’d become hers, too.

Sometimes, she’d read to him. Books she borrowed from the compound’s library, whatever she could slip away with unnoticed. And when words felt too heavy, she’d sit in silence, just the two of them and the roses between them.

One night, as she was brushing the petals of a new bouquet, she glanced at him and said, “I wonder what you’re dreaming about.”

She didn’t expect an answer. She never did. But still, she kept asking.

And she kept coming back.

The news came quietly. a whisper passed along the right channels. He was awake.

She hadn’t been prepared for how those words would make her feel. Relief? Fear? She wasn’t sure. Maybe both. It had been months, months of one-sided conversations and roses left by his bedside. and now Junho was no longer just a silent presence in a hospital room. He was awake.

She didn’t visit him after that.

It felt… wrong, somehow. When he’d been sleeping, it was easy to pretend she wasn’t part of the world that had put him there. But now that he was awake, everything felt more complicated. So she stayed away.

But the roses didn’t. She still sent them, delivered anonymously to his room. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe part of her hoped he’d know, maybe part of her hoped he wouldn’t.

It was about two weeks later when it happened.

She was walking through the streets of Seoul, the cool evening air brushing against her skin, her mind far away. The city was loud, car horns and chatter. but she’d always been good at tuning it out. That’s why she didn’t notice him at first. Not until he was right in front of her.

“Wait.”

The word was soft but sharp enough to cut through the noise. She froze.

Slowly, she turned toward the voice, and her heart stopped.

He was standing just a few feet away, his eyes locked onto her face. There was no mistaking him. She’d spent too long sitting beside that face, memorizing every line and shadow. But seeing him awake, standing, alive, it was different. It hit harder.

Junho took a step closer, his brow furrowed in confusion. “It’s you,” he said, like he wasn’t quite sure of the words even as he spoke them. “I… I know you.” He stood there. His vest and hat on, in the middle of patrolling.

Her throat went dry. “I—”

“The roses.” His voice softened, his eyes never leaving hers. “You always brought roses.”

She felt her heart stutter, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She should deny it, should turn around and walk away, but something in the way he looked at her kept her frozen.

“How… how do I know you?” Junho asked, his voice quiet and searching.

And just like that, the walls she’d spent so long building started to crack.

She should run.

Every instinct screamed at her to turn around and walk away, no, run. before this got any more dangerous. Before he remembered more. But she didn’t. She stood there, rooted to the spot, caught between his gaze and the quiet desperation in his voice.

“I…” She swallowed hard, her mind scrambling for the right words, any words. “I think you must be mistaken.”

But his eyes didn’t waver. “No. I remember you.” His voice was steady now, more certain. “Not clearly, but… I know your face. And the roses.” He took another step closer, his eyes softening with something like recognition. “Why do I know you?”

Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She could lie. She should lie. But the truth sat heavy on her tongue, and after all those months of talking to him when he couldn’t answer, it felt impossible to stay silent.

“I…” She exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. “I visited you. When you were in the hospital.”

Junho’s eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite name. Surprise? Confusion? Gratitude? “You�� visited me?” he repeated, his voice quieter now. “But why? I don’t—” He broke off, his brow furrowing as if the answer was just out of reach. “Who are you?”

She hesitated, the words threatening to spill out , her name, her story, the reasons she never should have been at his bedside. But some secrets were too dangerous, and this was one of them.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly.

But Junho didn’t let it go. “It matters to me.”

The way he said it, gentle but determined, made her chest ache. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t let this go any further. But the way he looked at her, like she was a missing piece of something broken inside him… it made her want to stay.

“I just… didn’t want you to be alone,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. “And I… I like roses.”

Something shifted in his expression, something quiet and warm. “It was you,” he said again, almost to himself. “I thought… maybe I dreamed you.”

Her heart ached at the words. She wanted to tell him everything. about the roses, the conversations he never answered, the way his presence had become a strange kind of comfort in a life filled with coldness and violence. But she couldn’t.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” she said instead, her voice soft and careful. “That you’re okay.”

Junho studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching her face like the answers might be written there. And maybe they were — but she couldn’t let him find them.

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

The question stole her breath.

She should say no. She had to say no.

But instead, she found herself saying, “Maybe.”

And then, before he could ask anything else, before she could lose whatever caution she had left. she turned and walked away, the scent of roses still clinging to her hands.

#squid game #hwang jun ho #hwang junho #jun ho x reader #junho #squid game season 2 #front man squid game #hwang in ho #in ho #policeman #police officer

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earthlybeam · 2 days ago

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Cirdan, Legolas, Elladan, Elrohir version below. (You the reader are their spouse and Gender-Neutral Reader.)

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

The soft glow of lanterns flickered in the dimly lit chamber, their golden light casting long shadows across the smooth elven-crafted wood. The scent of the sea drifted through the open window, mingling with the faint aroma of aged parchment and the subtle salt of the wind—a constant companion in the Grey Havens. The distant crash of waves upon the shore was a familiar lullaby, one you had come to love in the years of your marriage to Círdan.

Tonight, however, the sea was not the only thing awaiting him. You stood near the large, intricately carved bed, your fingers idly tracing the delicate lace of the red garment you wore. The fabric was unlike anything you usually adorned, sheer and intricate, clinging in ways that left little to the imagination yet carried an elegance befitting the spouse of the Shipwright. The deep crimson stood in striking contrast to the cool silver and blue tones of the chamber, a bold and daring departure from the usual. The door creaked open.

Círdan entered, moving with the steady grace of an elf who had lived for countless ages. His long silver hair, slightly windswept from the evening air, framed his face in soft waves, and his piercing, ancient eyes—eyes that had seen empires rise and fall—were tired, though not without warmth. His robes, adorned with the symbols of the Grey Havens, were slightly disheveled from a long day’s work, the weight of duty still lingering upon his broad shoulders.

He was halfway into the room before he noticed you. His steps slowed. His keen gaze, accustomed to reading the tides and discerning the wisdom of the ages, took you in with a rare flicker of surprise. For a moment, he simply looked, his lips parting slightly, his normally serene expression shifting to something unreadable. Then, he exhaled, low and steady.

“My heart,” Círdan said at last, his voice deep and resonant, tinged with something softer—something that was reserved only for you. “You are…” His words trailed off, and he stepped closer, his sea-worn hands reaching to brush against the lace at your hip, his fingers reverent as if touching something fragile, sacred. A slow smile, rare and warm, curved his lips. “You surprise me,” he murmured, his voice like the tide—calm on the surface, yet carrying depths unseen. “And yet, I should have known you would.” His touch lingered, tracing patterns over the fabric, his eyes never leaving yours. “Red suits you.”

The compliment was simple, yet the weight behind it sent warmth blooming in your chest. You tilted your head playfully. “Do you approve, my love?” Círdan let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rare but rich. He lifted a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering at the curve of your jaw before trailing down, mapping the shape of you with the slow, deliberate patience of a shipwright admiring his finest work.

“I am an elf of great patience,” he said, his tone thoughtful, teasing. “But I fear you test it most exquisitely.” His other hand settled at your waist, pulling you gently against him. “And after such a long day…” He exhaled, his breath warm against your skin. “You undo me, my beloved.” There, in the quiet sanctuary of your chambers, the weight of the world—the tides of time, the calls of duty, the long years of waiting—fell away. Tonight, the Shipwright had no need of ships or foresight. He needed only you.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

The moon hung high over Mirkwood, its silver glow seeping through the intricately carved windows of Legolas’ bedchambers. The soft rustling of leaves outside and the occasional distant murmur of the night creatures were the only sounds that filled the air. You stood in the center of the room, anticipation humming beneath your skin, wrapped in nothing but delicate red lace that contrasted beautifully against the candlelit glow of the chamber.

Legolas had been gone for hours, tending to his duties as prince, and you knew how much the weight of responsibility could pull at him. He always carried himself with grace, but even he was not immune to exhaustion. Tonight, you wanted to give him something different—something to pull him away from the thoughts of diplomacy and duty.

The moment you heard the faintest footfall outside the door, your heart quickened. The heavy wooden door swung open with a whisper, and there stood Legolas, the very picture of regal elegance. His travel-worn tunic clung to his lean frame, and strands of golden hair had come loose from his warrior’s braids, falling messily around his face. His keen blue eyes, ever so sharp and perceptive, landed on you—and immediately, they widened.

He stepped forward, closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness, his usual graceful composure faltering for just a moment as his gaze traveled over you. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply stared, his hands hovering slightly at his sides as if unsure where to reach first. “You seem tired, my love,” you murmured, your voice softer than the candlelight flickering around you. Legolas finally exhaled, his expression shifting from surprised admiration to something deeper—something unreadable yet entirely consuming. “And yet,” he said, his voice barely above a breath, “I feel as though I have been given new life…I’m not as tired now.”

A slow, appreciative smile ghosted over his lips as he stepped closer, one hand finally lifting to touch you. His fingers traced delicately along the lace at your waist, reverent, almost hesitant, as though he feared this was some dream he would wake from too soon. “You are…” He trailed off, searching for the right words, his Elven eloquence failing him for once. He swallowed and tried again, his voice softer now, filled with something unspoken but utterly felt. “Exquisite.”

