#torn taglist

[sollucets]

Light it for me.

[un-pearable]

the desire for funny character tags vs knowing like three people total will get even half the jokes

[lola-writes]

Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist

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Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering. 

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter. 

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut. 

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now. 

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet. 

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition. 

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind. 

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward. 

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency. 

_

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said. 

The council erupted in uproar. 

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.  

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved. 

It was palpable. 

It was mine for the taking. 

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs. 

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent. 

I cast my gaze on her. 

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest. 

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table. 

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain. 

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified. 

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty. 

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach. 

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.  

None of it mattered. 

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find. 

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut. 

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind. 

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead? 

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs. 

It wasn’t Alicent. 

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch. 

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions. 

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence. 

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me. 

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest? 

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother. 

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut. 

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement. 

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense. 

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear. 

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee. 

_

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape. 

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.  

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider. 

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current. 

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. 

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs. 

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread. 

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us. 

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union. 

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. 

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive. 

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile. 

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat. 

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye. 

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells. 

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash. 

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic. 

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown. 

And the crown needed heirs. 

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head. 

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach. 

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea. 

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue. 

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose. 

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea. 

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths. 

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us. 

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips. 

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand. 

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it. 

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all. 

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges. 

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.” 

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike. 

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid. 

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. 

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former. 

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. 

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace. 

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure. 

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin. 

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me. 

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate. 

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire. 

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat. 

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears. 

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal. 

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard. 

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me. 

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me. 

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle. 

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath. 

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince. 

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room. 

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air. 

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches. 

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead. 

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps. 

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze. 

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain. 

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might. 

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him. 

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease. 

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt. 

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace. 

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear. 

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me. 

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger. 

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other. 

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood. 

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me. 

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender. 

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue. 

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control. 

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone. 

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip. 

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release. 

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings. 

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing. 

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure. 

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls. 

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest. 

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap. 

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries. 

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm. 

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body. 

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips. 

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful. 

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting. 

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers. 

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.  

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire. 

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips. 

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm. 

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame. 

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly. 

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick. 

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest. 

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.  

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance. 

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me. 

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy. 

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss. 

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me. 

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself. 

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian. 

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells. 

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her. 

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust. 

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time. 

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire. 

Thunder rolled overhead. 

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed. 

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down. 

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)

[malavera]

Peaches: “Will you forgive me... Daddy?” (18+) — Logan Howlett

this is a part 2 of my series called Peaches, but it can be read as a standalone 😉 if you wish to check out the part 1 click here!

summary: It’s not like you can’t take care of yourself, no. Your dad just worries a lot so he asks for your friendly old man neighbor to look after you while he’s gone on his business trip. But is that all?

warning: SMUT! MDNI. a little bit fluff, ddlg dynamic, bratty!reader, dom!logan, oral M receiving, throatfucking

taglist: @wcndercore @peachyystuff @kholdkill @narjuko @the-occasional-artist1125 @robynanthonystark @suchasweetieee @jensojkaobecna @explainthisaetheists @currentlyquestioningexistence @cathers-world @seasonofthenerd @thinkinonsense comment if you'd like to be tagged for the next part 😉

The peach-colored bath bomb hisses as it plunges into the warm water, sending ripples through the surface. It fizzes and dissolves, releasing a cloud of sweet fragrance that wraps around the room like a soft, intoxicating embrace. You inhale deeply, the scent pulling you back to a moment not so long ago. As the steam rises, you let the bathrobe slip from your shoulders, but hesitate. The water beckons, promising comfort and warmth, yet something in you resists. His scent still clings to your skin—a haunting reminder of a presence now gone. The thought of washing it away feels like surrendering the last trace of him, and for a moment, you stand there, torn between the allure of the soothing bath and the ache of holding on to what remains.

But in the end, the warmth proves too inviting, and you let yourself slip into the bath. The water envelops you, pulling you into its embrace as your mind replays the scene, vivid and haunting. You can almost see him again, the way he casually brought his fingers to his lips, licking the last remnants of you with a slow, deliberate ease. He didn’t say a word, but that smirk—so confident, so sure—spoke volumes. It was a silent claim, a parting message that lingered as he turned to leave, leaving you with nothing but the fading echo of his presence and the water that now seems too gentle, too cleansing, against the memory you wish to keep.

Time has slipped away, and now, two weeks have passed since that moment. It feels like a distant dream, yet the memory remains sharp, refusing to fade. You’ve been avoiding Logan ever since, even though that’s not what he wants from you. He’s the opposite of what you’ve intended to do; he wants you to embrace it. He wants you to embrace your desire.

But like what you are, you’re too much of a pussy to face your own desire. Even though it aches for his touch.

Now, with your dad away on a business trip, you couldn't be more thrilled. The house is yours, a rare freedom that has your mind buzzing with possibilities. You imagine nights without curfew, slipping out into the night without a care, and not having to worry about getting caught. But your excitement gets the best of you, and you celebrate too soon. Just when you think you’ve outsmarted the system, your dad’s words come crashing down like a cold wave, his rules and expectations finding a way to reach you even when he’s miles away, dampening the thrill before it even begins,

“I’ve asked Logan to watch over you here and there. So, I won’t worry much. He’ll update me on whatever it is you do so, behave.”

Fun right?

And here you are, sitting in the diner’s booth with your girlfriends, the buzz of conversation and the smell of greasy food filling the air. They’re all planning to head to a party after this, and when they mention the time—10 PM—your stomach flips. That’s your curfew, the invisible line you’ve never dared to cross. But tonight, the temptation is too strong, and you’re about to go for it, to finally break the rules. Just as you’re about to give in, the door chimes, and there he is—Logan, strolling into the diner like he owns the place. He walks right up to you, his presence sending a jolt through your resolve, and without a word, he makes it clear he’s not letting you out of his sight tonight. As he takes your hand, you know the party isn’t in the cards anymore—Logan’s about to take you on a different kind of ride.

Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you pout, your bottom lip jutting out as you stubbornly refuse to look straight ahead. “I’m not a seventeen-year-old,” you mutter under your breath, the words more for yourself than for him.

“But you act like one,” Logan shoots back with a tsk, not missing a beat.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m twenty-three, for god’s sake. Both of you need to stop treating me like a baby!” You huff, finally turning to face him. He’s driving with effortless ease, one hand on the steering wheel, the other casually resting against the door. The simple, relaxed way he holds himself only makes him look even more frustratingly attractive. You hate that he’s right, but more than that, you hate that you can’t stop noticing just how good he looks when he’s in control.

Stubborn as ever, you dig in, determined not to let him win this round. You reminded yourself of why you were fuming in the first place, the anger bubbling back to the surface. “Stop the truck,” you demanded, your voice edged with frustration.

Logan’s head snapped towards you, surprise flashing in his eyes. “What?”

“I said stop the truck, or I’ll jump, and I won’t hesitate. Do not test me right now, I swear, Logan,” you grumbled, your tone leaving no room for doubt. Your sudden tantrum catches him off guard, and for a moment, the confident Logan you’re used to falters. The sweet little peach he thought he knew is nowhere to be found, replaced by someone fierce and unpredictable.

It intrigues him. Something in your defiance pulls at him, piquing his curiosity. He’s not sure what you’re planning, but he wants to find out. Without a word, he slows the car, watching you closely, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

The tension in the car was thick, suffocating even, as you glared at Logan, fury burning in your eyes. The moment felt like it could explode any second, and you weren’t willing to sit there another minute. With a sharp huff, you pushed the door open and stormed out of the car, the cool night air hitting your face like a slap.

“Peach!” Logan’s voice boomed, filled with an urgency that barely masked his frustration. He fumbled with his seatbelt, the metal buckle clinking violently before he freed himself and followed you out. The car door slammed behind him, reverberating in the stillness. “What the hell are you doing?!”

You didn’t stop. “I’m going to my friends, and you can’t stop me!” Your voice was a defiant shout, each word a hammer striking the fragile foundation of whatever was left between you two. Your footsteps were quick, determined to leave him and everything he represented behind.

Logan’s grunt was more animal than man, filled with a rawness that made your heart lurch. “Peach, I swear, get back in the fucking car!” His voice cracked through the night, a desperate command that echoed around you.

But you didn’t turn back. Not this time. “No! And stop calling me that, that’s not even my name!” You shot back, your words slicing through the tension like a blade, final and unyielding.

As you thought you’d finally put enough distance between yourself and his truck, something shifted beneath you—your feet were no longer pounding against the pavement. You shrieked in surprise, your arms flailing as you tried to break free. But before you could fully process what was happening, you were momentarily released, only for Logan to scoop you up again, this time slinging you over his shoulder with a grunt of determination.

"You're not going anywhere, not even in that dress," Logan growled, his voice rough and unwavering, sending a chill down your spine. You writhed in his grasp, pounding your fists against his broad back with all the force you could muster.

"Let me go! Please! Help, someone!" Your voice rang out, desperate and frantic, but the night offered no solace. The street was eerily quiet, not a single car in sight, no one to hear your cries. The only response was the echo of your own voice and the steady, unyielding pace of Logan’s steps as he carried you back towards his truck.

Logan wasted no time strapping you into the passenger seat, his hands moving with a practiced efficiency that left no room for protest. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud, and before you could unbuckle yourself, he was already climbing into the driver’s seat. Your frustration bubbled over, and you flailed your arms, grunting and throwing a full-blown tantrum like a five-year-old denied their favorite toy.

But then Logan’s voice erupted, filling the car with a booming authority that silenced you instantly. “ENOUGH!” The word hung in the air, heavy and final. Your arms froze mid-motion, and you stared at him with your brows furrowed and lips pouting, the anger in your eyes now mixed with a hint of confusion.

Logan’s gaze softened just a fraction, but his tone remained firm as he continued, “I’m just doing what your dad wants me to do here, Peach. So help me God, if you wanna go hang out with your friends past curfew, fine, I’ll let you go. But not this one!” His voice was low, edged with a protectiveness that made your heart skip a beat. “I’m not letting you go out there to that fucking stupid party where you could probably get drugged or have alcohol shoved down your throat without your consent; no fucking way.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, the car was filled with nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, the tension between you both palpable.

Logan’s eyes flicked over to you, taking in the way your chest still heaved with heavy, frustrated breaths. He understood why. The anger bubbling inside you wasn’t just about this moment—it was about the bigger picture, the suffocating sense of disappointment that came from a reality that refused to bend to your desires. You craved freedom, the kind that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

All you wanted was to be like the others out there, those who could breeze past curfew without a second thought, who laughed and danced through the night without anyone holding them back. Hell, they didn’t even have curfews anymore, not since they turned twenty-one. But here you were, feeling like the world was passing you by, like you were missing out on all the big, exhilarating experiences that came with being young and reckless.

You’d never touched alcohol, never gone to a party where the night stretched into the early hours, never done anything that could be described as recklessly fun. And it gnawed at you. The longing for that freedom, for the chance to let loose and live a little, was a weight on your chest, one that no amount of logic or concern from Logan could lift.

Logan watched you quietly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he saw the storm brewing in your eyes, the conflict between the person you were and the person you wanted to be. He knew he couldn’t give you the freedom you craved, not in this moment. But he couldn’t ignore your pain, either.

Logan leaned over, his movements deliberate as he unbuckled your seatbelt. You watched him, confusion flickering in your eyes as the sharp edges of your anger began to soften. His gaze met yours, steady and calm, as he murmured, “C’mere.”

Before you could fully process what was happening, his hand found your thigh, firm yet gentle as he lifted you up and guided you to sit on his lap, sideways. The shift in position felt unexpected, your body tensing for a moment before you let yourself relax into the warmth of his embrace.

Logan’s strong arms wrapped around you, guiding your body to lean against his chest. He carefully positioned your head on his shoulder, his touch tender as if he knew exactly how to soothe the turmoil raging inside you. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid feel of his chest rising and falling beneath you, gradually eased the tension from your muscles.

In his arms, the world outside the car seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet, shared space. The anger and frustration still simmered, but now, in Logan’s embrace, it felt more manageable, less like a storm and more like a lingering cloud.

Logan's voice rumbled softly against your ear as he spoke, the firmness in his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m taking you home, alright? Whether you like it or not, I don’t care. But if you want to go out with your girlfriends tomorrow night doing other things than PARTYING, you bet your ass I’m gonna lock you in the house myself. Deal?”

You didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his words settling in as you considered his offer. It wasn’t exactly what you wanted, but it was better than nothing. The compromise, though not ideal, felt like a small victory. So, without saying a word, you nodded your head against his shoulder, accepting his terms.

Logan seemed to take your silent agreement as enough, his arms tightening around you in a way that felt protective rather than restrictive. The frustration still lingered, but there was also a sense of relief in knowing that, at least for tonight, you didn’t have to keep fighting.

“Okay,” Logan murmured as he turned the key, the engine of the truck rumbling to life. You instinctively started to shift, ready to slide off his lap and back into the passenger seat, but his hand on your thigh halted your movement.

“Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” His voice held a teasing edge, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes as they locked onto yours.

“But, you’re about to dri—” you began, but Logan cut you off with a grunt.

“I don’t care,” he said, his gaze intense, the authority in his tone leaving no room for argument. “Make yourself comfortable and sit on my lap like a good girl, no more tantrum.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, your breath catching in your throat as you met his stare. The tension from earlier was still there, but now it was mixed with something else, something that made your pulse quicken. His grip on your thigh was firm, but his touch was still gentle, almost reassuring.

Slowly, you settled back into his lap, your body leaning against his solid frame as the truck began to roll forward. There was a strange comfort in the way he held you, the familiar scent of him filling your senses. The fight had left you, replaced by a quiet acceptance, your earlier anger melting away as you rested your head against his shoulder.

The ride was wrapped in a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. For some reason, being around Logan soothed you in a way that nothing else had for a long time. It was a feeling you’d longed for, a sense of security and warmth that you hadn’t realized how much you missed until now.

Even though you had your dad, it wasn’t the same. You were never really close with him. The glue that held your family together had always been your late mother, the one who bridged the gap between you and your father. But when she passed away from that illness when you were seventeen, everything changed. The dynamic between you and your dad became something different—just plain family.

He loved you, you knew that, but it was a love that felt distant, like an obligation rather than a connection. And you loved him back, but only just enough. There was a gap, a void left by your mother’s absence, that neither of you knew how to fill. You’d drifted apart, existing in the same space but not truly together.

But with Logan, it was different. Even in the quiet, even without saying a word, there was a comfort in his presence that made you feel like you weren’t so alone. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body against yours—it was like a balm to the aching loneliness you carried.

The warmth of your house greeted you as soon as you unlocked the front door, a comforting contrast to the cool night air outside. You stepped inside, the familiar scent of home wrapping around you like a blanket. With a tired sigh, you tossed the keys into the bowl on the console table, the clatter echoing in the quiet hallway. Without a word, you made your way upstairs, leaving Logan standing in the entryway, the silence between you stretching out once more.