His other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin, and the way he looked at you made warmth spread through your chest. There was something in his gaze—more than desire, more than admiration. It was love, deep and unwavering. “You wear the red of the setting sun,” he murmured, tilting his head as if to study you further. “And yet, you glow as if you are Ithil itself.” His voice carried that Elven poetry, words woven with meaning only he could craft so effortlessly.

You chuckled, leaning into his touch. “I wanted to surprise you.” Legolas let out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, his hands sliding down to your waist, drawing you closer. “You have done more than that, meleth nîn,” he murmured against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss just above your brow before his lips found their way lower, ghosting over your temple, then your cheek, before finally hovering just above your own.

His breath mingled with yours as he whispered, “Shall I show you how much I have missed you?” His lips met yours then, slow at first, savoring the taste of you as though he wished to memorize the moment. His hands, once hesitant, now traced the delicate fabric along your spine, fingers pressing into you as if trying to ground himself in the reality of your presence. The night stretched ahead, long and full of whispered words, gentle caresses, and the quiet hum of love spoken not in Elvish poetry but in the language of touch.

⚔️𝓔𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓷

The flickering glow of candlelight bathed the chamber in a warm, golden hue, casting shadows against the intricately carved wooden walls. The scent of lavender and cedar lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of leather and steel from Elladan’s armor. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its embers glowing like distant stars. You sat perched on the edge of the grand bed, adorned in red lace, the delicate fabric tracing over your skin like whispered promises. The rich color stood in stark contrast against the silken sheets beneath you, catching the low light in a way that made the intricate patterns all the more enticing. The air was thick with anticipation as you awaited his return, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

The sound of boots against the stone corridor sent a shiver of excitement through you. A moment later, the heavy wooden door swung open, revealing Elladan standing in the doorway. His dark hair was tousled from the long day, stray strands falling into his striking grey eyes, which widened the moment they landed on you. His usual air of exhaustion was instantly replaced with something far more primal, far more awake.

His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching before he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate slowness. He remained still for a moment, drinking in the sight of you as if memorizing every detail. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for you immediately. “Well…” His voice, usually laced with teasing amusement, was now thick with something deeper, huskier. “And here I thought I would return to my chambers only to collapse into bed with nothing but exhaustion. It seems you had… other plans.”

You tilted your head, watching him with playful patience, your fingers tracing idly along the lace at your thigh. “You always return home looking so tired,” you murmured, your voice soft yet purposeful. “I thought I might provide a distraction.” Elladan exhaled sharply through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he took slow, measured steps toward you. His gaze never wavered, fixed on you with an intensity that made your heartbeat quicken. When he finally stood before you, his hands found your waist, fingertips ghosting over the fabric as if testing whether or not you were truly there.

“A distraction, you say?” His voice was lower now, laced with something dangerously affectionate. His hands trailed up your sides, over your ribs, before one slid to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your jawline with exquisite slowness. “You are far more than that. Do you have any idea what you do to me, seeing you like this?” You chuckled, tilting your face up to meet his, reveling in the warmth of his touch. “I was hoping you might show me.”

That was all the invitation he needed. Elladan leaned in, his lips ghosting over your cheek before trailing down to the pulse point at your throat, his breath hot against your skin. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand traced down your back, fingers playing with the delicate lace teasingly. “You are dangerous,” he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with something between amusement and reverence. “Wicked, even. But I would not have you any other way.”

His lips captured yours in a kiss that was slow yet possessive, a silent promise woven between every movement. His hands explored the lace with agonizing patience, mapping out every inch of the fabric that separated you from him. The tension in his body melted away, exhaustion forgotten as his focus shifted entirely onto you. After a long, lingering kiss, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes dark with something unspoken. His fingers trailed over your shoulder, toying with the delicate strap of your lingerie.

“You wore this just for me,” he mused, his voice thick with emotion. “How fortunate I am.” His forehead rested against yours for a brief moment, his breath mingling with yours before a smirk tugged at his lips once more. “I do hope you are prepared, my love,” he murmured, voice dripping with mischief. “For I am not nearly as exhausted as I thought.” And with that, Elladan proved just how grateful he truly was.

⭐️𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓱𝓲𝓻

The door creaked open, a whisper against the silence of the dimly lit bedchamber. You had waited patiently, anticipation thrumming beneath your skin, listening for the familiar cadence of Elrohir’s footsteps in the corridors beyond. Now, as he entered, the candlelight flickered across his tired yet sharp features, his dark hair still damp from the evening air. His tunic hung loosely over his frame, the weight of the day evident in his posture.

He exhaled softly, pulling his gloves from his hands before running his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t until he turned fully into the room that he finally saw you—standing near the bed, bathed in the golden glow of the fire, clad in nothing but red lace. Elrohir stilled. His sharp Elven eyes, ever watchful, swept over you in slow, deliberate assessment. Surprise flickered first, a momentary widening of his silver-grey gaze, before something darker, something far more primal, took its place. His lips parted slightly, as though words were poised to form, but none came. Instead, his expression shifted—hunger, warmth, possession.

“You,” he finally murmured, voice low and thick like honeyed wine. The single word was laced with exhaustion, yes, but also something deep and aching—longing. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you tilted your head, letting the delicate lace whisper against your skin as you shifted slightly. “A long day?” you mused, your voice smooth, teasing.

Elrohir took a slow step forward, then another, his movements graceful despite the weight of his burdens. His gaze never wavered, drinking in every detail—how the red lace contrasted against your skin, the way it clung to you in all the right places, how the firelight danced in your eyes. When he finally reached you, his hands came up to frame your face, fingers calloused but reverent as they traced along your jaw. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his touch achingly tender despite the intensity in his gaze.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp. He let his hands trail down, skimming over your shoulders, your sides, a featherlight touch that sent shivers racing through you. You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours even through the thin barrier of lace. “Perhaps I do,” you teased, tilting your chin up in challenge.

A sharp breath left him, almost a laugh, before his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him was intoxicating, his scent—pine, leather, and something distinctly Elrohir—filling your senses. “You are wicked,” he murmured against your ear, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. “And I have spent all day in duty, in restraint, in patience.” His voice dropped, thick with promise. “Do you intend to test me further?”

Your smirk widened as you traced a teasing path down his chest, feeling the way his breath hitched under your touch. “Would you prefer I waited for another night?” His answer was immediate. “No,” he growled, hands tightening, his control snapping like a taut bowstring. “Not another moment longer.”

And then, Elrohir claimed you—his lips pressing to yours in a kiss that was both tender and searing, his hands sliding over lace and skin with equal reverence and hunger. Whatever exhaustion had plagued him moments ago was forgotten, burned away in the fire of his need for you. Tonight, you were his sanctuary. His home. And he would worship you as such.

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junkiex0 · 2 days ago

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Serendipity

Going on a date with Art Donaldson is way more eventful then what you’d expect

c/w: nicknames (sweetheart, baby) fingering, nsfw, not proof read so there may be some mistakes

a/n: go check out pt.1 but it’s not needed for pt.2! i know it’s been a month since i’ve last written but im back! i promise to be more active

Your heart was still racing from the night’s events. Meeting your idol, Art Donaldson, at the alumni game had been surreal enough, but getting his number? That was beyond anything you could’ve imagined.

You glanced down at the white tennis hat clutched in your hand, now completely unwearable. The white fabric now had deep black ink, his name and number scrawled across the brim in bold handwriting. It was proof that tonight had been real.

As you climbed the stairs to your apartment, exhaustion weighed heavily on you. Your legs ached, your mind was foggy, and your eyelids drooped with every step. Yet, no amount of fatigue could fully distract you from the range of emotions swirling inside you.

The moment you unlocked your door, another image of Art flashed through your mind. His bright, easygoing smile, the way his blue eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed. You could still hear his voice, warm and teasing as he handed you your hat with that little smirk.

Your grip tightened around the fabric.

God, you wanted to call him. Just to hear his voice again, to see if this was all really happening. But you knew better. You were exhausted, and the last thing you wanted was to make a complete fool of yourself. Besides, calling too soon might come off as desperate. No, you had to play it cool.

So, with a sigh, you tossed the hat onto your nightstand, took a long, hot shower, and let sleep pull you under almost instantly.

Across the city, Art Donaldson couldn’t stop thinking about you. Just waiting for your call of notification.

He gripped the steering wheel loosely, his thoughts far from the road as he replayed the night over and over. The way your eyes lit up when you spoke to him, the excitement in your voice. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him like that. Not just as a famous athlete, but as a person.

And then there was the way you moved on the court. He remembered watching you play that evening, the way your tennis skirt swayed with every swift motion, how effortlessly you danced around the court. He had seen your photos in sports magazines, had heard other players talk about how talented—and beautiful—you were.

You had always caught his attention. But tonight? Tonight had sealed it.

Maybe you had a boyfriend. Maybe you didn’t. It didn’t matter.

Art had never been the type to back down from a challenge.

He wasn’t about to let someone else get to you first.

He was going to win you over.

A soft glow bathed your room as you slowly blinked awake, the golden morning light peeking through the blinds. It stretched across the floor, casting warm patterns over your sheets, coaxing you from the last remnants of sleep.

You inhaled deeply, the quiet hum of the world outside settling around you. It was peaceful. A stark contrast to the storm of nerves swirling in your chest.

Your eyes drifted to the nightstand where your phone and the white tennis hat lay. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of excitement through you.

Art Donaldson’s number was written there. Real. Tangible. A reminder that last night wasn’t just a dream.

You reached for your phone, clicking the screen to check the time—9:30 AM. Definitely time to get up.

But before you could even think about starting your morning routine, your fingers were already moving, reaching for the hat as if it held the final push of courage you needed.

Now or never.

You pulled up his number, your heart hammering as you typed out a message. Then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too. Nothing felt right.

Your pulse quickened, your hands shaking slightly as you hovered over the keyboard.

Finally, you settled on something simple.

“Good morning, Art. It’s Y/N.”

Short. Casual. Safe. You didn’t want to overthink it. Hopefully, he’d take the lead.

You sent the message before you could talk yourself out of it, then stared at the screen, willing a response to appear.

Nothing.

Of course, nothing. It had barely been seconds.

Realizing how silly you looked just sitting there, waiting, you tossed your phone onto the bed and forced yourself up. A distraction was necessary before your nerves got the better of you.

You brushed your teeth, took a long shower, and mentally ran through your schedule for the day. But aside from hitting the gym, you had no real plans. Nothing to keep your mind off him.

The thought of Art—his warm smile, the way he had looked at you last night—lingered at the edges of your thoughts, making your stomach flutter.

By the time you made your way to the kitchen, the nerves had dulled, replaced by a quiet anticipation. You popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, leaning against the counter as you absentmindedly reached for your phone again.

And there it was. A new notification.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Art Donaldson: “Good morning, Y/N. Hope you slept well. How are you this morning?”

Your heart stuttered, beating so fast you could feel it in your fingertips.

He responded.

And it wasn’t just a polite acknowledgment—he was engaging, asking about you.

The warmth of the morning sun had nothing on the heat rushing to your face.

This was really happening.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you hovered over the screen, rereading Art’s message for the fifth time. How should you respond? You didn’t want to sound too eager, but you also didn’t want to come off as uninterested.

A quiet laugh slipped past your lips as you squeezed your phone tighter. ‘I feel like a high school girl with a crush.” you think to yourself

Unbeknownst to you, on the other end of the conversation, Art was just as anxious.

He sat at his dining table, half-heartedly pushing his fork around his plate, his appetite overshadowed by the anticipation bubbling in his chest. His phone lay face-up beside him, screen dim, waiting.

The house around him was eerily quiet. Too quiet.

It was always like this when his daughter was away. She was with his ex-wife for spring break, leaving him with nothing but the vast, empty rooms of his home. He had gotten used to the silence over the years, but today, for some reason, it felt heavier.

Then, finally, his phone lit up.

His heart jumped as he snatched it up, scanning the words eagerly.

“I’m good! Just finished breakfast. I’m about to go out later, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

He stared at the screen, rereading it to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. You, young, beautiful, and undeniably talented, were asking him to go out with you?

Before he could even process his excitement, another message appeared.

“If you’re busy, I totally understand!”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if you could see him. Busy? Not for this.

Without hesitation, he started typing, his fingers moving faster than his thoughts.

Art Donaldson: “I’d love to. Where are you thinking?”

He hit send, then leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair with a slow, incredulous smile.

You both agreed to meet at a nearby coffee shop, one that was close enough for you to walk to. The sun was starting to set as you made your way down the familiar streets, your heart picking up speed with every step.

As you neared the café, your phone vibrated in your hand.

Art Donaldson: “I’m here”

You lifted your gaze, scanning the crowd for him, his striking blue eyes, the familiar tousle of blonde hair. For a moment, you couldn’t spot him, but then—there he was.

Leaning casually against his truck, phone in one hand, a cigarette resting between his lips. The light caught in his hair, making it look almost golden. His sharp features were relaxed, lost in whatever he was reading on his screen.

He was so effortlessly handsome.

A smile tugged at your lips as you walked toward him, your steps light with excitement. The moment he looked up and met your gaze, something in his expression shifted—his lips curling into a slow, easy smile that made your stomach flutter.

For a second, you just stood there, taking him in. He looked younger than his years, yet there was something undeniably mature about him—the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence in his stance. He was captivating in a way that made it impossible to look away.

And then you were standing right in front of him, looking up into those piercing blue eyes, feeling smaller under his gaze.

Art felt his chest tighten. You were so damn pretty.

“So,” he drawled, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before turning his head to exhale the smoke away from you. His voice was smooth, teasing. “Where exactly are we going, sweetheart? I’m all yours.”

The nickname sent warmth rushing to your cheeks, and you quickly glanced down, hoping he didn’t notice.

“There’s this restaurant that just opened that I really want to try,” you said, trying to sound casual. “But first, I was thinking of stopping by a record shop to pick up a new vinyl.. if that’s okay with you?”

Art let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly as if you had no idea just how easy it was for him to say yes to you.

“Sounds perfect,” he said, his smile lingering.

And just like that, the day was already off to a perfect start.

The night had settled into a quiet lull, the air thick with the remnants of laughter and stolen glances. A soft buzz lingered in your veins—a mix of excitement and the heady warmth that only he seemed to bring. You didn’t want to leave. Not now, not when everything had felt so perfect.

The empty parking lot stretched around you, silent and still, save for the gentle hum of the wind. His truck stood waiting in the parking lot. But you barely noticed it. Not when he was standing in front of you, his face bathed in moonlight, his hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes, deep and unreadable, held you in place, pinning you against the cool metal of the truck like a force you couldn’t escape. Not that you wanted to.

The weight of his gaze sent a shiver through you.

He took a slow step forward, closing the space between you, his breath hitching just slightly before he spoke.

“I really wanna kiss you right now.” His voice was low, intimate, like a secret meant only for you.

Your breath caught. His words wrapped around you, igniting something deep in your stomach. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you acted.

Your lips crashed into his, hands instinctively reaching up, fingers curling around the nape of his neck as you pulled him down to you. His scent filled your lungs—clean, warm, intoxicating. His hesitation melted away as his hands found your waist, gripping you firmly, drawing you impossibly close.

A quiet groan vibrated against your lips as he recovered from your boldness, but if anything, it only encouraged him more. His grip tightened, pressing your body flush against his as his fingers dug into your hips. The friction sent a jolt through you, and when you shifted against him, a sharp inhale from him was all the confirmation you needed—he wanted this just as badly.

He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. His voice came out slightly rough, tinged with something dark and wanting.

“Back seat?” He smirked, eyes glinting under the dim light.

You nodded quickly, your chest rising and falling as anticipation sparked inside you.

Art wasted no time, unlocking the door and letting you slide in first before following and locking it behind him. The space was tight, but that only made it more intoxicating. His only focus was on you.

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, more desperate. His hands wandered, fingers brushing against your jaw, then trailing down your neck, tilting your head slightly so he could leave a trail of hot kisses along your skin. Each one sent sparks straight to your core.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your throat, his voice thick with something that sent your pulse racing.

He shifted, his hands trailing lower, fingertips grazing your thighs before hooking into the hem of your skirt. His eyes flickered up to yours, searching. When he saw no hesitation, just that same heated need reflecting back at him, he pulled it down, exposing the lace that barely covered you.

“Cute,” he mused, his thumb pressing teasingly over your clothed clit. The sudden pressure had a whimper slipping past your lips, your back arching slightly in response.

His smirk deepened. He loved watching you unravel beneath him.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading. It was all the permission he needed.

With a quick tug (too quick, because you swore you heard fabric tear) your pretty panties were discarded, and his gaze darkened as he took in the sight of you. If there had been more space, you were sure he would have dropped to his knees right then and there and ate you out.

Instead, he pressed his thumb against your clit again, this time rubbing slow, deliberate circles that had you trembling beneath him. Soft whimpers escaped your lips, and he watched, mesmerized, as you writhed in his grasp.

Then, without warning, he slipped two fingers inside you, pushing in slowly, stretching you just enough to make you gasp.

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he felt the way your walls clenched around him. “Fuck,” he muttered, the thought of being inside you nearly making him lose it.

He leaned in, capturing your lips again, swallowing your moans as he curled his fingers inside you. His pace was steady, calculated—enough to drive you wild but not nearly enough to satisfy.

Your mind was hazy, drunk on the way he touched you, the way he whispered your name like a prayer. His lips found your neck again, his breath hot against your skin as he picked up the pace, his thumb returning to your clit, rubbing in sync with his thrusts.

“I want you to cum on my fingers, baby.” His voice was rough, commanding, sending another wave of pleasure through you.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head falling back as the coil in your stomach tightened. “I’m close,” you barely managed to whisper.

He felt it—the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your breath hitched, the way your body tensed. With one final curl of his fingers, you shattered, pleasure crashing over you in waves as your body trembled beneath him.

He held you through it, kissing your cheeks, your forehead, whispering soft praises against your skin. “You were so good for me, sweetheart.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You wanna go home, doll?” His voice was softer now, but still laced with promise. “I’ll be able to treat you real good.”

You looked up at him, still breathless, still dizzy from the high, and smiled.

That was all he needed.

a/n: lmk if yall want a pt.3!!

#art donalson x reader #x reader #challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #fanfic #challengers x reader

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elvisgirlie · 1 day ago

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hii, this is so embarrassing but could you write a story of elvis meeting a (female) fan from a “foreign/exotic” place (basically, not an american) and he’s intrigued? 😭💗

a / n : OMGGG my first request!!!!! ofc I can! not embarassing at all <33333 I hope u like it!