Logan watched you disappear up the stairs, a heaviness settling over him. With a resigned sigh, he headed straight for the kitchen, his boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. He grabbed a bottle of scotch from the cabinet, the glass container cold to the touch as he unscrewed the cap, pouring it down the glass.

Taking a generous sip, Logan flopped down onto your couch, the cushions sinking under his weight. The remote was within reach, and with a flick of his wrist, he turned on the TV. The soft glow of the screen filled the room, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

But even as the TV droned on in the background, Logan’s mind wasn’t on whatever was playing. He took another sip of his beer, letting the quiet comfort of your home settle around him, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the night.

After slipping into more comfortable clothes, you hesitated at the top of the stairs, hoping that Logan was still there. The night had left you feeling unsettled, and the thought of him being gone added to the unease. Slowly, you made your way downstairs, the soft fabric of your clothes brushing against your skin, grounding you.

As you reached the living room, you cleared your throat, the sound breaking the stillness. Logan, who had been staring at the TV without really watching, turned his head towards you, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something in his gaze—concern, maybe relief—before he watched you walk towards him.

Without saying a word, you sat down on the couch beside him, the space between you feeling both intimate and vast. You looked at the glass of scotch in Logan’s hand, your curiosity piqued. “Can I try?” you asked, your voice soft but eager.

Logan glanced at the glass and then back at you. He simply handed it over without a word, his expression neutral. The amber liquid sloshed slightly as you took the glass from him. The warmth of the scotch felt foreign in your hand, but there was a sense of anticipation as you held it. Logan watched you silently, his gaze steady as you prepared to take your first sip.

You raised the glass to your lips, the rich, amber liquid catching the light. With a deep breath, you took your first sip. The taste was immediately intriguing—complex and smoky, with a hint of sweetness that lingered pleasantly on your tongue. It was unlike anything you’d ever had before, a unique blend of flavors that seemed to dance across your palate.

The warmth of the scotch spread from your mouth down your throat, a slow burn that settled into a comforting glow. You took another sip, savoring the taste, letting the sensation wash over you. The flavor was bold and sophisticated, a little bit of adventure in a glass.

“You like it?” Logan asked, raising one eyebrow and giving you a half-smile. His gaze was curious as he watched you take in the experience.

You folded your lips, glancing down at the glass before meeting his eyes again and nodding. “It’s not bad,” you admitted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

Logan chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Would you trade your life for this or for your peach soda?” he joked.

You giggled, the scotch giving you a carefree lightness. “Peach soda for the win,” you declared with a playful grin. But then, without hesitation, you raised the glass to your lips and chugged the rest of the liquor in one swift motion.

Logan watched with a mixture of amusement and surprise. “Says one who’d trade her life for the peach soda,” he remarked with a scoff, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

He grabbed the empty glass from your hand and, with a quick motion, poured another round for himself. The scotch swirled in the glass as he settled back onto the couch, the warmth of the liquor evident in his relaxed demeanor.

“I want one again,” you murmured, a pout forming on your lips as you looked at the empty glass.

Logan sighed, giving in with a resigned smile. “Fine, here,” he said, pouring another generous measure of scotch into the glass. But instead of reaching for the glass, you snatched the bottle right from his hand.

“Wha—hey whoa, Peach,” Logan started, surprised.

“I have my limits, don’t worry,” you replied with a mischievous glint in your eye.

Logan frowned, his hand reaching for the bottle. “Right, considering this is your first time and you like this more than your peach soda, I think that’s not a great idea. Come on, give me the bottle.”

With a shriek of playful defiance, you pushed yourself off the couch and stood in front of him, waving the bottle mockingly. “Watch me,” you smirked, lifting the bottle to your lips.

You took a generous sip, the rich warmth of the scotch flowing smoothly down your throat. Logan watched, amused. The newfound confidence in your actions only seemed to grow with each sip, the scotch emboldening you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

As the minutes ticked by, you began to feel a subtle shift within you. The warmth from the scotch seemed to spread through your body, making you feel more alive, more fearless. It was as if the world outside had softened, the edges of your worries and reservations blurring into the background.

“Hmmm,” you hummed contentedly, taking a step closer to where Logan sat. With a playful glint in your eye, you placed the bottle on the coffee table and then gracefully straddled his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Logan’s expression shifted subtly, his initial concern giving way to something more intimate. His eyes softened, the playful warmth of the moment casting a new light on his face. He adjusted his position slightly to accommodate you, his hands resting gently on your hips.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted tonight," you murmured, looking down to his lips before gazing up to his eyes. "Will you forgive me... Daddy?"

Logan looks at you surprised, he couldn't believe what he just heard. It's something he has never heard anyone addressed him with that before. The tension wasn't comforting it was rather more, sensual. Logan slowly leans forward inching closer to your face, he looks down to your lips before murmuring, "What did you just call me?"

You giggled, "Daddy." You repeated. "You're more like a dad to me than my dad ever was," you giggled. "The only difference is, I wanna fuck you." The scotch is now talking. "You were right, all those times you've caught me fucking myself with my fingers through my window, I wanted you to watch me," You stare at him with doe eyes. "And thank fuck, you watched me."

Logan groaned from listening to you talk like that. His hands gripping your hips, throwing his head back against the cushion. "You promised me you wanted me to feel your cock," you pouted, starting to move your hips, rubbing your clothed cunt against his denim jeans. Inching your face close to him, you whispered against his lips, "So give me your cock, Daddy."

Logan grumbled something under his breath, his gaze darkening as the playful tension between you ignited into something more intense. Without warning, his hand moved to your throat, not with force but with a possessive firmness that sent a shiver down your spine. In one swift motion, he pulled you in, crashing his lips against yours.

The kiss was searing, filled with the passion that had been simmering between you all night. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that took your breath away, the earlier tenderness giving way to something more primal. The heat of the moment enveloped you both, and you felt your heart race as the kiss deepened, becoming more feral and uncontrolled.

Logan’s hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer as his mouth claimed yours with a hunger that made your head spin. The kiss became sloppy, desperate even, as the two of you lost yourselves in the intensity of the connection. You struggled to keep up, your breath hitching as you tried to match his pace, but it was overwhelming, intoxicating. The world around you seemed to blur, your senses consumed by the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your body, and the way his lips demanded everything from you.

You never stopped grinding your hips against his clothed cock as both of your lips were dancing with each other. The bulge in his jeans kept growing bigger and bigger until he decided it's finally enough to torture him; he broke the kiss and lift you up before his hands went to undo his jeans.

You watched the way he swiftly pulling down his jeans along with his boxers, his cock slapped against his abdomen. Shit, you thought. He's nowhere near small, he's big and fat. You wonder if it's going to fit in your small cunt and your small mouth. Logan noticed your demeanor has changed as he smirked to himself.

"Don't worry, Peach. I'll show you how." You looked at him confused. "You're gonna put my cock in your mouth first," You inhaled sharply before nodding your head, Logan smiled at you, happy that you're obeying to what he wants you to do. "Good girl, get on your knees."

Logan walked you through it, by telling you to grab his cock with both hands. "Give it a kiss." He urged, nudging his chin cockily. You hesitatingly kissed the raging red tip of his cock that has his already pre-cum leaking from the tiny slit. "Lick it, peach." He commanded, you obeyed. Dragging your warm tongue out from your mouth and made contact with the skin.

Logan watching you so innocently making out with his tip, makes his heart beat faster, eager to slide his cock down your throat and fuck your stupidly innocent face. "Thaaaat's good, peach. Put 'em all in your mouth." Before you do that, you fixated your gaze on Logan before moving away to inch your face close to his heavy balls.

You decided to improvise and see if he'd like that, Logan watches you intensely and groaned as you drag your tongue from the bottom of his cock upwards to meet his tip before putting him all in your mouth. Hollowing your cheeks, and teasingly rolled your eyes close to show that you're enjoying it so much. And it did sent Logan to heaven, watching his little peach enjoy sucking his girth.

"You like my cock, peaches? .... Yeah? .... Well come on, put them all in ya." Logan muttered as he raised his hip slowly upward, pushing his cock into your mouth further to reach your throat. When you gagged, Logan moaned. You thought that was a good sign, especially when you couldn't control your saliva as it drips down to his pubic hair and all. "Fffuck." Logan cursed watching you bob your head and up down his cock.

"Feels s'good.. Peach, god." Logan rolled his eyes and lean his head back, his hand rest on top of your head, fisting your hair. He grunted, "'want more." He murmured under his breath before he decided to take control. He bobbed your head up and down, increasing the speed while also thrusting his hips upward, fucking your throat.

"Fuck yeah, you better think twice before you talk back to me like that in the car." Logan grunted, watching you struggle to breathe, your eyes getting teary and choked on his cock. Logan laughs rather maniacally, watching you struggle turns him on even more.

"You wanna feel how it feels like to have a warm cum slides down your throat, peaches?" Your eyes widened. "Yeah.. I'll show you. 'M gonna cum soon, Oh.. So good, peach." Logan moaned, eyebrows scrunched together with his eyes closed.

Placing your palm on his thighs, you tried to at least breathe a little. You didn't want to pull away as you don't want you disappoint him. You can feel Logan's tip twitch in your mouth, you take it he's about to cum soon.

Without warning, Logan let out the loudest moan ever, spilling his warm cum down your throat. His hips stuttered a little, giving you one final thrust to make sure he emptied everything in your mouth. And you gladly took them all. As Logan pulls his cock out from your mouth, he watched you swallow his everything down your throat as he smirked in proud.

You watched him with your famous doe-eyes when you want something but Logan just laughed at you, mocking.

"You think after you pulled that stunt on the road you deserve my cock in your pussy? Hell fucking no, peach. At least not tonight, now get to bed."

thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! if you love my writing feel free to check my other works here

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[ba9go]

to be katsuki's (is to win, always)

thinking about the way katsuki has grown over the past few seasons makes me really emotional. bakugou katsuki, you win no matter what. katsuki is victory incarnate. just loving him feels like i've won already.

prohero!katsuki x prohero!reader, reader comes home injured, hurt/comfort, fluff (sfw)

your ears were ringing when you reached the front door. your head was pounding, your vision was foggy, and your body was finally hit with all the fatigue from today's mission.

you're battered and bruised, bleeding from a gaping wound on your thigh. your hero costume is torn and tattered. you could've stayed onsite to get patched up by the medics, but the medics had their hands full with other injured pros and civilians too. you were tired, and you wanted to go home.

so you gritted your teeth and dragged yourself home.

you're slumped against the door as you're fumbling with your keys. something wet drips from your temple, down the side of your cheek. you wipe it, thinking it's sweat, but it's blood. no wonder you were feeling a little light-headed.

you're still struggling with the damn keys when the door suddenly swings open. you lose your balance, knees buckling like a baby deer, and you're sent teetering forward towards the floor.

you're caught halfway. a strong arm wraps around you, catching you by the waist easily. you don't resist.

katsuki pulls you towards himself until your face is smooshed against his chest. his free hand cradles the back of your head, carefully avoiding the gash from where you must've hurt your head earlier.

"'suki," you murmured against his chest. "i look like shit, don't i?"

"you look like you got into a good fight."

"do you think i won?" you tilt your head to look up at katsuki.

"i know you won," katsuki says easily, confidently. you smile.

"how'd you know?"

katsuki's eyes are soft, brimming with love and pride. it makes you a little shy, but you love it when katsuki looks at you like this. it reminds you of the way katsuki looked at you on your wedding day.

except that this time, you're not walking down the aisle in a beautiful lace gown; you're barely even managing to stand in the doorway, dripping blood onto the carpet.

"you're my wife. of course ya'd win."

idk katsuki just makes me feel like i want to win. like i have to win. like im already winning.

taglist (thank you for your support!!): @anicaaa67 @maddietries @nemisimp @an-na-bella @valeriyaaak @buggie07 @v3n7s @deimosjay @iguanahykhv @zaiban2989 @girls-overflower @notmeduhh @dreamcastgirl99

[darkdemeter]

THE THREAT OF INTIMACY

◤✘BUCKY BARNES FILED CLIPPINGS | CATALOGUE Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

NOTES: ↳ You want some tissues with this fic? WARNINGS! ↳ Angst — insecure reader and depictions of negative thoughts and fear of sexual intimacy — profanity — SMUT 18+ mdni — virgin!reader/loss of virginity — unprotected sex — hurt/comfort — oral (female receiving) — le dasha of body worship —cream pie — mafia bucky being a huge softy for his wife — I think that's it SUMMARY: ↳ A beautiful bride marrying the man of your dreams. But when faced with what comes after the vows and first dance as Mr. and Mrs Barnes, you suggest that a particular arrangement be made.

✎ 7.4k

@mostlymarvelgirl @hollyseb @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @identity2212 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @boobsbeesbongos @mrsnikstan @floralwsloki @mcira @schneeflocky @greatenthusiasttidalwave

↳ BUCKY BARNES TAGLISTS

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It’s not so much of a grand show once the curtain falls. There hangs a greed of mischief and ominous silence. He looks at you, blue eyes piercing the exposed skin of your back, the white gown hangs an elegant silhouette on you. Its embroidered sculpts become melded into the fabricated folds as you stop midst the gate of your saunter forwards, each step a reminder drawing nearer as you do to the bed. 

Did you really have to do this? 

It was an era of change after all. But his seniors were old school, and so you expected him to be as well in the matters of the marriage bed. It is expected of you — the both of you. Your hands fish through the elaborate style of your hair, musing it loose and gaining a comforted scalp as you turn away from the bed and walk over to the large windows that extend from top to bottom, overlooking the twinkling space of stars fallen to earth. 

Being far away from it means you are torn from it. Once you step foot back in that place, you are no longer the girl you once were.

You are now Mrs. Barnes. A wolf among sheep. The queen of the Bratva. A cooperation of mobsters who have bought police eyes and silenced officials of the government. But was this status and power worth what is intended to follow? 

You didn’t have a real choice in the matter. Well, maybe you did. You fell for him, you won’t deny it, and you fell hard for him. Other pickings were not as savoury, nor did they explode with the chemistry you shared with him. But this wasn’t the only factor. 

It’d been clear that your hearts were set on one another. With the subtle whispers into the other’s ear, hugging and kissing, fingers entwined, or the more assuring hand on the low of your back. This intimacy had been a flavour sweet – loving – and you came to embrace these softer textures of your life at his side. His proposal was impossibly expected but even then, you couldn’t contain your surprise and eagerly said yes.

You never gave the thought of what came next exactly. The very intimate aftermath. Until his mother pulled you aside, a smile on her painted ruby lips as she guided you to walk with her through the hedged gardens. That conversation is one you will never forget. Her love is shocking, her devotion to her husband and family, you can hardly stand the thought of not loving her in return. 

But that talk shocked you. 

Half of it because of the gory details she regaled, but the other half because of your own mind. Your poisoned mind that festers with anxious insecurities. 

Of course it’s expected. Your virginity doesn’t exactly wave you as an expert, no matter what talks of womanhood you are subjected to. But by the standard of Mr. Bucky Barnes, his former bachelor days had given him what you lack: experience. 