ꪆৎ snow white

— 986 words , E.P fluff / russian!reader + blonde!reader

It was late in the evening at the grand hotel in Las Vegas, where Elvis had just finished another night of performing. The lobby, dimly lit and elegant, had a quiet hum of guests lingering after the show, a contrast to the roaring energy of the concert hall just hours ago. He was dressed in his signature black suit with a deep red silk shirt underneath, still basking in the afterglow of his performance.

That’s when he saw you.

You stood near the hotel reception, waiting with a composed elegance that immediately set you apart from the other women he was used to seeing. You weren't wearing the usual American girl’s style of tight dresses or skirts that screamed for attention. Instead, you wore something softer—a fitted coat with delicate embroidery, high-waisted trousers that accentuated your silhouette, and a silky blouse with intricate details that felt foreign yet enchanting.

Your style was different, refined, yet undeniably feminine.

But what struck him most was your face.

Blonde hair, thick and almost icy in color under the hotel lights, framing your impossibly pale skin—so delicate it reminded him of porcelain. And then there were your eyes. Strikingly blue, piercing yet gentle, with a depth that seemed almost otherworldly. When you looked around, your gaze was curious, absorbing everything around you as if America itself was something of a fairytale.

Elvis leaned back slightly, tilting his head, his signature grin appearing as he watched you with amusement. Well, ain’t she somethin’? he thought.

The hotel manager approached her, speaking in slow, slightly exaggerated English.

"Miss, do you need help with something?"

You blinked before nodding, your lips parting slightly as you struggled to form the right words. "Yes... I—" you paused, frowning in thought before continuing in a thick, musical Russian accent, "I am waiting… um… for my friend."

Elvis found himself chuckling softly. There was something incredibly endearing about the way you spoke, the way your accent wrapped around the English words so delicately, like you were carefully handling something unfamiliar but precious.

Feeling bold, he strolled toward you with that slow, confident swagger, his presence immediately drawing the attention of nearby guests. The moment you turned your head and met his gaze, he saw the brief flicker of realization in your striking blue eyes—you knew who he was.

“Darlin’,” he drawled smoothly, his voice as warm as Tennessee summer nights, “I don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round here before.”

You blinked again, clearly surprised that Elvis Presley—the man you had heard so much about, the voice you had listened to even back in Russia—was now standing in front of you, smiling like they were old friends.

"You... are Elvis Presley," you said, your accent making his name sound softer, almost like a whisper.

He smirked, tilting his head. "Last time I checked, yeah." His deep chuckle was playful. "And you, sweetheart, must be a long way from home."

You nodded, looking slightly embarrassed but smiling. "Yes. I am… visitor."

Elvis raised a brow, intrigued. “A visitor, huh? Well, darlin’, I gotta say… you don’t look like the usual kinda visitor we get ‘round here.” His gaze flickered over your unique clothing choice, taking in the elegance of your attire. "I like what you’re wearin’. Ain’t like the dresses the girls ‘round here put on, but I gotta say, it suits you."

You smiled wider, a faint blush rising to your pale cheeks. "Thank you… I think American style is… um… different. Pretty, but not me."

He grinned, leaning in slightly. "Nothin’ wrong with standin’ out, honey. Matter of fact, it’s the ones that don’t blend in that are the most interestin’."

You looked down for a second, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind your ear, and that tiny, almost shy movement made his heart skip in a way he hadn’t felt in a while. You were different. Not just in looks, not just in voice, but in the way you carried yourself.

A mix of poise and softness. Mystery and innocence.

"Have you been to a show yet?" he asked, watching your expression carefully.

You shook your head. "No, but... I wanted to. My friend—she had ticket, but..." you trailed off, brows furrowing as you struggled for the right words. "She… could not go."

Elvis tsked, shaking his head. "Now that’s just a shame, sweetheart. Tell you what…" He leaned in a little closer, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. "How ‘bout I fix that for ya? You come see me tomorrow night, front row. I’ll make sure of it."

Your eyes widened. "Really?"

Elvis chuckled. "Would I lie to a pretty girl like you?" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small notepad and pen before scribbling something down—his manager’s contact, along with a little note that would guarantee you a seat.

You hesitated before taking the paper carefully, your fingers barely brushing his. "Spasibo…" you said softly, looking up at him with gratitude.

Elvis raised an eyebrow. "Now what’s that mean?"

Your lips curved into a small smile. "Thank you. In Russian."

He grinned. "Spasibo…" he repeated, the word rolling off his Southern tongue with a clumsy but charming attempt.

You giggled, covering your mouth slightly. "Your accent is… very American."

Elvis laughed, a deep, rich sound that sent warmth through you. "Well, darlin’, I am about as American as they come." He winked. "But I don’t mind learnin’ a thing or two from a pretty Russian girl like you."

The way you blushed at that made something stir inside him—something familiar yet entirely new. Maybe it was the way you looked at him, with no expectations, no rehearsed lines. Just pure fascination.

And for the first time in a long time, Elvis Presley didn’t feel like just a star.

He felt like a man who had just met someone real.

#elvis presley #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley imagine #girlblogging #hell is a teenage girl #angel girl #fawn angel #fawn girl #angel girl aesthetic #fawn girl aesthetic #fawn angel aesthetic #fawn angel core #bedrotting #russian darling #russian angel #blondie #russian reader

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tyrian-witch · 2 days ago

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Prologue: Welcome Home

Everything inside feels heavy, and all you wish for is to be in the warm embrace of your mother. The sun’s warmth is a bitter reminder of what you were now missing, and would forever miss.

Now here you are in Hawkins, a place you hadn’t been to in years. You hardly remember it.

Now it’s your new home.

A/N: Heyyy so basically I was inspired and decided to do my own Stranger Things rewrite? Yeah, so anyways! Here's the prologue before we begin the bumpier bumpy ride, I am seriously going to take my time with this fic. In the meantime, hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: brief mentions of loss, tears, use of y/n (is that last one even a warning? Question mark?)

masterlist • series masterlist

~~~

June 20th, 1983, Hawkins, Indiana

Summer nears the town of Hawkins on a gleaming June day.

A car cruises along the entryway of the small town, passing a sign that reads ‘WELCOME TO HAWKINS.' The driver is mindful of the posted speed limit as she makes her way through.

You gaze mindlessly out the window as the sun’s rays reflect against your features, the light illuminating your tired eyes. The flight from Philadelphia was exhausting to say the least, despite it only being an hour long. Not to mention, athe countless goodbyes made it all the more draining, but now here you are.

“Are you all right, honey?” The woman driving asks you. Her hair is short, dark brown and her eyes were green and full of light, a major contrast compared to your own. Her words are gentle enough to lull you out of your disassociation, and when you turn to meet her eyes, she gives you a small smile.

You look back out the window again as you answer, your voice barely above a murmur. “M’fine, Aunt Marsha. Jus’ tired.”

Marsha knows there’s more to it than just that, of course. However, she understands enough not to push it.

She decides to change the subject, which you’re thankful for. “We’re excited to have you,” she says, her excitement evident. “Barb will be so excited to see you again after all this time; we all are.”

All you can muster is a weak smile, the sentiment providing a small comfort to you despite the ache you feel in your heart. “Yeah, s’been a while.”

Your aunt spares you a concerned glance at the sound of your voice, the lack of your usual upbeat tone stirring some kind of worry in her. Knowing very well of your circumstances, she doesn’t push or force you to open up.

All she knows is that the you before her was not at all the same girl she saw last a couple of years ago; talkative, upbeat, and full of joy. Now the girl before her is changed entirely; your eyes have sunken in slightly, the dark circles around them harsh against your sickly pale complexion, the one that was once full of life and colour. And your voice, so quiet and hoarse, not at all boisterous and gleeful.

If someone asked Marsha Holland, she would probably say she doesn’t recognize her niece at all.

Then again, what did she expect after the recent loss of your mother and little brother? You were grieving, one death right after the other.

The rest of the drive to the Holland house was quiet. You curled your legs up against your chest as you rest your head against your knees, staring at the world through the window, the outside a total blur.

Everything inside feels heavy, and all you wish for is to be in the warm embrace of your mother. The sun’s warmth is a bitter reminder of what you were now missing, and would forever miss.

Now here you are in Hawkins, a place you hadn’t been to in years. You hardly remember it.

Now it’s your new home.

Finally, when you arrive, you stay seated for moment and stare ahead at the house in front of you. You were going to adapt to the situation regardless, but no matter, the reality that you’re no longer back home really hit you like a truck. You decide you’ll just have to tough it out.

Marsha has already stepped out of the car and when you finally snap out of your mindless gazing, you follow her and sling your backpack over one shoulder.

Upon exiting the car, you quickly pace over to retrieve your suitcase from the trunk despite your aunt's insistence that she help you. You politely declined and carefully drag it out, thanking her anyways.

You don't want to bother her with such a task, though she claims she doesn't mind whatsoever.

It seems you've grown more stubborn over the years, she thinks to herself.

Marsha unlocks the door and swings it open to reveal her well kept home which is rather fitting; a well kept woman and a well kept house.

"Barb won't be home for another hour and your uncle won't arrive til dinner time," she informs you while you take a look around. She's pleased that she kept it neat upon your arrival.

You acknowledge what she says to you with a nod and a mumbled 'that's okay.'

She gently touches your arm, beckoning you to look at her, and you meet her warm expression with an exhausted one of your own.

"Are you hungry at all, sweetheart? I can fix you something to eat."

You lightly shake your head and manage a small smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "It's all right, no need to trouble yourself."

"Are you sure?" She double checks anyways, her voice betraying the concern she tries to maintain.

"Yeah, honestly, I just feel tired."

"Oh! Well, let me show you to your room then! I have it all made up for you."

She beams at you with excitement and gives your arm a gentle squeeze. She leads you up the staircase, and for the second time she insists to help you carry your luggage, but you decline once again. She's already done so much for you, you don't want her to exhaust herself on your behalf.

"Here it is!" she sings as she reveals the interior of your room.

It's small but cozy with the carpeted floor and the twin bed that's against the wall near the window. The walls themselves are a gray-ish purple, which makes the room feel a little less small, the curtains, also light gray which gives the atmosphere a feeling of cleanliness. The rest of the room pertains a desk for you to work at which stands opposite from your bed, along with a closet right behind your door, a dresser and of course, a bedside table with a lamp. Just what every bedroom needs.

As you take it all in, you don't know how else to express your gratitude for being received so thoughtfully by your aunt. All you can do is give her a hug, and when you do, you squeeze her just a little tighter before letting go.

She smiles at your sudden display of affection and gladly returns your hug. "I hope you like it, sweetie."

"I do, I love it. Thank you."

"Well, I'll let you rest now." She whispers as she makes her way to your door. Before she closes it completely, she turns back to you and sends another warm smile your way. "Welcome home, Y/N."

The moment she finally closes your door, your shoulders slump and and an exhausted sigh escapes your lips.

Rummaging through your backpack,you pull out the one stuffed animal you brought with you. It's an elephant the size of a newborn baby with black beady eyes and shabby gray fur, dressed in a pink onesie and a bow. Elephants were your mother's favourite animal, so it's the one reminder of her that you carry with you.

You allow yourself to fall onto your bed and curl up in the fetal position, cradling the elephant close to your chest so tightly you're afraid it'll disappear. You lay with your back turned away from the door, leaving you to stare at the wall in front of you until finally the tears begin to fall.

Once you've started, all you can do is weep, the faucet behind your eyes leaking and flooding for a good long while until it becomes too much too handle. It's difficult to stay awake, your eyes burn when they close but you welcome the stinging pain anyways.

The beginning of your new life in Hawkins starts with you crying yourself to sleep.

➢ next part coming soon-ish

~~~

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington x fem reader #without borders

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xinyuehui · 2 months ago

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It was you who held my hand first, made me your gege, now that you think you're grown up...does that mean you're ready to let go of my hand?

#love and deepspace #恋与深空 #love and deep space #xia yizhou #caleb #夏以昼 #dailygaming #dailyvideogames #gamingnetwork #videogamepoc #gamingedit #3d animation #video games #*5 #otome #otome game #does this mean we chose him first we chose our gege🥺😭😭#the contrast between these two scenes one is warm lighting and the other is cold thunderstorm but hes holding on regardless

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your-turn-to-role · 5 months ago

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i am not immune to colour palette

#there's so many different ways you could go with the symbolism here and all of them are so good #but like! the contrast! the fact that each fits the light they're not sitting in #is it about belonging together is it about the fact they clash in deeply rooted ways #is it a warm/cold thing but the twist is actually vax has always been the warm one and keyleth the cold #is it about the burden of life and death is it about the fact that they changed each other forever #(hint: all of the above bc with these two they're all connected)#cr liveblog #tlovm #the legend of vox machina #vax'ildan #keyleth #cr1

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mo-ok · 8 months ago

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Toku Summer Day 5 - Favourite Sun Themed Villain

So long, the person I was until today! Welcome, the person I'll become tomorrow! The High School Heroes: Sun Halo Majin

#tokusummer #the high school heroes #sentai #burning himself to keep others warm #if you are too bright to look at no one can look too close #this guy has a lot of things going for him #1. he's the motw for THE trans episode of all time #2. because of this he is absolutely chock full of 'living a lie' symbolism and its very well done imo #3. he gets some beautiful shots with amazingly dramatic lighting and contrast that really add to the theme of the episode #4. love when light ≠ good + burning it all down so something better can be reborn from the ashes #5. sentai alumni actor #idk i just love how accurately this episode captures the pain and fear that comes with wanting to be seen #but knowing that means actually letting people see you #also he does kai's henshin pose 10/10

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silverskyeline · 6 months ago

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'messy' 18+

oneshot (request) - logan learns that you can squirt, he indulges in that information (1.8k words) pairing - logan howlett (xmen) x f!reader tags - established relationship, fingering, petnames: babygirl, baby, good girl, praising, kind of overstimulation, squirting, lots of squirting, a little rough, he talks reader through it, wet mentions, reader orgasm, dirty talk, fingers in mouth, logan makes reader taste themselves.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

you're splayed out on his lap on the sofa just how he likes you to be, nestled on top of his plush, firm thighs. your knees are bent with your ankles resting over either side of his legs, your back flush with his warm chest, your whole body exposed, open, for him.

logan's thick, calloused fingers lazily stroke your clit, earning soft mewls from your lips as your head tilts back over his shoulder. his other hand is ensuring his middle finger pumps in and out of you at a slow pace, your body craving those broad digits stretching your tight walls.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

you're moaning, gripping his arm for dear life as you squirm in his lap, rolling your hips instinctively. it was beautiful, the way he could make you sing for him, the way he could make your body move for him with just a few simple strokes, almost like a puppet, pulling your strings. he would never consider himself your 'master', but god, you'd let him control you whenever he liked.

he smirks, nuzzling his fuzzy beard into the side of your cheek, his lips finding their place at your ear, "that feel good, baby girl?" logan asks, his voice a deep purr. he already knows the answer.

you gasp at his low-toned voice, gruff like gravel but sweet like honey, "yes. . ."

"mh, that's what i thought. . . think you can take a little more though." he huffs, slipping another finger inside.

your walls clench around the sudden new presence and you moan, loudly, craving the feeling of being filled by him in whatever capacity he's willing to give.

"that's it," he coos, picking up the pace, "good girl, gooood girl. . ." logan loves how easily he can slip inside of you, how he'd always find you dripping, cunt aching, core throbbing for him. his sensitive ears perk up at the sweet sounds of your wet pussy taking his fingers in, the wet schlick sounds filling the room.

your cheeks flush, looking down at the way his fingers are making light work of you, your shirt hiked up to expose your breasts. with the pace increasing, and the way he's so sweetly purring filthy words into your ear. . . you feel a sensation start to build.

it's. . . new, almost uncomfortable but not quite. not the same as an orgasm but almost. it pools low in your belly, just a little out of reach.

but his fingers pick up again, slamming deep inside of you, curling just enough. his fingers circling your clit remain slow in contrast, creating a dizzying combination of sensations that have you clenching around him and calling out his name over and over in some desperate plea. desperation for him to continue, for the building feeling, for him, full stop.

the feeling returns. fuck, it almost feels like you need to piss. your cheeks flush, eyes rolling back as you fight back the feeling, but he's rubbing you and touching you and fucking you too good for you to hold anything back.

"logan," you gasp, arching your back, "l-logan wait-"

but it's too late, before he even has the chance to slow down, you squirt. your juices coat his hands, his fingers, dripping down along his arm and onto the sofa below earning a gasp from both of you.

his eyes widen, stopping his movements immediately causing you to whine at the sudden lack of friction.

then there's silence, save for the lewd wet dripping from the sofa onto the hardwood floor.

your head is reeling, did. . . did you just squirt? fuck, you'd never done that before. heart pounding, you swallow hard, instinctively wanting to apologise for the mess, "shit, sorry i-"

"holy fuck. . ." he whispers shakily before you even have the chance to finish your sentence, "where were you hidin' that from me?" you can hear the smirk in his voice clear as day as he talks into your ear.

"what?" you whisper.

he smirks, kissing your ear, "you didn't tell me you could make cute little messes like that, baby."

"i didn't know i could. . ." you admit, biting your lip as you feel the cool air of the room brush against your dripping sensitive core.

logan's eyes widen, the implication of your words nestling deep in his brain, and groin. he was the first ever to make you squirt, the first to make you feel so good that you couldn't help but make a mess for him. pride swells in his chest, manifesting in a low rumbling smug chuckle at the back of his throat.

". . .think you could make another mess for me?" he hums, his fingers on your clit slowly resuming their movements.

you whimper, the new sensation you experienced was foreign but surprisingly welcomed. you had no idea it felt that good, that you could ever do that. but logan has a way of coaxing everything out of you, cock and fingers playing you like an instrument he's mastered.

"don't know. . ." you mumble, suddenly feeling skittish.

it's then that his fingers start fucking you again, gliding in and out easily, your fluttering hole welcoming the movement. "you can, i know you can." he encourages, nibbling at your ear, "you'll be a good girl, you'll make another mess for me, won't you?"

fuck, his words. his fucking words. every single time they had you acting crazy, letting out sounds you didn't know you could make. and he drinks them in, drinks up all those sweet little sounds from that pretty little mouth of yours that he loves so much.

you simply nod, feeling his digits pumping rougher, curling to find that sweet sweet spot once more. you're not sure if you can even do it again, but logan seems pretty fucking set on making him gush for you at least once more.

he scissors his fingers slightly, stretching you, the motion making you whine with pleasure. but when he pushes in a third finger? that's when you really start screaming for him.