What if I’m so bad that he’s repulsed by me? 

He’ll only need to take one look at me and that’ll be enough.

What if I can’t make him cum? 

What exactly am I supposed to do— I don’t think I’m ready. 

You continue on in your panicked, internal reverie, hand raised to rest your lips against your knuckles, the shine of diamonds catching in the dark reflection, a momentary blindness befalls you that then causes your stomach to writhe with unease.

“Hey,” your husband whispers, breath warm over the shell of your ear and his lips tease the curve of your exposed neck with light kisses. Your body flinches at the suddenness of his appearance right behind you, his chest to your back; you feel tears deep into the corner of your eyes, hot and wet and annoying. The stronghold of air chokes you in the back of your throat.

“Mm, hi…” 

Your forced smile is quick to fade, just barely passing back a glance at him before looking away. He catches this falter. His expression is shadowed by a troubled frown. He noticed the way you flinched before him. And that glistening of tears is hard to miss when it comes to you.  

“Talk to me,” he presses gently, “you okay?” 

His hands are strong and sure as he holds you, turns you to face him directly now, putting the window to your back. Your ring bound hand massages over your face with a breath hollowing out in a deep sigh. 

“Yeah. I’m good, I think we should get some rest. It’s been a big day.” 

Before you can step around him, his hand circles the entirety around your forearm, holding you in place.

“You don’t want to…” At the trailing end of his words with his blue eyes alluding to his meaning, the sting of tears prick your vision again and a flush paints your cheeks and neck red. He lets you walk away with the train of your dress flowing behind you like a silken shadow. 

“I don’t think tonight.”

Or any other night… 

Bucky’s throat bobs with a thick swallow, nodding as he watches you. Always a man who knows what to do, how to maintain composure — his power — he feels that confidence wane like the fading moon. Powerless.

The words brewing on your tongue are tart, poisonous and unpleasant. Not the sort you would ever want to say to your husband, no less on your wedding night. 

You’d ventured over to the vanity by now, you say beneath a shaken exhale, “I’ll look to hire a mistress.”

“Excuse me?” He gasps sharply. 

Your reply, voice short of anything joking or playful. You sit before the vanity and bend forward, unfastening the golden clasps on your heels before you set them aside. “I’ll have a mistress contracted for you. We’ll do everything else together but she will… provide the sexual affairs.”

“And you?” His question makes you pause midway of turning fully towards the mirror, only barely do you see him trail the outskirts of the room, just only in focus of your view. With a sigh, you pluck your earrings out, saying more so to your own reflection than him, “I’ve gone this long without sex, Bucky. I’m sure I can go on the rest of my life without it.” 

“No, no, we’re not doing things like that. I married you — I want you.” Why is that just too hard to believe? You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes in the mirror, so you look away, anywhere that doesn’t meet his gaze. “Honey, where the fuck did this come from?”

You don’t answer. The man is practically brought to his knees before you like a servant ready to obey you like a goddess. Treatment he committed to you, though you don’t feel deserving of. He spins you slowly on your stool until you face him, knelt before you, he tries to find the stunning awe of your eyes only to find you hiding away from him. “Did somebody say something to you? Who was it?” 

Quick to spare someone needless bloodshed, you stand abruptly, almost knocking him back and storm away from him by some feet, putting distance between you both, your voice carries over your shoulder, “Nobody said anything. I just think this arrangement will be better for us.”

You’re blinking back a curtain of tears that threaten to unleash. A wave rises high like a tsunami in your soul with these stupid, incessant thoughts. 

You’re imperfect. 

You’re ugly. 

Let another woman – a beautiful woman – please him. 

He’ll regret marrying you once he sees you.

Fingers ringing the course of massaging your temples, you are slowly being drowned by many, many thoughts like these. They're endless. They’re relentless and they are loveless. Not once do you give yourself the internal piece of mind that maybe, just maybe, there is hope in this relationship. That they are wrong. That he won’t judge or run from you. But who can say for sure?

It’s best to play it safe and keep what dignity you have left. Despite the spitefulness of seeing him become satisfied by another woman, it would be better than depriving him for the rest of his life. And you care more for his own happiness. It’s all you want for him. 

He speaks up again, his voice going stern in his verbal study. “So, let me get this straight: I marry the love of my life, the very essence I love and breath for, only to… fuck another woman. After I swore a vow to you.” 

“Bucky, you’re making it sound—”

“I’ll go without sex for the rest of my life than have some whore in our bed.” 

You spin on your heel, mouth agape. Finally you look at him long enough as he works to slowly approach you and he sees just how badly you’re hurting on the inside. “Bucky—” 

How quick he is to cut you off before you can even utter another heinous thing, now reaching you. “I wouldn’t stand at the altar for just anyone. I gave up that bachelor life to have you. I chose you. I want to have all of you.”

You mutter, mumble off-centred excuses that come out as broken noises on a record, and then you let out a shaken breath, chest feeling like it's being cleaved and ripped apart to the point your body trembles. You try your hardest to suppress your quiet sniffles as the flow of tears begin, fingers hastefully dapping away as to not smear your makeup; your only means of perfection that you’ve felt in a while.

When you saw yourself in the white dress every little girl dreams of for the first time in a bridal shop far too expensive for the average, then again in the dressing room with hair and makeup done to the nines, it all almost made you forget about the gut-wrenching aftermath once the reception concluded. That you were walking down that aisle with a purpose you would never come to regret. 

Was it all a foolish fairytale to idolise this facade of beauty?

The hand bearing his ring uses a force so gentle you think it’s the end, that when you look up, he will be gone. That your wedding dress will fade into your everyday jeans and grandmother’s patchy sweater you treasure too much to throw away, her scent still lingering there to inhale on a bad day. 

He drives your focus upwards until your eyes meet, your vision hindered behind a blur that wets your lashes as you blink. A vibrant colour of blue that once intimidated you now attends to assure you, to quiet your riled fears, but there is a reluctance to let your guard down this time. 

His hands cradle your jaw in his hold with a promise to never let you go. To never let you know this fear again.

“I won’t judge. I won’t run in disgust or whatever you think I’m gonna do. I think my vows can be credited to that, yeah?” 

Your bottom lip sinks inward slightly, teeth biting down hard on the plump of flesh, muttering a softly broken, “I-I guess.” 

“You’re scared.”

It is shame that brings your eyes to falter, chin wobbling until it crinkles. “Yes…”

It’s like he could read you, knowing that your next move is to shove him off – push him away – he leans down and presses his lips to your own. Warm, a little roughened yet still retaining a softened plush of texture, he breathes some sort of cooling flame that soothes you if not for a short while. A rattled, sharpened gasp teeters on the edge of your voice and he parts from the kiss with a low and silky drawl. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, love. We can take our time with this.” 

You’re hoisted into his arms, strength unyielding as he carries you over to the bed and sets you atop the mattress like porcelain. For him, he’s scared how easily it is to break you, no matter how hard you hide this fragility. You use the outside of your hand to wipe at your nose and exhale loudly, mind prattling on with your swirling thoughts. 

Pathetic. 

He’ll definitely need a mistress after that display. 

And all you’re better off getting is a toy. 

His family will ridicule you. He’s going to tell everyone that his little wife refused to have sex with him on his wedding night.

Poisonous thoughts. They aren’t going away. With a sniffle, you watch Bucky begin to strip himself down, leaving himself to his boxers. However much you admire the act in itself, it’s far too intimate than anything else. The idea of you doing that for him sickens you. You become repulsed by yourself. 

Your mind is a hideous beast. 

Like you.

Shut up!

You make this wedding dress look ugly.

“Come on, doll,” Bucky’s voice breaks through the hazardous cloud like a lighthouse awaiting for you ashore, guiding you to safety. He offers you a smile you try to match only to feel your lips twitch, muscles cringing as you keep the well of tears and cries inside. He invites you to join him and you move up the bed. You can’t bear to shed the second skin of your dress to reveal the lavish, risque lace and frilly lingerie you’d picked out at the encouragement of your bridesmaids.

You never really gave it much thought before until it was too late. This culture of intimacy you perceive as a threat. 

Your husband doesn’t question you. Instead he lays beside you, arms stretched out to invite you into his embrace. An invite you half-heartedly indulge in, inching yourself awkwardly to his side but remaining to keep some inches from him.

Head laid on the tucked shelf of your arms, hair mused to fall over your features, you intend to wallow in silence until exhaustion overtakes you into sleep. 

You’ve ruined his day.

“What are you thinking in that pretty head of yours?” The question is directed to you, you’re sure. But it also sounds like he’s asking himself for the answer to a riddle he cannot begin to understand. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your day…”

The contortion of his features almost has your body locking up into a tightly wound position, the form of his dark brows bevelling in the middle, eyes widening until the blackened pupils shrink into tiny dots. 

“What?” he sputters, “No– no, honey. This is our day.”

Our day?

There is a storm of emotion battling in his own eyes, however, he is just as quick to hide it from you. He trails again to caress the line of your jaw, his thumb strokes along your bottom lip. “Love, I will never force you into anything. Not your first time, not your hundredth. You hear me, yeah?”

Your eyes only look to stare at him with a stillness, before you absently nod. Then you turn, putting your back to him. You cannot bring yourself to look at him out of sheer guilt that no matter what, he cannot silence the honest and cruel torment of voices in your head. Not forever. They will find something to pick out and gnaw at to send you into this spiral. 

If you could do so without the judgement of your husband, you would cry and howl into your pillow for hours until the perfect mirage of your makeup fell apart, you’d spare the dress from being a ridiculed taint by being on you any longer. You’d be on the phone to your sister pleading for her to keep you company and distract you from this pain, you’d cry into her chest as she held you with all the strength she possessed. You’d ask your parents to call you beautiful, even though it’s a lie. 

But you keep it all in. And it breaks you so harshly on the inside that it cuts you like thousands of shards shredding you apart. 

You’re not sure exactly how much time has passed between the void of silence. You can’t sleep. The tyrannical storm of emotion swarming inside you makes it impossible to even try lest you break and let it all out, letting it show. 

“B-Bucky?” you squeak, clearing your throat and you hear him hum immediately in response, the weight of him rolling over until his body is a ghost along your back. “Can I… uhm, can I ask you something?” 

Aside from the odd hiccup and sniffle here and there, you hold firm to sounding as you were before, the bubbly and playful girl Bucky couldn’t help but tease until you were a flustering mess, the girl who attempted to flirt back only to fumble over your words and proceed conversation with a shy smile. The girl he fell in love with. The one he gladly stood at the altar for. Before the voices.

“Of course, doll. Anything.”

 Nervously your fingers flex and wind together, thumbing the fabric over your breasts, the enclosed circlet of cleavage pressed closely together. You wish you could giggle at the way you caught Bucky gawking numerous times in supposed awe of you throughout the day. He often is like that every time he sees you though, now that you come to think about it. 

Supposedly.

Not likely real…

I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I?

With a heavy swallow coated heavily in your hesitance, you take a breath in hope that proves to fail to settle your nerves. “You’ve been with plenty of girls before me… you know how to please them, what did…” you pause upon a whimper, “were they all the same?”

The amount of strain behind your vocal cords makes you cringe in disgust. You sound like—

“No, they were all different. Unique to each girl.” You can almost sense the way his head props up to look at you. His eyes staring a cool layer of heat into your back. “Just like you.”

“How can you say that?” Your voice betrays the toxins of a heart and mind poisoned together over far too long. Bucky hears the loathe of self in your words, dry and cynical, unbelieving in his words and your own image. “You’ve never even seen what I look like… you don’t know how I’ll be, I’ve never—” 

Your hands press over your eyes in hope to suppress the tears glassing over your vision. 

“Hey,” Bucky admonishes with a low drawl, tutting you, “hey. I’m not expecting the fucking grandios of perfect sex. I’m expecting you and only you. I want what makes you and your body unique.”

You turn your head to see him, chin wobbling slightly. How he’d crawl through hot coals and glass for you, seeing the beauty of what you see are flaws. He then grins and for a moment, it disturbs you how he could smile when you’re like this. 

“I wasn’t the best for my first time. In fact, I’m telling you–”

“Bucky, no, you don’t have to,” you interject with a stifled cough. You shoot to sit up and your husband follows, chuckling. 

“No, I will tell you I was shit at sex. Horrible. My first time—”

Your hands paw and pat at his mouth to silence him to no avail, your chorus of hiccups and sniffles turn into shy giggles. 

“I–couldn’t–”

You giggle a little louder this time. “Shush, Bucky! No-ho!” 

“Couldn’t even– find the cl—”

Your fingers are a heavenly pillar even as they hold his lips prisoner from speaking aloud. He smirks behind them and plants delicate kisses to them, enamoured by the faint smile on your face and the softness of your eyes. Seeing you cry and be tied to these human emotions makes a fire burn in his chest. Like for the longest time, he’s finally found someone who can make him feel whole. If only he could help you feel the same. In the make of those blue, puppy dog eyes, you crack and scoff out a snort. “New York’s infamous Mob Lord…” 

He beams from ear to ear at the unfinished implication, taking the time to fall so hard in love with you all over again. He leans his forehead against yours with a rumbled, “Mhm.”

Mascara smudged under the barrage of wet lashes and tears, your lips part with a shaky breath. “Bucky?”

He hums again, so you press on, throat suddenly tight. “Do you think you could make me feel that way?”

His response is instant, deep voice trailing along the bridge of your neck, much like it had done earlier as his arms circle the lower curve of your arse and hoist you until you balance atop his thighs, keeping his weight on his haunches. “Moya zvezda, that and more.” 

Your arms drape over the burly muscle of his shoulders, breath mingling with his in hot gusts laboured with anticipation, you hear him groan as you ever so slightly lower your hips against his and he pushes you that little higher on the pedestal he holds you on, it’s height greater than any earthly accomplishments men can dream of. 

It’s why you’re his star. 

I love this man.

With all my heart. 

His front presses fully into you, he works to weave one hand beneath the shower of your gown and feeling along the sheer stocking attached to your garter; he groans again, more feral sounding in his sensational marvel of how perfect you are. How blessed he is to be the one to touch you like this. To hold and have you so intimately. 

At his touch, your body erupts with a shudder, momentarily staggered by the electric push and pull and thriving buzz between your legs; though the stir of arousal isn’t foreign to you, it certainly is a stark contrast with his attentive action. 

His lips smother the embers of your trembling gasps with a kiss, passion tasting as a fine wine on his tongue. The kiss is paced slowly to attend to your cautious nature, an utter surety that he won’t make any move against you. You take no part in stopping him as he pushes aside the obstructive barrier of your panties. 

The way his fingers are gentle to stroke your core has you keening, teetering on a choked whine, his work deliberate in focusing on the pearl of your sensitive clit and the slickened beginnings of your folds. His hands that have sinned many times now amend themselves with the purity of worshipping every inch, exploring you with the intent to please. His thumb rolls in drawn circles, eliciting from you mewls and heated pants of air too heavy to stay in your lungs, cooing at your slow induction. 

“Atta girl.”

I’m alright. 

“You’re doing amazing.”