"that's more like it, huh?" he grins, breathing deeply through his nose from how hard he's working you, "just needed a bit more, cus' i know you like it thick baby, don't you? like it thick like my cock?"

you want to gasp, to react to his words, but your eyes are rolling back again, mouth stuck open in an 'o' shape as you feel that sensation build once more. your body is tensing, thighs clenching, back arching, eyes squeezing shut. subconsciously you hold your breath as if that'll help. he's got you right where he wants you, right where he knows you want to be.

seconds later you're gushing, more this time - it lands on the hardwood below with a crude splash and coats his hands nicely. logan laughs, a deep dirty laugh as you writhe. he gives a gentle slap to your clit, then a firmer one, causing more to spill from you along with some squeaks.

"there we go, good girl, what a good girl. . ." you can hear the smirk in his voice, the wide grin he's wearing, the smugness lacing every word that leaves his lips, "feels good to make a mess for me, doesn't it?"

you're breathless, panting, overwhelmed in the best way. and then he speaks again.

". . . i think you can handle one more." logan purrs, movements suddenly fast and hard. his fingers fuck deep into you, curling to hit your g-spot with each calculated thrust. the fingers on your clit speed up, rubbing in practiced circles sending sparks of electricity throughout your body.

you want it too, you'd give it to him over and over again, create messes all night long if your body let you.

god you'd do anything for him, especially in that moment, and how could you not? the way his fingers play with you, toy with you, slide into you. . .

"d-don't know if i can!" you admit, huffing, trying to get more air.

but he shakes his head, "yes you can." is all he says, firmly.

and he's right. moments later you feel it pooling in your belly once more, the accompanying orgasm approaching that threatens to throw you overboard. you're lost in a sea of sensations, stars in your vision, his voice in your ear the only anchor you have to reality. you let it guide you, until you're drenching his fingers and jeans once more, voice ringing out within his bedroom as his voice coaxes and praises you softly.

his fingers on your clit come together to slap down against you, each smack against your sensitive bundle of nerves causing more to spray. you're making such a big mess, his jeans are damp. he doesn't care. this is what he wants, and fuck, if you don't feel the best you've ever felt in your entire life. . .

he keeps going, his fingers steadily pumping into you roughly, desperate to get every last drop as he feels you clamp down around his fingers. you're moaning, gasping, gripping onto his arm for dear life as you ride out your orgasm. it's too much, but it's also perfect. logan watches on in deep satisfaction as you writhe on his lap, his bulge pressing against you above him, cock twitching and rock hard just from touching you.

as your body relaxes, so do his movements, slowing down. he glides his fingers in a few times, enjoying the slick sounds they make before pulling them from your still-fluttering hole. he lazily drifts his damp digits along your tummy, leaving a trail of wetness up to your chest until it finds your mouth.

you part your lips gladly, turning your head to look up at him through hooded lids as you take his fingers in your mouth. diligently, your tongue laps at his fingers, reeling at the taste of yourself on him, dripping from him.

"good girl, you're always so fuckin' good for me. . ." he smiles, kissing your forehead as he watches you, his free hand resting on your tummy. you enjoy the feeling of his large palm against you, making you feel comforted whilst also grounding you after that whirlwind of release.

you pull his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, instead kissing along his fingers and down across the sensitive skin of his knuckles. a silent thank you, for making you feel so good.

logan watches keenly, growling quietly at the stirring in his groin. his eyes flash with something. you'd call it mischief.

your eyes flit up to his, knowing what he's thinking before he's even said it.

"wonder what else you can do. . ." he smirks, "keeping any other secrets from me?" logan asks as he rolls his hips against you, prompting you to feel how hard he is for you and you exhale, relaxing back against him.

it was funny, how he could always push you right to the edge when you think you're spent.

and yet have you craving more. . .

you grin, biting your lip, "wanna find out?"

11K notes · View notes

thanoskin · 2 months ago

Text

you belong to me

Pairing: Frontman x Reader

Summary: you’re the daughter of a volatile VIP, you draw the frontman’s attention during your visit to the games.

Warning: Smut (+18), Rough sex, Degradation kink, Age gap, Fingering, Dom! Frontman, Sub! Reader, vaginal fluids, overstimulation, Pussy slapping, Unprotected sex, no aftercare.

Word count: 1519 words.

The air was heavy with the scent of luxury-imported cigars, fine leather, and expensive cologne. You sat on a lavish velvet couch in the VIP lounge, nursing a glass of champagne that had gone warm in your hand. Around you, the other VIPs laughed and cheered as they watched the carnage unfold on the massive screen before them.

Your father, one of the most notorious and impulsive of the VIPs, sat at the head of the room, reveling in the chaos below. His booming laughter grated against your nerves, but you kept your expression neutral. You'd learned long ago how dangerous it was to show any weakness around him.

Still, the games didn't hold your interest. Not like they did for him. Your attention drifted instead to the enigmatic figure known as the Front Man, the creator of the games.

He was always there, silent, observing, his black mask concealing his face but not the sharp intelligence in his movements. You'd caught him watching you more than once, and though he never said a word, you felt the weight of his gaze.

Tonight was no different.

You glanced up, and there he was, standing at the edge of the room, his posture rigid, his presence commanding. Even surrounded by the chaos of the VIPs, he seemed untouchable, untamed.

Hours later, it was finally lights out.The VIPs eventually retreated to their private quarters, leaving you alone in the grand lounge, your father was too drunk to notice you were still around. The silence was a relief after the overwhelming noise, but it didn't last long.

"You shouldn't be here alone."

"I'm not afraid of being alone," you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

He stepped closer, his boots echoing softly against the marble floor. "You should be."

You raised an eyebrow, meeting the dark void of his mask. "Is that a warning?"

"It's a fact," he said, stopping just a few feet away.

"Your father isn't the only dangerous man here."

You set your glass down, leaning back against the couch. "I think I'll take my chances."

The Front Man tilted his head, studying you. "You're not like the others," he murmured.

"No," you said, your lips curving into a faint smile. "I'm not."

He didn't respond, but the weight of his gaze was palpable. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence crackling.

"What do you want from me?" you asked finally, breaking the stillness.

The Front Man stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "What makes you think I want something?"

You stood, closing the distance between you.

"Because men like you don't get involved unless there's something in it for them."

He chuckled softly, the sound distorted through his mask. "Maybe you're right."

His hand came up, the black leather of his glove brushing against your cheek.

The touch was surprisingly gentle, and it made your inner thighs warm.

"Careful.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his other hand slid to your waist, drawing you closer. His mask pressed against your forehead, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you both.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured.

You didn't. Instead, your fingers moved to the edge of his mask, your breath hitching as he allowed you to lift it just enough to see his lips.

The kiss was slow at first, testing, but it quickly deepened. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips moved against yours. The weight of his mask and the secrecy of the moment only heightened the intensity.

He pulled back, his breathing uneven, his voice rough. "My quarters. Now."

The room was stark, utilitarian, a sharp contrast to the opulence of the VIP lounge. But it didn't matter. The moment the door closed behind you, he was on you, his mask discarded, his lips capturing yours with a ferocity that left you breathless.

You clung to him as he backed you against the wall, his hands exploring, his touch possessive yet careful, as if he were afraid you might vanish.

"You don't belong here," he murmured against your skin, his voice raw.

"Neither do you," you replied, your fingers tangling in his hair as he chuckled at your innocence.

His lips trailed down your neck as his hands slid beneath the fabric of your dress, and he gripped your ass, hard, causing you to gasp in surprise.

Suddenly, he lifted you by your hips and tossed you on the bed, not giving you a chance to breathe as he crawled on top of you like a predator hunting its prey. You were face to face with him now.

He slowly pulled off his mask to reveal an older, handsome man with dark and determined eyes. You kissed him deeply, almost savagely, he let you for a couple of minutes before placing his hand on your throat, pinning you beneath him.

You whined softly, your breaths ragged as you adapted to his strong grip. He let you go, his hands now roaming over the thin fabric of your dress, and tracing over your hard nipples.

“You’re not wearing a bra…” he whispered teasingly, and you blushed as he removed your dress.

He stared at your naked body, ignoring your horny whimpers as he ran his hand through your wet folds. You moaned softly as his thumb grazed over your clit. He smirked teasingly and began to use slight pressure as he moved his thumb in a circular motion on your sensitive ball of nerves.

You moan and writhe, attempting to close your legs from the pressure. Suddenly, you feel two cold fingers enter your aching hole, and you gasp in surprise.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

He asks, his gaze curious and intense, causing you to look away.

“Answer me when I speak to you.”

You feel his fingers curl against that spongy spot, and you cry out.

“Yes! Please don’t stop..” you begin to squirm, moaning uncontrollably as he continues to curl and thrust his fingers into your virgin hole.

You dig your nails into his back and start to get louder and louder, your moans desperate, and your pussy soaking wet.

Suddenly, he pulls his fingers out and begins to remove his belt, staring at your sprawled and exposed form.

“I need your cock please.” You murmur, and he doesn’t reply, he tosses his belt on the far end of the room and removes his pants and underwear, crawling towards you again. His cock wasn’t too big, but wasn’t too small either.

You found yourself terrified, but your arousal only grew as you stared at his hard, throbbing cock.

He roughly grabs your thighs, spreading them wide, digging his nails into your sensitive skin, causing you to whine.

You closed your eyes and he immediately pinched your inner thigh.

“Open.”