I’m safe. 

His two fingers run along your entrance, causing your spine to arch slightly and he smirks, pulling from the kiss. 

“You like that, doll? Yeah?” he asks smoothly, seeing you nod shakily with eyes half lidded. 

Your hands entangle themselves to the bedded roots of his hair, tender as you can to pull with each spark that has your stomach tying knots and your muscles tensing, his thumb begins to roll a little harder and faster. At hearing the apparition of a moan escape you, he applauds you with his encouragement despite the way your hand covers over your mouth to silence these noises.

“Fuck, please again, zvezda. Please.”

“I want to hear you.”

“Please… fuck you sound so beautiful…”

In your stun over his pleas, your hand lowers away and you continue to let your moans lull him, hips moving at a slow crawl against his fingers that press to your core and with a single look you let him know you’re willing. He fights the tantalising grip of your fingers to reach your lips as he pushes two fingers past your folds. Your gasp is a sharp sound to his ears, one of alert that he seeks to comfort you through the kiss.

The trajectory to pull your hips away stabilises and you begin to find that rhythm with each grind and thrust onto his fingers, the waves of pleasure coming from your clit has your stomach tightening. 

“B-Bucky…” you whisper and he swallows your words with a deep moan. Your walls clench around the intrusion of his fingers, moreso when he adds a third, curling them as if to beckon your body furthermore to his touch, to yield your fears and let him set alight that bloom inside your core and unto your bliss. 

You pant harder, “B–ngh… Bucky… th-there.”

“Right there?” He asks with a sultry grin. Your voice comes out in a strangled response. “M—mhm.”

The voice of your whine is his commandment. He installs a level of dedication at gently fucking you with his fingers right where you needed him – wanted him. That swell inside you grows and grows, furthering into a maelstrom that leaves your body shivering, unexpected of where this sudden burst will implode. 

“Good girl, you’re doing so well, doll,” he praises with a low timbre, groaning with a prided grin when you tug a little harder at his hair, your softer nature betraying to act out this darker side of yourself; this almost forbidden wanton. 

I feel…

Your hips move to become greedy and much to Bucky’s approval, feeling the swollen bulge of his cock straining against his boxers has you weak and some instinct to move against it drives you, a louder moan slipping past your lips. Bucky’s mouth leaves a heated trail of passionate nips and teasing flutters of kisses against your neck, spoiling you. 

You gasp and your hands fly to his shoulders to hold you at bay, the sudden shockwave a prelude to ride as your orgasm ascends upon you, he hears the feverish whimpers you make and he purrs, pumping his fingers, “That’s it, love, let go. C’mon, let me feel you cum for me. I’ve got you.”

The suppression of a scream hides in your chest, leaving only a choked sob to rack through you as you thrust and claim your first release, a hot flush of white behind your eyes blinds you, your muscles convulse in tensing and relaxing as you ride out your high. 

Your arms that wound around his shoulders squeeze a little tighter in your recovery, your breath timed to slow down after a few minutes but your body remains to quiver against him. The form of his aroused cock clear and unhidden has your core weeping for more.

“There you go, that’s it,” he coaxes softly with a smile while he eases a kiss to the corner of your lips, “how’re you feeling?” 

“G-good… really like… wow.” The words come out jumbled to you, as if you were still influenced by the strong wine at the reception, having made you reserve your consumption to a very limited amount. 

Bucky hums and withdraws his fingers, leaving you to mewl at the loss. The sight before you has you in some chokehold, a crimson heat flushes into your cheeks and down your neck, rendering your blood into fiery rivers beneath your skin, a sudden jerk picking up in your heartbeat as Bucky cleans the slick of your release from his fingers, the crystalised shade of blue dimming with a certain darkness as the taste of you rolls over his taste buds. 

He’s tasting me…

He moans with a thunderous growl. “Fuck… you taste amazing,” he grins, teeth gleaming with that cute, charming esteem. 

I do?

The warmth in your cheeks glows ten fold, bringing a sight for Bucky to admire. That cute girl who’s face becomes rosy with embarrassment. It’s like he could read your mind and the way he says your name has you at a loss of breath, drawing your attention back to the shine of his eyes. 

“You are exquisite…” 

Following in action as the continuation of his proclamation, his hand finds the spine of your dress and upon reaching the apex between your shoulders. He seeks to pause and his eyes seek out your permission, brows slight to bevel. “May I, Mrs. Barnes?”

The crescents of your palms brush the exterior of his stubble, every inch of your hands covered by the sensational prickling that leaves you like putty. How he stares at you with this amass of love and fondness that feels overwhelming at times. 

He’s just so… perfect.

The return of tears glasses over your eyes and you smile, brightly and toothy and nod, cupping his jaw in your hands before you press a softened kiss to his lips. You feel it in unison with him; it steals the breath from you both. 

“You may, Mr. Barnes.”

With your approval, he draws the zip undone. Anticipation lines your nerves like a trail of gunpowder ready to be set ablaze. He’s testing the waters, ensuring that this is what you want and when you give no indication of refusal, he glides the dress from your shoulders, revelling in the delicate sculpt of your body; the warm, ambient light hitting the surface creates a heavenly glow upon your skin. With the overhanging light above, it frames a golden halo around you as his sights steer upwards. 

Your gown drapes a sultry form over you, accentuating the mounds of your breasts pushed close together and the nakedness of your shoulders and neck. Bucky growls under a vice of hunger. But something lays in the glassy waver of his stare. 

“Please be real?”

His voice barely rises above a near shattered whisper. A man who fears losing you just much as you fear losing him. His voice pleads with you. Your lips part, jaw coming to drop slightly as your eyes widen.

Please be real for me?

“I-I am, Bucky. I’m real…”

The man before you exhales loudly, gasping for breath to keep himself drowning. “Good. Because I want this to be real.”

He doesn’t waste another moment. His mouth clashes against yours, hunger succumbing as he ravishes you with the heated intensity of his kiss, tongue running a pleaful line along your bottom lip. You part them and he awakens the stir of arousal flooding through your veins, tongues dancing in an artistic battle for dominance he undeniably wins. You moan a muffled song and he drinks every lyric of it, intoxicated by it. 

His hands are wild in their exploration, peeling your dress lower to reveal the laces and frills of your lingerie, not permitting you to shy away and hide from him this time, his hands feel every inch of it, mesmerised by the way it fits to you so beautifully that even the most talented of sculptures would struggle to capture your raw and enticing beauty to its complete and apex design. 

Your hands scour to claim the roots of his hair again. This time, you hold no restraint and he loves it. He loves the radiance of confidence you find in every following second. You are claiming what is rightfully yours as his wife. As his one love that he will kill and die for without question. Though time and mortal breath dares to intrude and part you, you find ways around the schemes, momentarily gasping for air within the clash of your lips, too far entranced to pull away. 

His hands glide up your sides until his thumbs are able to tease your stiffened nipples through the thin fabric, groaning at the noises you create from it, his touch sending those blissful tingles throughout your body. When time comes to see you both departed from your kiss, you each still remain to linger, tasting one another in the inch spared between you, chests heaving madly and brushing together. Dress pooled to a rolled belt over your waist, Bucky drinks in every detail of your body. 

Why does he look at me like that? 

His nose buries into you, nestling into the warmth and softness of your body as he utters phrases of praise to your skin, a trail of his devotion painted upon your skin with the invisible ink of his love and adoration for you. 

“You feel what you do to me?” he asks, strong hands guiding your hips down to roll in unison with his, the swollen mound of his erect cock still suffering in confinement has you hiccuping in your stun.

Though your voice is light, you nod as you answer. “Yes.”

“That’s how fucking hot you are,” he says with a deep, velvety drawl, his words slightly muffled by the way his mouth caresses you. “You have me so hard right now, fuck, the things I wanna do to you, doll.”

His confession has you blushing. 

He can’t possibly mean that…

He can’t help himself. He’s a man enslaved at your whim. Though you try to bring this madman to his senses with an embarrassed huff of his name, he only leans in to claim your lips with his, the melding of hunger brings you both into that feverish haze again. Tongues entangled with one another, Bucky’s hands paw and pluck the garments of your lingerie from your form, peeling away the details of floral patterns and lacy sheer to feel the heat of skin below, the way your muscles twitched under his touch. 

You moan between the kiss and allow your hands to feel the soft tresses of his hair between your fingers, carefully weaving through the darkened locks and nails scratching at the roots against his scalp, a rumbling purr escaping him. 

The rock of your hips move together, a desiring fire burning in your core to the point it borders on a painful ache between your legs. Your dress is discarded, left aside with your undressed garments to be reclaimed at a later time. He lays you on your back, your head nested atop the plush cushion of the pillows, bodies flush together without leaving so much as a morsel of space apart. 

Entrapped by his lustful kiss, you thrust and grind your heated sex against him with shocking eager, a whine is tugged from your throat, unsure.

Bucky is quick to assure you of your arousal, that its intoxication is a vice wanted. He uses one arm to support his weight above, caging you, as his other takes hold of your thigh and gropes at it fervently while somewhere in the mixture haze his boxers are tossed aside. His swollen tip oozes with glistening, droplet streams, his size heavy and long that has a gasp escaping you. 

W–will he fit?

Such worrisome thoughts are snuffed out like speckled embers as he deepens the kiss, tongues gliding together and moans and limbs entangle. His tip brushes over the sensitive spot of your clit and your hips take languid actions against his practised thrusts. 

“It’s going to hurt at first,” he mutters across the skin of your jaw, “but it won’t for long. I’m right here, moya zvezda, I promise.”

A crystalline glint appears on the waterline of your eyes, a tender smile on your lips as your lips connect with a chaste kiss. 

“I’m ready, Bucky…”

His blue eyes take the time to carefully read your expression. For a man so immersed in being so gentle and caring with you, you have come to know that with the very same hands he caresses you with – he has broken jaws, bloodied and bruised noses and strangled the very life of more than one person. He can tell when a man is lying just by looking into his eyes. 

He sees you’re telling the truth. That you want this with him. You want him. Cock nudging at your folds, you push your legs a little wider to better accommodate his size after hearing him chuckle at the crimson blush creeping into your face, flustered at the thought of his entire cock sheathing inside you. 

“Gonna fit all of me, my sexy little wife?” he’d teased with a wink. 

His eyes retain their focus with yours as he pushes the head of his cock into your cunt, meeting the slight of resistance and surged forward, a sigh heavily laced on his breath that has his head bowing to press his forehead to yours, eyes scrunched tightly. 

A hitched note on your throat is silenced, cut out with a high pitched whine as he sinks deeper and deeper, breaching past the wall of your hymen. Your nails mark their bite into his shoulders and down his back with angry red scars, tracing over the blackened inks already imprinted there. 

Your walls constrict around the intrusion of him with a searing pierce that brings your tears to streak down your temples, chin slightly trembling, you feel Bucky’s lips hover over yours. 

“O-ow,” you mewl, “It hurts…”

“I’ve got you, zvezda, I’m here.”

Your chest feels tight, suffocated, but his words comfort you. You cling to him tighter, thighs trembling at his sides and you feel his hand resume its place there, gentle to knead and rub soothing circles as he coaxes you through the blight of your pain. 

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” he whispers to your lips, the crinkle of a smile forming on his features. Just as quickly as it had come, the pain subsides and you feel so full at the point where your bodies meet, you finally nod for him to continue. 

He goes slowly. 

He sets a rhythm paced to ease you into the forcing motion of his cock gliding through your hot, velvety walls that clamp and shudder with each movement he makes. Your gasps turn to softly sung moans as you begin to grind your hips to meet his and he smiles down at you. “There you go, love. That’s it, you’re taking me so well.” 

“This body… so perfect, so beautiful… I love it, I love you.”

Another moan escapes you. He heaves a deep breath with every thrust, still focusing hard to keep this steadiness, until you moan for him, 

“Bucky… please, I-I need…”

“What do you need, love? Tell me.”

“I– need more– please.”

He groans, the thought of ruthlessly fucking you with abandon crosses his mind in flashes, the way you’d look spread out while being pummeled by his cock that ruts into your pretty pussy until you’re stuffed full of his cum that it overspills as a creamy ring around his girthy base. 

To fuck you the way of a mafia lord. 

“You want that, sugar?” he asks, his voice sudden to drop lower into a silken, deepened purr with a darkened smirk. “You want to be fucked the way a mafia queen should be? H–hmph, you want it harder? Faster?”

You choke on the release of your words, sounding breathless, “Y-yes!”

Your walls clench tight around him, a series of moans spilling from your parted lips as he then picks up his pace, the incentive of your permission driving him to thrust harder, his hand fists and squeezes the flesh of your thigh within his grasp, holding you fast to him as he strikes deeply into your pussy. His muscles bend, curve and tense and your hands greedily explore every single portion of him, granting you this chance to be upheld by the prison of your thoughts that may hold you back later.

You howl, whine and cry – all for more, for him to keep going, to not stop. His body arches over yours, hands now ahold of you at the hips he uses the advantage of his strength and position to forcefully piston himself back and forth, back and forth until you’re writhing beneath him  Your hands attach themselves to the veiny reins of his wrists, your hips arched up until your lower half is lifted for his leisure to fuck into that spot that has you seeing an galaxy of stars.

“Bucky– Bucky, oh Bucky!” you cry out. 

“Fuck— yeah baby, fuck you sound beautiful, shit— baby, keep screaming my name, I want to hear you.” Each word is intensely laced with an exerted breath or guttural groan. “Fucking hell, zvezda, you look fucking amazing like that—” 

“You’re taking my cock so well.”

“I’m never getting over the sight of this.”

His eyes burn with lust at the sight of your breasts bouncing without restraint, the shudder of your body with each clash of your thrusts, how your face contorts so beautifully with pleasure and the holstered grip of your legs hooking around his waist repeatedly only to falter each time after several pumps, only kept upright by his hold. A knot coils inside you, a tidal wave of pleasure coursing through your veins that sets your nerves aflame and your vocal cords to strain with every sound you make. The more and more he slams his cock into you, your neck is forced to arch back against the pillows with a pleasured shriek. 

You call out to him, “Bucky, I— I’m gonna… ah!” 

“Cum for me, doll, I wanna feel how tight your pretty pussy is around me.” Your back arches further as his tip continues to hit that spot and the sensational toying of his thumb rolls on your clit, eliciting a flourish of sparks to ignite until you’re suddenly overcome with a flush of white, that euphoric hit crashing over you while heat pours into every inch of your skin with your eyes rolling back.

You chant his name like a sacred prayer, the meaning of your vows imbued within your slurred, intoxicated mantra. He pants, hot and heavy in your ear,

“Shit, shit— fuuuck, baby— ‘mgonna cum, gonna cum for you. I want my seed in you, I want it in you so bad.”

His thrusts increase, the sound of skin slapping skin is erotically loud. You don’t want it to stop. You don’t want him to stop and so you beg him to keep going. 

You continue to whine, low and cooing, walls stretching and clenching around him, milking him of his release that sweeps over him with a long, baritone and throaty moan. His head presses into the crook of your neck to suck at the skin of your collarbone, marking you with dark bruises of his love and possession as he paints your pussy with his seed. The air is faintly filled by the sound of oozing slick of your combined orgasms that leak and drip around his still thrusting cock.