Your eyes flew open at his command, and you whine as you feel his tip against your throbbing clit.

“Look at me while I take you.”

you obeyed, he began to enter you, and you hissed and cried out from the pain. He didn’t respond, but you were grateful for his patience, and his gentle touches as he stroked your legs while he broke you in.

Suddenly, he hit a spot, causing you to moan loudly. He began to thrust quickly, causing you to moan uncontrollably.

“oh fuck!” You cried and used your free hands to try and push his shoulders, desperatey feeling the need to cum already.

he growled and pinned your hands above your head, his strong hands nearly breaking your wrists as you moaned loudly and sobbed.

“Look at me!” He shouted, he was panting, his eyes locked into yours as he fucked you mercilessly.

“I’m gonna cum!” you cried out, trying to close your legs.

��Don’t you fucking….”

you squirted all over his cock, and he stopped moving inside of you. He sighed and pulled out, and you’re rewarded with a harsh slap to your clit.

“You cum when I tell you to, not a moment before that. Understood?”

You cry and before you can respond, he enters you again, pinching your sensitive nipples and tugging the skin as he fucked you hard, and fast.

“Fuck…” he whispered, before pulling out and panting.

He yanks your legs apart again, only to rub your throbbing clit, with force and speed.

You’re overstimulated, and on the brink of cumming.

“Please, let me…” you cried and moaned.

“Come on, squirt all over my fucking hand.”

You squirted hard and he groaned in delight as you coat his fingers in your juices.

“Such a good little…”

He groaned again, kissing your thighs. You’re exhausted and sore, you lay limp and spent, your eyelids suddenly heavy, and before you knew it, you hear the rustling of his clothing being put back on, and the door closed behind him.

#squid game #squid game fanfic #squid game season 2 #squid game smut #squid game x reader #smut #female reader #x reader #front man #frontman x reader #hwang inho #in ho x reader #player 001

3K notes · View notes

whytheylosttheirminds · 5 months ago

Text

blue sweater - r.c.

(season 4 bf!rafe x gf!reader blurb, 2.4k words)

content smut, p in v, this gorgeous man and his afformentioned blue sweater, 18+ minors do not interact!!

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠂

You’d fallen asleep on the couch, waiting up for him again. You didn’t fault Rafe for working so hard, you just miss him so fucking much when he’s in back-to-back meetings all day.

The couch dips below you, pulling you from your dreams. A large, warm presence settles next to you on the sofa. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know it’s him.

“Hey,” you mumble sleepily, eyes still closed.

He’s smirking down at you, you know him so well you can picture exactly how he looks without actually seeing him.

“Hi,” he leans forward, planting a sweet kiss on your cheek. “I’m sorry, that last meeting ran so long.”

Finally opening your eyes to meet his, you’re almost startled by the sight. Somehow, in the dim evening light, they’re more deeply blue and beautiful than ever.

“Nice sweater,” you say, reaching up to run your fingers along the hard edge of his shoulder. Even though he looks so soft and pretty right now, he’s tense, and you wish you could ease the worry that furrows his brow.

He smiles knowingly, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling in the cute way that makes your heart ache for him.

“Thanks, my girlfriend got it for me.”

“She has good taste,” you joke as your run your hand gently up and down his bicep, the soft fabric such a contrast to the hard muscle below.

“Yeah, she’s all kinds of good,” he winks.

“Then why’d you make her wait for you all night?” You pout, sticking out your bottom lip so he’d know you’re just teasing.

“I said I’m sorrrrry,” he whines as he leans over you more, adjusting to bring his legs onto the couch. You make room for him instinctually, his body fitting into yours like you were designed for each other.

He lets his full weight down slowly, sinking you both deep into the cushions. Nuzzling his head into your neck, he drags his lips against the skin below your ear so gently, it sends goosebumps racing across your skin. He can feel your excitement and starts kissing you more firmly, leaving little wet spots up the column of your throat.

Your hands splay out over his big, firm back, rubbing circles into the tight muscles. You press deep, working out his stress, and he groans at your firm touch. Your hands work slowly down his back, pressing as you go. When you reach the hem of his sweater, you slip your hands underneath. Rafe flinches at your touch, a shudder running through him.

“Your hands are cold!” He exclaims, his voice muffled.

“Oh sorry, love!” you start to pull them away, but he reaches his arm behind him and pins your palms to his skin.

“No, it feels nice, don’t stop.”

You obey, the pads of your fingers digging little figure eights into his lower back, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“What’s got you so stressed baby, hmm?” You ask.

“Just got too much going on,” he shakes his head so his buzzed hair tickles your earlobe. You giggle at the sensation, his head rising and falling with the shake of your chest.

“Poor baby,” you coo, making him smile against you. “Just need a little help to relax?”

Rafe nods against you, moving slightly to lay his head against your chest so you can run your nails along his head like you know he likes. You bring one hand up, the other still under his shirt, the motion making you open your legs wider so you can stretch. He slots between them perfectly, and when you drag your nails over the fuzzy hairs right at the nape of his neck, you can feel him twitch against your core, already half hard.

“Someone’s needy,” you hum, delighted that you can make him so hot just by touching him tenderly like this. “Want me to make you forget all about your bad day?”

“Please,” he groans into your collarbone, pressing his hips down harder so you can feel him fully against you now. Your wetness pools immediately, soaking through your panties as you arch your back and return the pressure.

“Shit, baby, that’s so nice,” he praises.

“‘I’ve been waiting for this all day,” you confess.

“Then we better not make you wait any longer.”

Swiftly, he lifts his head from your chest and finds your lips with his. It’s hungry and sloppy, the wet skin of his lower lip sliding against yours as your mouths collide. You’re fully grinding up into him now, and there is nothing semi-soft about him, his hard cock threatening to rip the seams of his pants. You writhe, desperate to feel his length. You know it like the back of your hand, picturing his perfect cock clearly as you rock against it. You’ve got every vein, every throbbing, pink inch memorized.

“Take your pants off,” you breathe into his open mouth.

With a cocky grin that makes you impossibly wetter he drawls, “now who’s needy, huh?”

You roll your eyes and reach for his waistband, if he’s gonna be an ass about it you’ll just do it yourself. He mirrors you, undressing you with the same shaky fervor. Your shirt goes first, he’s delighted to see you’ve opted for no bra. In the cold evening air, your nipples harden immediately, and he can see the goosebumps spreading across your torso.

“Ohh baby, you really are freezing.”

“Mhm,” you nod, lip pulled between your teeth. “Warm me up, Rafe.”

A throaty groan rises from his chest as he takes over your work on his pants, ripping them off as best he can without standing, his boxers following. You slip your thumbs under your shorts, doubling up to slide your panties down with them until you’re bare for him. Only one piece of clothing remains between you, the soft blue sweater you bought for him. He starts to pull it off, but you stop him, your hand wrapping around his wrist.

“No, leave it on,” you instruct.

“Whatever you want, angel,” he smirks at your unusual request, but obliges without complaint.

He lays down on you again, his lips hovering over yours as he lets his cock press into your inner thigh. He’s so hard you gasp, inhaling sharply at the sweet pressure against your leg. He kisses you again, more tenderly this time, like he’s trying to imprint the taste of you onto his tongue. As he lets his weight settle on you, the soft threads of his sweater rub over your sensitive nipples, the sensation making your eyes squeeze shut and a strained moan echo from your chest.

“Y’okay?” He asks.

“It feels so g-good,” you croak out.

“What does, baby?”

You blush, feeling silly for it, but something about the soft material against your hardened skin is so delicious, you’re sure your pussy is dripping onto the couch by now.

A little embarrassed, you admit, “the sweater on my tits feels really good.”

“It does?” He questions, amused.

“Just stay on me baby, don’t stop.”

You and Rafe have been known to argue about almost anything, but he never argues when you tell him how to make you feel good. He flattens his chest against you fully, rutting his dick against your leg, causing his chest to rub against yours as requested. Your head falls back into the throw pillows. You let him continue to move you both until you almost can’t stand the friction anymore.

“I love that,” you whimper, eyes still squeezed shut. “But I need you inside.”

“Can’t wait any longer, huh?” He chuckles. Once again, you don’t need to see him to know what he looks like, his eyebrows are surely arched high and his lips quirked to the side as he looks at you in amusement.

“Rafe I’ve been waiting for like twelve hours,” you complain.

“I know, baby, I know,” he quells you. “I got you, alright?”

Propped on one arm, his sweater leaves your chest for a moment so he can line himself up at your soaked entrance. You wait with closed eyes, bracing for impact as you know it will take a minute to adjust to his size, it always does. But he doesn’t enter you, just grumbles with annoyance as he shuffles above you.

Your quizzical eyes open to find him fumbling with the collar of his sweater, preparing to pull it off.

“What’s the problem?”

“I want to see you, but this fucking sweater’s in the way,” he explains. You lift your head and look down to where your bodies should be meeting to see the hem of his sweater hanging in the way, blocking the view. “I’m just gonna take it off.”

“Nuh-uh!” you object.

“Baby,” he whines.

A solution comes to you, causing you to break into a wide grin.

“Open up,” you say, and he’s never looked more confused.

But then, you reach down and pull the hem of the sweater between your fingers, making his stomach flinch as you brush against it. You lift the hem up to his mouth, revealing the sight of his dick dangerously close to your entrance. He puzzles it together, and teasingly rolls his eyes before letting you place it between his teeth. He bites down on it obediently, considering a protest before looking down to see he now has a perfect angle to his favorite sight in the world.