The erratic pace in which his rhythm held eventually wanes, instead he moves to a slow-crawling grind to ease you off your combined highs. His chest rises and falls and you allow your eyes to admire his form above you, A balance of skin and ink layered in a thin coating of sweat, as is your own, the muscles of his body rippling with each motion he makes. 

His hands release from your hips after he’s lowered you back down to the bed, allowing your body to succumb to the exhaustion undoubtedly taking hold of you. Your gaze meets his own, the colour of them haloed by the shine of tears and his heart yearns for you. 

He fears he’s done something wrong and his hands quickly raise to caress your face, thumbs stroke over your cheeks. 

“Moya zvezda, are you—”

“I’m…” you trail off, blinking rapidly to see him through the watery veil and you grin up at him and nod. He’s relieved to see that smile, coming to mirror it himself. 

She’s okay. My girl’s okay.

You reach your hand up, the warmth of your palm contrasted by the cool adornment of your ring. Bucky leans his face into your touch. “You stayed… you didn’t—” Though your words fail you, Bucky sees what you mean to say in your eyes. 

“Of course. You’re everything I ever wanted…” Your brows furrow, touched by the sincerity in his words. Before you is a man whose heart is held in your very hands. And his heart is one you wish to cherish, hold dear and never break. To think you almost bargained him off to another woman— 

“Have me again tonight, zvezda. Have me any other night. I promise, I will be there every time, every moment.”

He doesn’t want a mistress. He wants me. 

Those voices are gone, replaced by newer, kinder ones.

You’re perfect. 

You’re beautiful. 

I’m not scared anymore. Not with him. 

You now realise that intimacy was never the threat. The voices in your head were. 

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Cregan’s wife gets taken by Silas the Grim and horrible things happens to her. Cregan’s men finds her during the battle or after and bring her back to their Lord. She is traumatized and her dress is ripped in places that makes Cregan sick and rage. Back to winterfell, she gets nightmares and cregan gives her a wolf pup so she feels safe

Please read the warnings carefully. This one might not be for you. 

Warnings: mention of non-con/sa, ptsd, kidnapping,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You didn’t know nightmares could happen while you were awake. The worst part was, unlike regular nightmares, you couldn’t wake up to get away from the horrors in your mind. You were trapped in a waking terror, unable to find refuge even in the daylight.

Yours started the day Cregan and a bunch of his men got caught in an ambush by Sylas the Grim’s men on the way to Queensgate. It wasn’t your first time traveling north of Winterfell, you knew to stay close to the group and never stray as it was easy to get lost when the snow was affecting the visibility. But you ended up getting captured by the wildlings and taken to their chieftain. 

The wildling who brought you to Sylas was very proud of himself. You were the wife of the Warden of the North, the only one who his loyalty to was stronger than his one to the Wall. Your capture opened so many opportunities for Sylas, and he planned to use you as a pawn in his game.

Chained inside a small tent, you tried to think of a way of getting out. You couldn’t just wait for Cregan to come and save you from your captor. You were the Lady of Winterfell, you needed to be resourceful and strong. 

Two men were standing outside your tent, guarding — and ignoring you. They were relaying their service at night and bringing you scraps of food, just enough to keep you alive. Because you would serve their chieftain nothing if you were dead. 

Although the food was disgusting, it wasn’t the worst part of being held captive. It was Sylas. The wildling chief would come into your tent and question you about Cregan’s strategies. Loyal to your husband and your people, you didn’t give any information away. You would never betray your people. 

One night, you were asleep in the corner of your tent, your body curled on itself to keep warm, when you heard Sylas come in and undo his breeches. He was drunk and horny. 

His sick intentions immediately clicked and you tried to get away from him. The tent was small, so he quickly got hold of you. You clawed and kicked at him as his filthy hands snuck under your dress and uncovered your intimacy. You screamed, which earned you a slap in the face and Sylas’s tighter grip on your hips. 

⁂

Two long moons went by. By that time, your body was so weak and frail that you didn't even hear the battle raging outside your tent. Your mind, clouded by malnutrition and the relentless abuse, struggled to make sense of anything beyond the constant pain and exhaustion.

Your eyes opened when you felt someone’s hands on you, shaking you awake. Assuming it was Sylas coming to empty his balls, you closed your eyes and let him take you. You didn’t have energy to fight him anymore. But the voice that filled the tent didn't sound like a wildling. 

‘’Go and tell Lord Stark we found her.’’ 

The man who had spoken stayed by your side, keeping watch until his Lord arrived. He must have been far because darkness was beginning to fall when Cregan stormed into the tent, his face and clothes had blood and dirt from the battle.

‘’Where is she?’’ his voice boomed, a mixture of anger and desperation. 

The sight of his wife trembling in the corner nearly made his heart stop. You looked fragile and thin, your skin was as white as the snow, and your dress was torn in several places. Your hair was matted and there were stains of fluids on your dress. 

Cregan felt sick. If Sylas had not been already dead, he would kill him again. 

The Northman quickly knelt by your side and wrapped his fur cloak around you, covering your body as much as possible. He whispered your name, but you only blinked. ‘’I came as fast as I could. I'm here now, you're safe.’’ He gently raised your chin to look at your face, and his jaw clenched tighter at the sight of her bruised and weakened state. 

⁂

The journey to Winterfell was a complete blur to you. You didn’t remember anything of the ten days spent sitting in the carriage, bundled in furs. Cregan personally took responsibility to escort the carriage, walking right in front of it and making sure no one would try to capture his wife again. 

Once you walked through the gates of Winterfell, a maester was summoned to tend to you. You would need a bath and new clothes too, but that could wait. While the maester was getting gathering his things, Cregan reached for the button of your coat to help you out of it, but you began screaming and thrashing in the cot as if he was trying to harm you — to rape you. 

Cregan quickly stepped back and held his hands up so you could see them. ‘’I will not touch you if it is what you wish. That’s alright.’’ His voice was calm and soft, and his eyes held your gaze. ‘’But the master needs to see your wounds and tend to them.’’

You shook your head. ‘’Don’t touch me. Please, not again.’’ 

Tears filled your eyes and Cregan nodded. ‘’Fetch the servants and have them draw a warm bath for Lady Stark. And a warm meal brought to our chambers. The best meat we have.’’ 

The maester frowned at his lord’s instructions. ‘’My Lord, it would be preferable if I could—’’ he began to protest, but Cregan shut him up. 

He will not have a man touch his traumatized wife against her will. Not after what you had endured when held captive. 

‘’Another day,’’ he said firmly. ‘’Lady Stark needs a bath and a warm meal, and rest.’’ 

⁂

The days that followed were difficult and required a lot of accommodations. Starting with a change in the personnel who were allowed in your chambers. You had made it clear that you didn't want men around you, so Cregan requested that only women came to your chambers. To bring your meals, to help you bathe or dress. 

The only man who was allowed near you was your husband. In fact, you didn't want Cregan to leave you — ever. He was always close. Especially at night, when the nightmares of the horrors you went through invaded your dreams. 

A blood chilling scream filled your chambers, startling Cregan awake. 

Every night since your return had been like this. The maester suggested you take a drought to help you sleep, but it didn’t work. Since you were in a deeper sleep, it made it more difficult to stir you from your nightmare.

‘’Shh, I’m here. We’re in Winterfell. You are safe,’’ he whispered to you, pulling your trembling body against him as tears rolled down your cheeks. 

Cregan felt helpless. There was nothing he could do or say that would take the pain away. He couldn't magically make the memories and images go away. All he could be was a chest for you to cry into. 

He prayed in the Godswood and asked counsel from women who he knew had gone through difficult things, hoping to find guidance from their own experiences. Unfortunately, years later, some still had not overcome their trauma. 

Cregan sat in his study while you were taking some fresh air with Lady Lysa, rubbing his temples with his eyes closed. He knew your fear was rooted in your assault. You weren’t scared to be alone, you were scared that a man would use his size and strength against you — again. 

When Winter comes, he’ll have to go to the Wall…and leave you. What will you do when he’s not there to make you feel safe? You didn’t allow any other men near you. He had to come up with something to ease your fears and make you feel safe in his absence. 

⁂

‘’Where is my husband?’’ you asked the servant who brought you your morning meal. He was gone when you woke, and only left a vague note on the table. 

The small girl cleared her throat before replying. ‘’Lord Stark had to absent himself for the day, my Lady. He is to return before nightfall.’’

You nodded. ‘’I wish to be notified when he passes the gates.’’ 

‘’Very well, My Lady.’’ She bowed and exited your chambers. 

As the servant had said, Cregan returned before nightfall. Snow dusted the top of his head and the pelt of his cloak when you greeted him in the great hall. 

When he saw you standing by the entrance, a warm smile spread over his face. “Good evening, my love,” he said, his voice was gentle as he placed one leather gloved hand under your chin to pull you closer and press a soft kiss against your forehead. "I have something to show you. Come with me."

You were not dressed apropriately to go outside, but Cregan had already take your hand to lead you out of the great hall and towards the courtyard. The sky was getting dark and fresh snow fell steadily, leaving a blanket of white across the ground. You felt a chill thorugh the sleeved of your dress. Hopefully you won't stay out long. 

Cregan turned a corner towards the kennels, leaving you confused. He opened the door and asked you to close your eyes. 

''Cregan, what-''

''Just close your eyes.''

You did as directed, and to make sure they were properly closed, the northman placed his hand over your eyes from behind. "No peeking," he whispered into your ear.

He closed the door and led you deeper into the kennels, careful with every step, making sure not to make you trip or stumble. Once you were where he wanted you, he removed his hand but didn't tell you to open your eyes yet.  

You heard shuffling and rustling, then...a small cry. 

‘’Open your eyes.’’

With the command, you opened your eyes. Lying in the crook of Cregan's arm, was a small gray and white pup. It sniffed the fabric of his cloak, its small tongue licking at the thick wool. You reached to pet it, and immediately felt its cold, wet nose brush against your hands, causing you to giggle. Cregan smiled, watching the two of you get acquainted. 

''It's a direwolf,'' he stated, his voice echoing in the quietness of the kennels. ''Like the sigil of our house. He'll grow large and strong. He'll be able to protect you when I'm not around.'' 

The little pup looked up at you, its beady eyes staring into yours. You didn’t know what to say, deeply touched by his gift to you.

—

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[aemondsbabe]

Stick it Out to the End

summary: michael is desperate to get into oxford's prestigious bullingdon club; unfortunately for him, they command him to do the impossible to gain admittance

pairing: michael gavey x bimbo!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, bimbo reader, mentions of hazing but nothing horrible/extreme, virgin!michael, breast/nipple play, praise kink, piv sex, protected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral sex (f receiving), consensual filming, dirty talk, cursing, what i hope is saltburn-esque humor, mild size kink, mild angst but happy ending, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 12.7k

a/n: images in the header are for aesthetic purposes only & are not used to describe the reader! she's back and she's long as hell but what else is new!!! this is my first time writing bimbo!reader and while she wasn't super bimbo-y, it was fun getting my feet wet! hope y'all enjoy!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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Michael

Michael couldn’t help but feel his heart speed up in his chest as he wound through the quiet corridors clutching tightly to the cryptic note he’d found stuffed in his pigeonhole that morning – just a page torn out of a standard notebook covered hastily written red ink; wholly un-intimidating as far as cryptic notes were concerned. Really, he was surprised to see they didn’t put more effort in; with as secretive and imperious as this little club was, he had been expecting some sort of extravagant stationary, perhaps even some gold embossing. 

Coming to a stop in front of an unassuming janitor’s closet door, he narrows his eyes behind the gold frames of his glasses, staring at the door with a nearly accusatorial expression. Michael swivels his head once more, his brows furrowed as he checks and re-checks every door in the vicinity before turning back to the one he stands before. Scoffing, he unfolds the note with a little irritated sigh and quickly scans the page again, mouthing the words to himself for the millionth time that day. 

The riddle had been easy enough to figure out, some trivial little lines about dead men walking, the mob, finding God, and looking to one’s heart pointed right toward some hush hush basement beneath the Merton College Chapel. That, and it didn’t take a genius to see that each line consisted of a specific number of words, pointing him right to the very door he stood in front of now – 129. 

Fucking amateurs, he’d thought after cracking the code in under half an hour. But that was earlier. And now, as he stares at the stupid dull grey janitor’s closet door in front of him, Michael can’t stop the little tendrils of doubt from creeping into his periphery. He’s sure this is the right door and positive this is the right place and yet… janitor’s closet. He checks his watch, 11:50 PM on the dot, and glances up and down the dark, shadowy corridors once more, half expecting one of the twatty rich assholes to jump out and start snickering at him, making fun of him for thinking that a no one like him would’ve ever received an invite to a club like this. 

Shaking his head, he reaches for the doorknob anyway, he’s come this far so he may as well. He freezes a little when it actually turns and his blue eyes go wide when he pushes the door open, shivering a little as he’s met with a wall of cool, dank air – eau de basement, just as he’d expected. A little actually impressed sigh passes his lips when he pokes his head in, an apprehensive smile blooming on his lips as he takes in the eerie red lighting spilling up the stairwell from the God-knows-what downstairs. 

He winces as the door squeaks when he tugs it open but he doesn’t stop, emboldened now as he knows he had been right once again. He takes the stairs quickly, probably too quickly given that he hasn’t a fucking clue what or who could be down here, but before he can dwell on the idea too much, he’s faced with another corridor. This one, unlike the ones upstairs, is narrow and brick-lined and leads in only one direction, straight to another closed door at the other end. 

Michael squints against the bright red light coming from a spotlight that had been haphazardly set up on the stone floor and walks down the hallway, his steps speeding up as he hears the janitor’s door above him open and close once more. His breath hitches a little as he opens the second door and quickly steps inside, like ripping off a band-aid. 

He freezes once more when a strong hand latches onto his shoulder and quickly jerks him further into the room, making him yelp as he stumbles, trying to keep pace with whoever the hell is leading him. 

“What the –”

Before he has time to so much as blink, his back thuds against a brick wall and finally he looks up, the vicious scowl he’d prepared morphing into a look of disturbed confusion as he eyes a row of other students, about fifteen and all men from the looks of it, dawned with black –

Oh, Christ, are those ski masks? He thinks as he eyes them up and down, How fucking banal… at least it’s not hooded cloaks. He nearly rolls his eyes as he scans the rest of the room, taking in the dim lighting interspersed with blues and greens from more of those stupid party boy spotlights. Glancing to the side, he sees another boy in his year, some guy he only knew from a few classes and passing glances in the hallways, but even still he’s comforted to not be alone down here, no matter how cliché this whole affair seemed. 

His blue eyes snap forward as the door, the only door, to the room is opened once more and some other poor sap is hastily dragged across the room, only to be smacked on the wall to his left. Again, it’s just some other boy Michael knows from classes, though he doesn’t know why he expects any different – it’s not as if he knows many people outside of the forced proximity of a lecture hall. Which was really his only reason for putting up with this bother, for seeking it out in the first place; a quick flash of him placing a tightly folded up sticky note with his name and pigeonhole number in an old, beaten up copy of King Lear in the library played in his mind – the price he seemed to pay for loneliness. 

Distantly, the bells of the chapel began to chime, signaling the hour. Once, twice, and eventually twelve times – midnight. Time to start the show, Michael surmises. 

“Welcome, initiates,” one of the hooded men says in a tone that makes Michael glare judgmentally, his voice pitched down like some idiotic knock-off Darth Vader. He steps forward from the row they stand in and holds his arms out open at his sides, “Consider this your first foray into the Bullingdon Club.”

Again, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a scoff. This was all just so… juvenile? He was beginning to sincerely doubt that this was the über clandestine club that granted its members all sorts of connections to various businesses, societies, and insider information that even the richest of the rich couldn’t buy. 

Unfortunately, his face seemed to betray more of his emotions than he intended and the masked boy steps forward once more, his dark eyes zeroing in on Michael. 

“You,” he says gruffly, pointing a finger in his direction, “Something you wanna say, initiate?”

Out of habit, he pushed his glasses up on his nose before he spoke, perhaps foolishly bold given the situation. 

“Doesn’t this all seem a bit much for three people?” He scoffs, shaking his head slightly, “I mean, masks, really?”

The hooded boy stops for a second and studies Michael closely, one hand on his hip, “What’s wrong with the masks?”

“Well, what’s the point? There’s, what, fifteen or sixteen of you? And three of us?” He asks, glancing around the room, which he now realized very clearly used to be some run-of-the-mill storage room, probably forgotten about by now.

The boy laughs sarcastically and shrugs his shoulders a bit, his voice back to its natural pitch, “It wouldn’t really be a secret thing if we just invited half the student body, mate.”

Michael supposes his reasoning is sound and says as much with a little hum and nod of his head, eyebrows raising dismissively. 

“Anything else?” The masked boy asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The masks don’t really disguise you lot that well,” he observes, pointing at one of the other boys standing in the row, “That’s Harry from Multivariable Calculus.”

“Shit…” Harry mutters under his breath, the sound carrying through the concrete room. A few of the other boys in the row lean over and place comforting hands on his shoulders and murmur words of encouragement, much to Michael’s dismay.

“Why’re you here, initiate?” The lead boy asks, turning back to Michael.

“Dunno,” he shrugs again, pushing his glasses up his nose, “Friends, I guess.”

A couple of the boys in the row make little noises, mutters of empathy that make the blond’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion as he glances up and down the line. 

“And this was your first thought? A secret society?” Harry from Multivariable Calculus asks with a little laugh, “Not like… chess or something?” 

“Don’t really like chess…” Michael says with a little shrug. Apparently a good enough answer for Harry, who makes a little noise of understanding and nods his head. 

After another moment, the lead boy clears his throat, which shuts up the rest. “Anyway,” he says, his voice falsely low once more. “Each of you will be given a task…,” his dark eyes glance between Michael and the other two boys as he paces in front of them, “Perfectly customized to challenge you, to push you to your absolute limits.” 

The masked boy pauses his little speech and gestures back to three of the other boys standing in the row behind him who then step forward and walk over to the dank brick wall that Michael and the other two boys stand against. He studies the boy that walks towards him carefully, his eyes narrowing in suspicion when he notices how much shorter he appears to be.

Finally, the boy comes to stand before him and presents a plain white envelope, though Michael’s lips spread into a hateful smirk when he sees an all too familiar pair of old, beat up trainers on the boy’s feet. 

“Oliver?!” He hisses meanly, shock lacing his voice as he jerks back the hand he had reached out for the envelope, wincing as his elbow collides with the cool wall behind him. He glances around the room, noting the few pairs of eyes that were on him, before fixing his gaze on the boy before him once more with a harsh glare, “You’re in Bullingdon?”

The boy in front of him hesitates for a second, cutting a sideways glance toward a taller boy that was busy presenting an envelope to the boy to Michael’s left, before he sighs and looks back at him, blue eyes peeking out of the holes in his ski mask. “Yeah,” he huffs, shrugging his shoulders defensively, “How’d you know it was me, then?”

“You look like a goddamn twelve year old!” Michael jeers, his voice low and vicious as his hands curl into fists at his sides, “How’d you manage to get into this club anyway?” He questions, seething, “They only let you in if you have the money or the marks and I know for a fucking fact you don’t have either.”

Oliver sighs again and rolls his eyes, which makes him see red and grit his teeth, although he doesn’t miss how the shorter boy’s eyes cut to the side again quickly. He opens his mouth, but before he can get a word in edgewise, the blond cuts him off with a little mocking laugh.

“Don’t tell me that’s fucking Catton,” Michael groans lowly with a shake of his head, breathing heavily as he feels the same sense of anger and betrayal he’d felt all those months ago well up in him once more, transporting him right back to the stupid damn pub, “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me, is this shite little club only full of cunts?”

“Look, I’m –” 

Oliver starts to speak again, only to be cut off when the head boy traipses over to where they are, coming to stand ominously behind him with his arms clasped behind his back. His dark eyes dart between the two boys before he speaks.

“Problem over here, lads?”

“No,” Oliver answers quickly, staring warily up at Michael as he practically shoves the envelope into his arms, “Just complete the task, initiate. You have thirty-six hours.” 

Before Michael can blink, Oliver turns his back and stalks back over to the other boys, taking his place in the row once more. The head boy looks Michael up and down appraisingly before nodding to the letter in his hands with a sly smirk.

“I can’t wait to see how you fare with that one, Gavey,” he says, his voice low and threatening, as if he’s in on the most delicious joke, “Remember, thirty-six hours, initiate.” He chuckles softly and departs, returning to stand in the center of the room. 

Everyone stands still for a moment, Michael and the other two boys to his left and right holding their respective envelopes nervously, unsure if they were supposed to open them now or not. Thankfully, the head boy clears his throat, commanding all eyes to him once again.

“Initiates,” he says slowly, his voice no doubt already hoarse from this little farce, “Failure to complete your tasks will result in a permanent ban from Bullingdon; no second chances. We expect results as well as proof of those results,” his dark eyes scan over the three boys once more, one corner of his mouth turned up into a mean smirk, “We’ll be seeing you back in this location Sunday at noon. Your thirty-six hours begin now… have fun.” He finishes with a taunting laugh before turning and exiting from the room, the old door creaking as he pulls it open before disappearing into the faint red glow of the hallway, followed by the rest of the fifteen boys in an orderly line.

As soon as the old door closes, the sound of paper tearing echoes around the dimly lit basement as Michael and the other two boys hastily tear open their envelopes. Pulling out a little slip of paper, his eyes go wide as a wave of dread washes over him. His eyes scan over the paper again and again as he nervously shoves his glasses back up his nose once more, silently willing the chicken-scratch words on the paper to somehow change, to give him some other command. 

His heart is pumping so loudly in his ears that he misses it when one of the other boys tries getting his attention, his head snapping up suddenly as a hand waves in front of it.

“Oi!”

“W-What?” 

“What did they give you?” The boy asks, nodding at the scrap of paper in Michael’s hand.

He clears his throat and tries his best to come off as casual, though he hardly cares with the way thoughts begin racing through his mind. “Oh, um,” he starts, glancing down to read over the paper once more, “I just uh, have to sleep with someone is all.”

The other two boys gape at him for a moment before groaning frustratedly. The one that had first spoken to him holds his paper out and smacks it disdainfully with the back of his hand.

“What the hell?” He asks gruffly, glancing between his paper and Michael, “Why’s yours so bloody easy?”

“For real,” sighs the second boy, rubbing the back of his head, “Ours are damn near impossible. They must already be decided on you to go so soft. How am I meant to steal the fucking Selden Map from Bodleian?” He laments, brows furrowed as he stares down at the paper in his hands.

“Yeah, and I have to transfer ten thousand pounds out of the chancellor’s bank account and into mine!” The first boy sighs, shaking his head, “At least your mum’s head of conservatorship here, you can at least get within a stone’s throw of the map. I have to commit fucking wire fraud!” 

The two boys grumble for another moment as Michael silently descends into a tailspin, his blue eyes unfocused as he stares at one of the dingy brick walls of the basement, trying desperately to formulate a plan, any plan. He merely glances up as the other to head for the door, spitballing ideas for each of their tasks.

“Isn’t your dad the president of Julius Baer? Can’t you just get him to pull strings?”

“Oh, yeah, fantastic idea! I’ll just ring him and ask the old man to commit a felony! What could possibly go wrong there?”

Michael tries to tune out their bickering as the three of them ascend the staircase and trail out into the hallway of Merton College Chapel once more; the two other boys don’t pay him any mind as they continue whispering amongst themselves, their voices trailing quietly down the hallway as he leans with his back against the cool metal of the janitor’s closet door. 

Sighing, he reads over the directive again, his blue eyes catching on the sharply scrawled letters of a very familiar name, one that makes his cheeks flush and his heart race. He swallows nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

How could they know to do this? He wonders sheepishly. It’s not like he’d mentioned her to anyone; hell, he’d never even said so much as three words to her! No, his pathetic little crush was entirely in his mind. 

Too much of a coward to even say hi, he bemoans, trying to stave off the sense of shame he felt as he considered how many times he’d finished with her name on his lips, her pretty face and soft curves and sweet smell and little girly outfits whirling around his head since he’d spotted her on the first fucking day; he’d pined ever since and she didn’t even know he existed! How could she?

This is fucking impossible, he thinks miserably, wishing that he had any other task. He’d rather steal the Queen’s own goddamn family jewels than this. He glances at his watch once more and groans when he sees it’s almost already two in the morning; pushing himself up off the door, he hangs his head as he scurries back to his dorm room, thoughts spiraling as he plots. 

You

A laugh bubbles up past your lips as you sway your hips, your whole body vibrating as “Umbrella” blasts through the speakers while you dance with your friends, partying to celebrate the end of term. 

“You can run into my arms, it’s okay, don't be alarmed!” You sing happily, yours and your friends voices mingling together with another peal of laughter; you take another sip of your drink as you move along with the beat of the song, savoring the fizzy strawberry daiquiri as you begin to feel a bit warm from the little rush of alcohol, already on your third drink of the night. 

You smile proudly as you spot Felix in the crowd, his hazel eyes already fixed on you, or well, fixated on your chest. His attention makes you preen and you bite your lower lip, the sickly sweet taste of your cherry lip gloss filling your mouth as you purposefully bounce up and down on the balls of your feet. 

The thin straps of your pastel pink dress hold on for dear life as your chest heaves enticingly, and you giggle when you see those hazel eyes widen just a bit, no doubt tracing over the glittering chain of your necklace, following down to where it settles, a little sparkly pink diamond nestling temptingly at your cleavage. You teasingly wink, blushing a little when you get a wink back, and go back to dancing with your friends, knowing from experience that Felix preferred to approach rather than be approached. 

You dance with your friends for a few more moments, grinding up against any warm body you can find as a raunchier song begins pumping through the speakers, before you feel eyes on you yet again. Smiling at the attention, you glance around again, the low, colorful lighting of the pub making it hard to tell exactly which direction your admirer’s coming from. 

Your eyes flit over a few familiar faces, you can’t help but sigh in relief when you notice that Oliver’s eyes are thankfully planted firmly on someone that is not you, though a confused little crease forms between your brows when you realize that Felix’s aren’t either. Turning your head, you sway along to the music still as you look around quickly, your feet beginning to ache finally from the precious little satin Chanel heels buckled around your ankles. 

Your eyes finally lock onto an unexpected gaze, a fresh wash of pink coloring your cheeks as blue eyes glance shyly away from you. A little giggle titters past your lips as you lean over to one of your friends, patting her shoulder to get her attention.

“You know who that blond guy is? With the glasses?” You call over the music, nodding over in your admirer’s direction as he stands awkwardly back against the wall by the entrance, clutching a still-foamy pint. 

She glances over before turning back to you with a little shrug. “Michael something, I think!” She says, her breath warm as she leans in closer so you can hear her, “I thought Oliver knew him!”

Your eyes immediately find the brunette, predictably following Felix around like a lost little puppy, before you look back over at Michael. You can’t help but feel a bit bad when you see him quickly look away from your direction again before staring intently into his pint glass, one hand shoved in the pocket of his khaki pants. 

“I’m gonna take a breather for a second!” You yell over the loud music, leaning in close and cupping a hand over her ear. 

“Aw, babe, come on!” She pouts playfully, tilting her head at you, “Stay longer!”

You shake your head with another little laugh and gesture at your feet, “These are sooo cute but they’re killing me!” You laugh, finishing off the last sip of your drink, “I’ll be over by the notice board!” You tell her, blowing a kiss as you walk away from the dance floor of the small, cramped pub. 

Finally, you reach the little area by the front door and lean back against the wall, taking in a much-needed deep breath as you pull your little tube of lip gloss out of your bra and carefully reapply some more, smirking when you glance over out of the corner of your eye and see a certain blond boy already shyly eyeing you. 

Rubbing your lips together with a little pouty pop, you tuck your gloss back in your bra once more before slowly approaching Michael, prettily manicured hands clasped behind your back to help shamelessly push your chest out more. His wide eyed stare makes you giggle and blush as you study him, eyes flitting appreciatively up and down his lithe frame; so much potential hidden away under a little button down and khakis. 

“Haven’t seen you here before,” you tease, smirking when he blushes and all but chokes on his beer, coughing for a few seconds before finally speaking.

“I… Me?” He asks awkwardly, glancing around for seemingly anyone else you could be talking to.

Lucky for him, you find his awkwardness endearing. Truthfully, you had for months, never missing the way his eyes always happened upon you in a crowd. There was something impressive about the boy, something that had made your mind drift to him on more than one occasion, even if you were already under someone else. 

“Of course you, silly,” you laugh softly, leaning against the wall next to him and tilting your head curiously, “You’re Michael, right?”

His eyes go wide again and nods wordlessly before finding his voice. “Yeah, Michael,” he says with a reserved little smile, “Gavey! Michael Gavey…” He adds awkwardly, cheeks flushing even more when you giggle, seemingly charmed by his inability to string two words together. He nods as you introduce yourself.

“I know,” he says before blinking, eyes going wide behind his gold framed glasses as he awkwardly glances away, “I just… I mean I’ve heard your name before, that’s all.”

“That’s all, huh?” You echo with a flirty little giggle, twirling a lock of hair around your finger as you let the moment linger, just wanting to push him a little. “What’re you reading?” You ask curiously, cocking your head to the side a little.

“Maths,” he nods quickly before looking down into his pint glass once more as if fizzling beer is the most interesting thing in the world, “I don’t really like it all that much, though… I mostly only picked it because I’m good at it.”

“Ooh,” you coo softly, nodding along with his words as you watch him carefully, “You must be wicked smart, I can’t do maths to save my life.” You comment with a little giggle, biting your lip when he seems to perk up at that comment and looks up at you with a little grin. 

“I can do it in my head,” he says lowly, an unexpectedly cocky edge to his voice that has your heart picking up in your chest, “Ask me a sum,” he says, a challenging glimmer in his eyes. 