It feels so good when he finally slides in, stretching you so deliciously and filling you like only he can, that you almost actually cry. He moves gently, considerate enough to know there’s probably an edge of pain to your pleasure.

“You don’t have to go slow,” you assure him. “Take your stress out on me, I can take it.”

“Yeah?” He tries to sound cocky, but it’s muffled from the fabric between his teeth.

The way his jaw clenches in frustration makes you giggle. Rafe usually does most of the talking, knowing the sound of his low voice in your ear makes you come so much faster.

“I’ll do the talking, just focus on my voice while you fuck me, m’kay?” You purr.

He nods in agreement, picking up the pace until he’s rocking into you, continuously hitting the perfect spot that makes you both shudder with pleasure. He’s going so hard you have to lift your arm above you and steady yourself against the arm of the couch. His eyes flit between the sight of you taking him in so perfectly and the way your tits bounce with each thrust.

You keep your promise to talk him through it, starting with, “just like that, Rafe- mmmph- feels so good. God, I can feel you so deep.”

His brows furrow in concentration, thrusting harder, desperate to drag more praises from your kiss-chapped lips. Your eyes train on the veins in his neck, throbbing with effort. You reach your other hand up and grab his chin, pulling his face so his eyes pierce yours.

“Shit, you look so good, fucking me like you needed to,” you cry.

As much as he loves the eye-contact, he’s still wearing this stupid sweater for a reason, and he needs to remind you. He matches you by placing his hand on your face, soft but firm, and directing your gaze down to see him pistoning into you.

“Oh my god, that’s so hot,” you smile, admiring the creamy mess you’re making on his shaft. “You’re fucking covered in me, baby. Made me so wet comin’ in here looking this good.”

He removes his hand from your head, looking for a non-verbal way to thank you for your compliments. He presses his thumb to your tongue, and you don’t need words to know what he’s doing. You get it nice and wet, swirling spit around his thumb with your tongue. Once it’s ready, he lowers it to your clit, rubbing back and forth a few times before forming steady circles.

“Ah- fuck- yes, Rafe that’s so-” Your commitment to keep talking falters as pleasure floods your mind, robbing you of your voice.

He knows what you need, he always knows what you need. He pulls your hand from his chin and places it on his chest, you bunch the fabric of his sweater so he can release it from his teeth.

“There ya go,” he coos. “Need me to talk you through it, huh?”

You nod desperately, confirming what he already knew.

“Couldn’t even concentrate in my meetings,” he begins, panting with the effort he’s putting in, not letting up his pace. “Thinkin’ about you here waiting for me, walking around the house in those little shorts. How am I supposed to close deals when I can’t stop thinking about bending you over the kitchen counter and fucking this perfect pussy, huh?”

His words have exactly the effect he was hoping for, you are beside yourself, moaning and squirming beneath him. Letting out the sweetest little “oh, oh, ohs” as his cock rocks your whole body. He's losing tempo, both of you nearing the edge. You bring your other fist up to bunch his sweater, too, grasping so tightly you're afraid you're gonna tear it. You clench around him as he keeps talking.

“That’s it, baby, squeeze me as hard as you can - fuck!” He's unraveling, needing to find the words to get you there so he didn’t finish first. “Fuck, that’s my good girl.”

Just as he expected, that’s what finally did it for you. You cry out his name as sparks exploded in your tummy, coming so hard you have to bury your face into his chest to keep from screaming. He follows behind you almost immediately, his hot cum spurting into you as his primal groans and grunts echo through the room.

A few minutes later, you’re cleaned up and cuddled in his bed, now wrapped up in his sweater, the stretched-out fabric engulfing you. He smirks as his hands run over the material, rubbing over your stomach and waist lovingly.

“Might have to wear this thing every day if that’s how you’re gonna react,” he teases you.

“Uh-huh,” you giggle. “Good luck getting it back.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠂⠄

a/n: omg i'm so sorry I just literally couldn't not, the chokehold this sweater has on me is unnatural like y'all don't even need to read this it was just a passion project for me. all hail Blue Sweater.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fic #rafe fic #obx fic #drew starkey #rafe fanfic #rafe obx #obx 4 #rafe cameron smut #rafe Cameron x you #rafe Cameron x y/n #rafe Cameron imagine #rafe Cameron season 4 #obx #obx smut #idek if it's good but here I had to lol #nat’s most popular

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kafrcknboombaby · 2 months ago

Text

favorite color

reader who wears gloves mostly at all times like ghost. not because her hands are scarred, or ugly...

quite the opposite.

you were at the pub with the gang, and after a few, your body temperature naturally rose so you peeled off a glove.

to reveal painted, perfectly manicured nails.

nails that made ghost nearly drop his bourbon.

nails that ghost had to have marking anywhere and everywhere on his body tonight.

so naturally after walking you to your room later you invited him in because he wouldn't stop eyeing you at the bar.

"tha's a pretty color," he'd said, sitting down next to you, making you blush. "my favorite really..." he trailed off.

you'd made a wager on the way home that since he'd seen your hands, you should be able to see his face. he said that wasn't a fair bet, but he didn't sound very serious.

but this was serious.

you were straddling his lap in the pale, warm light of the nightstand lamp -- your bra and panties a stark contrast to his dark cargo pants and baclava. your fingertips were teasing at the base of his mask, a smirk growing on your face. his dark, blown-out eyes trained on yours.

"you think it's fair now?" you giggled, his bourbon on your breath seeping through his nostrils.

"if you take i' off, you have no idea wha' you'll be getting yourself into," he stated matter-of-factly.

your nails dug a little more into his neck, now with a firm grasp on the fabric. you gently leaned your head forward and settled your nose on his.

"and neither do you, simon."

his fingers dug into your hips hard at the mention of his name and he exhaled desperately as if he'd been holding it back all night.

as swiftly and carefully as you could, you nudged the edge of the mask over his chin and nose. the first thing you noticed was his hair -- a sandy blonde color that was disheveled with a few greys and low-set brows to match. his slightly crooked nose led down to his chapped, full lips. pink and pouty, like he'd been gnawing at them on the walk home.

but he didn't offer you the pleasure of a kiss, no no. he flipped you over flat onto you stomach as he laid his whole weight on top of you, bare mouth tickling against the shell of your ear. "i told you love," he growled while nudging one of your legs open with his knee. "no fuckin' idea."

his belt was unbuckled in record speed as he pulled your panties down just beneath your ass. he slipped an arm beneath your hips, holding you up a bit for him. he huffed when he felt how wet you were as he teased your entrance.

just as you opened your mouth to retort something, he bullied himself into you completely, settling against your cervix with a grunted moan. the breath was knocked from your lungs in the same fashion. well, whatever air you barely had left with his entire body consuming you. it was only a strained moan that came out and simon chuckled darkly.

you nipped that in the bud quickly by reaching back and throwing a hand in his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp -- hard.

he responded with another strong thrust that only made your nails sink deeper. his other arm reached around your neck as he settled you into a headlock. not too hard, but not nearly gentle. your other hand reached up to dig your nails into his forearm.

"such clean gorgeous nails on such a filthy fuckin' girl," he cooed. he fucked into you mercilessly, not giving you any time to adjust to his size nor the speed. your eyes rolled into the back of your head as your tongue lolled over your teeth, mind completely gone. with ringing ears, you could still make out every word.

"fuuuck swee'art, 'm trying not to fuck you dumb but i think you might already be there." the coiling in your stomach was growing tight fast. "wanna see those nails wrapped around my cock later."

the sheer thought made you whimper hopelessly. your cries were mostly held in your throat, except for when you could find any sort of reprieve with fresh air as your legs began to quiver underneath him.

"god dammit, can feel you clenching 'round me baby," he gritted.

"do i really make you feel tha' good?"

"mhmm swee'art, i know what'll send you riiight over the edge."

"oh, fuck. you do like tha' yeah? you like it when i pinch your swollen little clit, huh? don't be shy sarge, tell me how you feel."

the tears were rolling your your face, hot and cold at the same time. once they reached his arm around your neck, he removed his elbow and instead grabbed your face to turn to his as he continued to pound into you while expertly rubbing your bud.

his lips and tongue consumed yours as you tried to breathe through sniffles and between open-mouthed, sloppy kisses. his tongue roamed from your throat to your cheeks, licking up all the saliva and tears he could swallow. he pulled away but rested his head on yours as his thrusts became sloppy around your tight cunt, his grunts more like whines at this point. his eyes were nearly black as they met yours, tears still pooling and overflowing at your corners.

"show me what you feel like when you come all over my cock."

"that's a fucking order, sergeant."

your walls spasmed as they gripped and let go of him, over and over again, nearly pushing him out. your wails became an incoherent mess of baby's and simon's and fuck's as you shook underneath him. his strained moans became less and less vocal for a brief moment until his thrusts stuttered and he sank so deep into you that you feared he might break through your tummy. he came with a full, deep, moan that shook your core. oh, how you needed that moan again.

and again. and again. until the next morning.

but it wasn't just that nail color.

every color you wore was his favorite.

a/n: this is my first smut publish tee hee :) hope y’all like it! also thinking of opening my ask box for submissions cause i could talk abt these boys for the rest of me life

#this was supposed to be a little drabble but man did it take off #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost #simon riley #cod smut #cod x reader #cod mw2

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