You hum softly, biting your lip as you think for a second, “Uhm, seventy-two plus a hundred and thirteen?”

“One eighty-five,” he chuckles after no more than a second before scoffing a little, “Come on, give me one that’s hard, love.”

Love? The little pet name makes you raise an eyebrow before you laugh softly. “What do you mean a hard one?” You giggle, shaking your head, “That one was hard!”

“That was hard for you?” He teases, making your cheeks tingle as a pink flush settles over your skin, “What’re you reading, then?”

“Art history!” You chirp proudly, chuckling nervously when you see him roll his eyes a bit, “What? Something wrong with that?”

He shakes his head dismissively, quickly polishing off the last of his pint before setting the empty class on a table and turning back to you, pushing his glasses up his nose with a grin, “Ask me another one, then. Biggest numbers you can think of.”

You don’t know why, but something about his little challenge has you blushing again, like he’s testing you somehow. But still, you take a moment to think of some numbers, biting your lip and quirking your eyes up toward the ceiling. 

“Six hundred thirty-two times… eight hundred ninety-one,” you hum, cocking your head to the side as you watch him closely. His eyes seem to glaze over, only for a second, before once again he’s spouting off numbers like a calculator. 

“Five hundred sixty-three thousand, one hundred and twelve.” 

Your eyebrows raise at that as you gawk at him. “Wow…,” you breathe after a moment, blinking as you stare up at him, “You’re, like, super smart, then?”

“Suppose so,” he says, smiling shyly again as he tucks both hands into the pockets of his khaki pants.

You study him for a moment as the conversation lulls, finding something endlessly fascinating about the boy; the way he could swing from being so cocky and self assured to shy and awkward makes your stomach do summersaults. Turning your head, you spot your group of friends still dancing and you look back at Michael with a little sigh as another upbeat song blasts loudly through the pub. 

“D’you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smirking when he looks up at you shyly.

“W-What?”

“My dorm’s only, like, a minute from here,” you flirt, sweet and enticing as you make him blush somehow more, “We could go somewhere more… quiet?”

He stares at you for a moment, shocked that you’re asking him of all people to come back to yours before he nods and nervously runs a hand through his wheat colored hair, unsuccessfully trying to act casual. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that.”

“Yay!” You giggle happily, flirtatiously grabbing one of his hands as you saunter past him, heading for the exit, “C’mon, it’s like a five minute walk!” He nods wordlessly and you can’t help but smirk as he follows you like a lost little puppy. 

True to your word, it’s only a few minutes later when you and Michael reach your dorm room, after you’d stopped for a minute at the entrance to your hall to chat with Farleigh, who seemed very interested in the nerdy boy following at your heels. You just couldn’t wipe the smirk off your face as you and Michael left him standing at the doors, mouth open and a wicked little gleam in his eyes; no doubt, he’d immediately scurried off to the King’s Arms. 

The door to your room opens with a tiny squeak, blasted old building, and you all but prance inside, turning back to the blond boy still lingering in the doorway with a smile. 

“Am I going to have to invite you in like a vampire?” You joke with a little laugh as you bend down to quickly undo the buckles of your heels, letting out a relieved sigh when you finally step out of them, leaving you in frilly white ankle socks.  

Michael finally steps into your room with a huffed laugh and quickly kicks off his shoes, you smirk when you see his Star Wars themed socks. “‘M no vampire, love,” he quips, gold framed eyes darting around your room as he looks over every detail. You grin at the little blush on his cheeks and perch on the edge of your bed to watch him, head tilted ever so slightly. 

“It’s, uh, it’s cute in here,” he observes, his voice a low hum as he takes in your frilly, lacy curtains, plush white rug, and equally girlish floral bedding, all encased in the faint pink glow of the heart-shaped fairy lights strung up around the room, “Just like how I imagined…” He breathes, so lowly you doubt he meant to say that bit aloud. 

“Like you imagined?” You echo with a little giggle, quickly reapplying your lip gloss before setting the little tube on the corner of your desk. 

“I just… I – It’s just very… you, is all I meant,” he stutters, running a hand through his hair awkwardly, the apples of his cheeks flushed a dark pink. 

His awkwardness is so endearing, you can’t help but grin. The more time you spend with him, the more interesting he seems to become; this bumbling, nervous boy is so different from the one you’ve seen on campus so many times. On campus, he’s comfortable, quiet still, but with a definite air of confidence – clearly in his element as he prowls through bookshelves in the library or explains some complex math formula in the quad. 

“So, you think about me often, then?” Your voice stays sweet, innocent almost, though you can’t help but tease him; he’s so pretty when he blushes. 

“No!” He answers quickly, whipping his head toward you from where he’d been studying the various pictures tacked up on the walls, everything from boy band posters to stills from Clueless and Legally Blonde. “I mean, yes, sometimes, I…,” he fumbles again and pushes his glasses up his sharp nose, “I think about you a normal amount.” He says finally, glancing at you quickly before looking away. 

You hum softly and stand before walking toward him with a kind smile, though you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing down at your cleavage, or the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows nervously. 

“A normal amount?” 

“Mhm,” he nods, gaze unsure as you come to stand in front of him, teeth biting into your plush lower lip as you twirl a piece of hair through your fingers, “As much as I think of anyone else.”

“So…,” you breathe, drawing out the word as you reach up and fiddle with the collar of his button down shirt, the turquoise gingham a bright blue blip among all the blush tones of your room, “Every time I’ve caught you looking at my tits in the library or in the quad or in the hallways… that was just a normal amount?”

You giggle as his eyes go wide, his lips opening and closing like a fish out of water. Deciding to take mercy on him, you run a finger down his chest, playfully fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.

“Relax, I’m not mad,” you shake your head, smiling when the tension in his shoulders visibly eases, “Why wouldn’t I want a cutie like you staring?”

His lips part at that as he sucks in a little breath, blue eyes widening behind his glasses. “You think I’m… cute?” He asks breathlessly, heart pounding under your fingertip. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip once more as you nod, cocking your head to the side just slightly as you peer up at him. “‘Course I do, honey, what’s not to like?”

Again, he gawks at you, blinking in shock and swallowing nervously.

“I –” 

“I do have one question though…,” you tease, pouting a bit as you slowly and carefully undo the very top button on his shirt, relishing the way his breath hitches in his throat. 

“Y-Yeah?” His voice breaks, making you giggle while he blushes somehow deeper.

“Mhm,” you nod, undoing the second button and pausing when you find a splash of hair across his chest, the same shiny wheat color as the hair on his head, causing a familiar knot to begin twisting itself up in your belly, “Why were you at the end of term party?”

He blinks for a second, evidently taken off guard. “I… W-Was it invite only?”

His question nearly makes you snort and you shake your head, the corners of your lips twitching as you try not to laugh. “No, sweetie,” you peer up at him through your lashes as you rest your hand against his bare chest, smirking ever so slightly when he shivers, “I just meant, I haven’t seen you at parties before… doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.” 

“I, well,” he stammers, the bottoms of his glasses fogging up from the heat radiating off his cheeks, “I just –”

“It’s for that club, yeah?” You ask finally, giggling at the shocked expression on his face.

“How do –”

“You lot are not nearly as sneaky as you think,” you laugh cheekily, bouncing excitedly on the balls of your feet, “Plus, I heard Felix and Oliver whispering about something to do with tasks a few weeks ago… and boys are very bad at keeping secrets once you get their cocks out.” You add with a little giggle, taking Michael’s hand once more and dragging him over to your plush bed. You sit him on the edge before all but climbing in his lap, smiling cheekily as you straddle his thighs, your knees digging into your soft bedding.

“So,” you start, holding onto his shoulders to balance yourself and smiling a little when he finally touches you, lightly resting his hands on your hips, “What’s your task, hm? I heard they made them, like, particularly brutal this year.”

“I don’t think I should say,” Michael murmurs with a little shake of his head, making you pout.

“Oh, come on!” You bounce on his lap a little, not missing the way his eyes seem to be drawn to your breasts like magnets, “I want to help! Is it something at the King’s Arms?”

“N-No, I really don’t think –”

“I know they keep the important rugby trophies there,” you think aloud, still playing dumb, just wanting him to say it, “Is that it? D’you have to steal one? One of the boys that works there owes me, I could get him to let you in after hours…” You prattle on, speaking faster and faster as Michael shakes his head beneath you.

Finally, he seems to reach a breaking point and his grip on your hips tightens. “I have to fuck you!” He blurts out before sighing.

“Oh, really?”

“I… I have to fuck you –”

“Mhm?”

“And prove I did somehow.”

“How interesting!”

He narrows his eyes at that and peers up at you suspiciously, studying you carefully. You can’t help but giggle, loving the way you feel when his eyes are on you, and you smirk when he finally blinks in realization.

“You… you knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

A sly smile spreads across your lips as you nod, squirming excitedly on his lap. “Like I said,” you chuckle with a little shrug, “Not. Sneaky!” You tease, punctuating each word with a little boop to the tip of his nose, unable to resist. 

He stays silent for a moment, gazing up at you with a strange mixture of awe and unease before he finally speaks through a deep sigh. “So, I suppose this is the part where you tell me to leave?”

Well, that comment throws you off. You cock your head to the side, confused, as your eyebrows furrow together. “Why would I ask you to leave?”

He sighs again and grits his teeth, looking dejectedly at the floor. “Come on, love,” he mutters, looking anywhere but you, “I-It’s not like you’d ever want to –”

“Ever want to what?” You ask with a frown, gently grabbing at his chin and tilting his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze, “You think I don’t wanna fuck you, honey?”

“Well, I –”

“Michael,” you say pointedly, raising your brows as you smirk slightly, staring deeply into his blue eyes, “I’m the one that came onto you, yeah?”

“I… I suppose.”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head as you run your fingers through his short hair, not missing the little sigh that leaves his lips when you push yourself closer to him, your chest pressing tightly against his, “And while I’m not thrilled at our first time being for some stupid little task –”

“It’s,” he cuts you off shyly, shaking his head ever so slightly, “It’s – I’ve never…” He stammers, nervously gripping at your waist once more. 

You can’t help but smile softly, so charmed by him over and over. You nod your head knowingly, raising your brows just a bit. “I know, honey,” you whisper reassuringly, “We don’t have to, I’ll let you take a pair of my panties or whatever else, but we don’t need to do anything.”

He sighs up at you again, so taken with you he feels like he could scream, and shakes his head more, grabbing at your hips tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “N-No, I… I want to,” he nods, swallowing anxiously, “I do, I just… don’t really know what I’m doing.”

You nod again, listening carefully as he speaks. “So, is it all new or…?”

He shakes his head and smiles a little, shyly, though the sight of it still makes that knot in your belly tighten further, making you blush on his lap while butterflies swirl around inside you. “I’ve kissed before,” he says lowly, chuckling awkwardly as he seems to get bolder, causing you to shudder when he lightly rubs his hands over your waist and hips, “And done… hand stuff.”

You giggle at his boyish explanation and bite your lip when you smile at him, wiggling in his lap as a heat begins to settle at the apex of your thighs. “Can I kiss you, honey?” 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat again, making you want so badly to press soft, glossy kisses to it, but you resist, determined to make this good for him. 

“Yeah,” he nods eagerly, blue eyes fixated on your lips.

You smile softly before leaning in and finally pressing your lips against his, both of you sighing at once. One of his hands stays at your hip while the other comes to rest in the small of your back, pressing you more tightly to him as your lips move together, his motions surprisingly fluid and practiced. 

You make a small noise in the back of your throat when you feel his tongue licking at your bottom lip, and eagerly allow him access with a little sigh. Your fingers busy themselves with unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, making him shudder beneath you when you skim your hands over his bare chest and stomach as his tongue flows with your own, the bitter, coffee-ish flavor of the pint he’d had earlier still on his tongue.

Impatient, you pull back long enough to look at him for reassurance, smiling when you earn a little nod. You kiss him once more before tugging his shirt off, flushing when he groans lowly as you trail kisses down over his jaw and neck before swiping your tongue greedily over his Adam’s apple, making his breath hitch. 

“F-Fuck,” he sighs brokenly, bolding tracing over your thigh until his fingers are tucked up under the silky, baby pink material of your dress. His touches make you shiver as goosebumps bloom over your skin, making you whine against the pale column of his throat, “Can I?” He breathes, fingers toying with a strap of your dress while the others slowly inched the bottom of it up higher and higher. 

“God, please,” you mewl, nodding against his throat, your head on his shoulder. He shudders at the feel of your breath on his neck and nods once before tugging at the bottom of your dress. You sit up to help him, whining when you feel his hard length pressing against your thin, lacy underwear, “You don’t need to ask, Michael. Want you to take me however you want.” You whisper as he tugs your dress over your head, blue eyes meeting yours for a second as he nods before they skim lower, widening as he takes you in on his lap wearing only a bra and panties. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, making you giggle shyly as you lean in and softly kiss over his cheeks, “You have…you’re – you’re perfect,” he sighs, brazenly cupping your breasts, skimming his thumbs over your nipples through the thin pink fabric of your bra and smiling proudly when he feels them harden at his touch, “You’re perfect, but these are… holy shit.” He repeats, his voice breathy and mesmerized as he takes in your chest for another moment while you softly card your fingers through his golden hair. 

You gasp through a little giggle when you feel his length twitch, even through his trousers, and wiggle on his lap, blushing when the movement earns you a broken groan. “Yeah?” You whisper cheekily, watching as he marvels at your chest for a second longer before quickly unclasping your bra and shrugging out of it, tossing it down onto the floor with his shirt and your dress, “What about now?” You tease, proudly arching your back as you bite your lip.

He groans again, louder than he has all evening, and instantly ducks his head down. The feel of his soft lips wrapping eagerly around one of your nipples makes you cry out, gasping sharply as he sucks at the sensitive bud before he runs his tongue over it. You cradle the back of his head in your hands, fingers lightly pulling at the short strands of hair, as he switches from one breast to the other, kneading whichever one is free with his hand. 

Needing something, anything, you finally pull him off of your chest after a few moments, laughing when he all but whines, and smiling even more when you take in his disheveled appearance – blond hair sticking up at odd angles from where you’d run your fingers through it, cheeks flushed as his glasses sit crooked on his nose, and his blue eyes staring up at you hungrily. 

You shift back on his thighs just enough to snake a hand between the two of you and he gasps when you cup the bulge pressing against the zipper of his khakis. “You want me to suck your cock?” You ask cheekily, lightly squeezing at his length. 

He surprises you by shaking his head no,gulping slightly with an awkward laugh before answering. “I do, I really fucking do, love,” he breathes, kneading at your breasts as he stares up at you sheepishly, “B-But I really want to last and if you… if you suck it, I –”

“Okay, okay,” you stop him with a kiss, “We’ll table it for next time.” 

“N-Next time?” He questions, fighting to keep his eyes open as you press kisses against his neck once more. You nod against his shoulder and press kisses up to just beneath his ear. 

“I’m not letting you go that easy, honey,” you whisper, chuckling when he shivers. You spend another moment softly kissing and biting at his neck before speaking again, “Have you ever eaten anyone out?” You question, pulling back to look at him.

He shakes his head, his eyes flicking between both of yours as he looks up at you. “No.” He answers simply, his voice hardly a whisper. 

You can’t help but smirk coyly and cock your head to the side, running a finger through the little patch of hair on his chest just to see him shudder. “You wanna try it?”

He nods eagerly and surprises you once again by quickly swinging you around, maneuvering you until your head rests on the pillows of your bed. You squeal at the movement, laughing with him as he settles over you, his narrow hips slotting easily between your thighs as you silently marvel at his unexpected strength, the shock of it going right between your legs. 

“You want me to lick your pussy?” He asks lowly, grinning when he sees your eyes widen ever so slightly. 

“You’re quite something, huh?” You breathe, still gazing up at him in surprise. 

“Observant,” he shrugs, smirking as he sits up, kneeling between your legs, “You aren’t the only one who is, love.” He teases, quickly undoing his belt and trousers and groaning as he pushes them down his thighs, stopping at his knees. 

Your eyes go wide at the size of his length, it’s clearly very impressive and it’s not even out of his plaid boxers yet. That smirk stays plastered on his face as he leans back down to hover over you, hastily removing his glasses and sitting them on your desk before sloppily kissing you for a moment, surprising you yet again by trailing wet kisses down your neck. 

“Michael…” You sigh dreamily, arching your back toward him when he starts kissing over your chest. He groans from deep in his chest, mouth pressed against the fat of your breast. 

“Fucking hell,” he curses, teasing your nipple again with the tip of his tongue, “Say it again, love.” 

His simple command sends shivers down your spine and you mewl, squirming underneath him, “M-Michael!” You moan again, fumbling over your words as he sucks at your breast again before he lifts his head. 

“Good girl,” he purrs with a sly, easy smirk that makes your heart jump, a soft sigh tumbling past your lips. He shifts further down the bed, kissing down over your ribs and stomach, his confidence seemingly growing every time he presses his lips against your skin; the thought makes your head spin.

Finally, he hooks his fingers into the lacy sides of your panties, and his eyes peer up at you as he tugs them down over your hips before flinging them onto the floor. “Oh, my God…,” he sighs, staring greedily at your pussy, a broken groan sounds from his throat when you spread your legs more. 

You bite your lip and giggle, smiling shyly as you tangle your fingers in his hair once more. “Like what you see?” 

He nods his head rapidly, making you chuckle again as he stares up at you, an almost pained expression on his face. “I… uh, w-what now?” 

He’s so endearing, you can’t help the little sigh that leaves you and you sit up a little, leaning back on an elbow as you use your other hand to spread your center open. You bite your bottom lip once more when he whines a little, seeing you all spread out before him, flushed folds already slick and shiny. 

“Lick here, honey,” you whimper as you skim your fingers over your clit, so keyed up from only a few kisses that you gasp a little when you feel yourself clench; Michael looks like he may pass out. 

Ever the dutiful student, he gives you one last look before diving in. Your head falls back with a whiny gasp as his tongue snakes over your clit, just as you’d instructed. A long, shuddery moan leaves him, vibrating against your cunt and you watch as his blue eyes all but roll back in his head. 

“Just like that, Michael,” you praise, tugging at his hair ever so slightly, which only serves to make him moan more. Your chest heaves as you watch him, determined not to let your eyes squeeze shut while he licks and kisses and sucks at your pussy like a man possessed, “Holy shit!” You whimper loudly when he pushes his tongue into you, groaning lowly when he feels your walls clench around it as he presses his nose perfectly against your clit. 

“You taste so good,” he gasps, wrapping his hands around your thighs to keep you exactly where he wants. He peers up at you through blond lashes as he feasts on you, sucking eagerly at your clit and savoring the way you shiver and squirm from his motions. 

Unbelievably, you already feel that warm, familiar tug in your belly beginning to grow, making your whole body feel flush and taut. “Just like that, just like that,” you whine urgently, grabbing onto his hair tighter and guiding his mouth exactly where you need it, your eyes finally rolling back and fluttering shut, “Holy fuck, don’t stop!” 

Michael grunts as you tug at his hair, his own hips rutting greedily against your pretty bedding — cock throbbing so hard there’s no doubt he’s leaked through his boxers. He watches you carefully, studying your movements and reactions as best he can while he rhythmically licks at your clit. 

“Oh, shit!” You cry not even a moment later, your whole body seeming to stutter as your muscles finally relax. You mewl as your high finally washes over you, savoring the way Michael groans into your cunt as he feels it contracting on his tongue. Your eyes stay squeezed shut as shivers roll up and down your spine, shuddered cries leaving your lips. 

Just as his touches begin to border on overstimulation, you have enough wherewithal to push him away, and he releases your center with a lewd little pop. 

“Was that good?” He asks through a breathless laugh, swallowing as he looks up at you, evidence of your arousal still shining on his lips and chin. 

“Good?” You huff, eyebrows raised as you gaze down at him, “You’re sure you’ve never done that before?” You question in disbelief, chest still heaving. 

He smiles shyly, already pink cheeks seeming to flush deeper from your praise as he chuckles. You cup his cheeks when he leans over you again, whimpering as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“You’re unbelievable.” You sign as he kisses down your neck again, making him chuckle against your skin. 

“Just observant,” he grunts, shuddering when you wrap your legs around his trim waist. You gasp as his length brushes over your still sensitive pussy, impossibly hot and hard even through the thin fabric of his boxers. His fragmented sigh makes you smile and you tug his head up, blushing as you look up at him. 

“You ready, honey?” You breathe, giggling when he nods his head again eagerly, his hips stuttering instinctually against your center. “Here, let me…” You trail off, the two of you separating for a moment as you lean over and pull open the top drawer of your desk, pulling out a pack of condoms and tearing one off before laying back down. 

You watch enraptured as he kneels between your legs again, pulling down his boxers finally. “Holy…” you gasp when his cock finally bobs free, twitching up to rut against his lower stomach; he’s long and thick, curving a little as veins run up the underside, leading to a flushed, leaking head. He smiles shyly again at your attention as he shuffles awkwardly out of his trousers and underwear, kicking them off and onto the floor.

You hand him the condom and watch as he rolls it on, giving him a little reassuring smile as he does. Once it’s securely in place, you pull him back to you, eagerly kissing him once more and wrapping your legs securely around his waist. Both of you moan in unison when his length glides through your folds, the head catching perfectly on your clit. 

He pulls away with a little gasp, hovering over you as he glances down at your hips. “S-So, I just…” He trails off, watching as you reach down with one hand, grunting softly when you wrap your hand around his cock. 

Carefully, you position him at your entrance and angle your hips a little. “Go on, honey,” you encourage with a soft smile, running your other hand over his chest. 

Nodding once, he presses forward and swears he sees God. “F-Fucking hell,” he groans, loudly sighing your name as he carefully guides himself into you, absolutely in awe at the way your hot cunt grips him. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips resting firmly against yours as his chest heaves, breaths coming in short, sharp pants. 

You aren’t fairing much better, head spinning at the way he splits you open, pressing incessantly at each and every sensitive spot within you. You pant against his neck as he stills, pressed deeply within you. 

“D-Do… fuck, do I just…?” Michael stutters, giving half-hearted little thrusts to test the waters. 

“Yes!” You answer instantly, anxiously nodding up at him as your hips wiggle against the bedsheets, making him swear and shudder above you, “Just move, honey, do what feels good.” 

He groans again and gives a little nod before experimentally moving his hips again, pulling out more this time before pushing back in. “Shit,” he breathes above you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he grunts with each roll of his hips. 

You pant underneath him, spurring him on by pressing your feet against his backside, urging him to move faster and faster as the frilly lace from your socks tickles his pale skin. “You’re doing so, so good, oh, my God,” you breathe, your voice high-pitched and whimpery as you tangle your fingers in his hair again, knowing by now that it drives him crazy. 

Above you, Michael’s hips slowly but surely begin to stutter, his thrusts starting to peter out as his breathing picks up. “I’m —!”

“Wait!” You blurt suddenly, smiling wickedly as he comes to a screeching halt, pushing himself up enough to stare down at you with wild eyes, “I have an idea…” You tease with a little giggle. 

“W-What?” 

“You have a phone, yeah?” 

“…Yeah?”

“One that can, like, take video?” 

“Yes?” 

“Grab it,” you laugh, pushing him off of you with a laugh. He rolls his eyes with a smirk but does as you ask, clumsily pulling himself from your heat before stumbling over to where his khakis had landed. He shuffles about for a second before pulling a silver phone from the pocket of his trousers. 

“Now what?” He asks curiously, positioning himself back between your thighs, cock twitching meanly. 

“Film me.” 

“What?!” He gapes at you, brows creased. 

“Film me, honey,” you giggle, biting your lip conspiratorially, “For your little task, you need proof, yeah?” 

“Well, yeah, b-but I can just take your panties or something, I don’t —“

“Or you could bring back something better…” You smirk, shrugging your shoulders playfully, “We don’t have to but… it could be kinda hot?” 

He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking between you, your pussy, and the phone in his hand before he nods once, curtly. “We… we can try it.” 

“Yeah? You wanna?” 

“Yeah,” he quips, catching you by surprise as a mean little smirk spreads over his lips, “Wanna see the look on Catton’s face when he sees you creaming on my cock.” 

Your eyes widen and you huff out a shocked laugh, a zing of electricity lighting behind your eyes. “You’re insane,” you say softly, an endeared smile on your lips. 

He snickers, his whole demeanor seeming to change before your eyes as he transforms from this shy, stuttering boy into an astonishingly cocky man. “You like it, love,” he teases, grabbing his dick and positioning himself at your entrance yet again. 

“Wait!” You giggle again, blushing as he groans. 

“You don’t want to anymore?” 

“No, no, not that,” you assure him, affectionately running your hand down one of his shockingly muscular arms, “You can film me… on one condition.” 

“‘N what would that be?” 

“Take me on a date.” You breathe, suddenly shy. You know he’ll agree to it, but even still, your heart pumps wildly in your chest. 

He stares at you for a second, blinking dumbly as he processes your request. “You want me to take you on a date?” He asks, flushing so deeply that the soft pink hue cascades all the way down to his chest. 

Giggling, you nod your head, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze. “You need to start giving yourself more credit, honey.” 

He sighs at that, a little astounded huff, before he’s suddenly grabbing at your calves and pushing your legs up toward your shoulders, all but bending you in half, anxious to get his cock back into you. You gasp at the movement, and chuckle at his eagerness, a sound that morphs into a whiny moan when he slides back home. 

“Christ,” he grunts, shoulders heaving as he gets used to the way you feel around him once more, “Y-You feel so good, love, fucking perfect.” 

“You’re so big,” you whine, nodding as you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky, “You’re so good, Michael, you have no idea.” 

He groans above you, hands shaking as he grabs for his phone, flipping it open and quickly opening the camera as his hips rut into you, making the springs of your bed creak softly. 

As soon as Michael gives you a little nod to let you know he’s filming, you truly put on a show — or well, you at least stop trying to quiet yourself down and be conscientious of the people in the rooms next to you. The way he has your legs bent back makes him feel somehow bigger and causes his cock to hit that sensitive spot within you with pinpoint accuracy every time he thrusts in, making you clench around him and moan loudly each time he moves his hips against you. 

You watch as he angles the camera down a bit, no doubt pointing it at the spot the two of you are joined together, letting the camera record his cock sliding in and out of you. When he moves it back up, however, to get your face as evidence, you plaster on the cheekiest grin you can muster. 

“H-Hi boys,” you tease breathlessly, smirking as you lean up on one elbow. You wave with your other hand before blowing a kiss to the camera, which makes Michael cockily laugh.

“Fuck, I gotta…” he mutters after a few more seconds, carelessly dropping his phone down on the bed before roughly grabbing at your thighs with a bruising grip, one that makes you mewl and arch your back toward him. The two of you moan and whimper in unison as he begins thrusting wildly, seemingly too worked up to care about anything but cumming. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You chant over and over, head spinning as he bullies your sweet spot. 

“That’s it, love,” Michael murmurs, his voice gruff and low as he stares down at you, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead; he looks wilder than you’ve ever seen him, the thought only serving to push you closer and closer to the edge. “S-Shit, that’s it. Fucking come for me, cream on my cock; please, please, please,” he murmurs, leaning down to press desperate kisses against your neck and collarbones. 

The new position causes his pubic bone to rub deliciously over your clit, making you seize beneath him with a loud whine. Your toes curl, heels still pressing into the small of his back. “M-Michael, holy fuck!” You practically squeal as your high finally washes over you once more, stars dancing behind your eyelids as you go lax and pliant underneath him. 

The feel of your walls pulsing around his cock has Michael reeling, his hips somehow thrusting even faster as he both desperately wants to cum while also never wanting this feeling to end. “C-Cum, honey, cum,” you pant softly, cupping his cheek with one hand and turning his face toward yours. 

That does him in and the rubber band in his belly viciously snaps, making him shudder above you as his thrusts come to a halt, cock twitching wildly inside you as he empties himself into the condom. You watch him in awe, taking in every detail from the way his nose scrunches up as his eyes squeeze close to the way he whispers your name over and over like a prayer. 

The two of you lay in silence for a moment, his breath warm against your neck as he slumps against you trying to catch his breath. 

Eventually, you can’t help it anymore and let out a breathless giggle, which only intensifies when he props himself up on an elbow to peer down at you with a smirk. 

“Something funny?” 

“Just,” you breathe, trying to calm yourself enough to get words out, “Just… wow,” you finally say, giggles petering out as you look up at him, the soft gleam in his eyes makes your heart clench in your chest. 

“Good wow?” He blushes, looking down between the two of you as he pulls himself from your walls with a little hiss. 

“Very, very good wow,” you confirm, grinning as you watch him pull off the condom before he peers up at you with a sheepish grin. “Tie it off, honey,” you instruct, smirking as he does just that, before nodding to the little wastebasket by your desk. 

He gets up with a groan and quickly tosses the condom in the trash before turning back to you, the bashful look on his face making you blush. 

Unable to resist, you grin at him and spread your arms with a giggle, wordlessly inviting him for a cuddle, which he gladly accepts. The bed creaks slightly as he lays back down, relaxing his head on the pillow just beside yours. Again, the two of you stay silent for a moment, content to merely gaze at one another, before he shyly looks away and sighs. 

“I…,” he starts, blue eyes blinking and flitting around your room as he gathers his thoughts, “Thank you,” he finally says, looking back at you with a little half smile. 

Your brows furrow at this as you grin at him. “What’re you thanking me for?” 

“Well, f-for… this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you before sitting up just slightly and fishing around in the blankets for a second. “And this,” he sighs, holding his phone up before twisting around to set it on the corner of your desk, turning back to you. “I just… I know you didn’t have to, is all, so…” 

You cock your head to the side as you prop yourself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing as you study him closely. “And people have the nerve to say I’m thick,” you joke, lips spreading into a wide grin as you gaze down at him, “I wanted to do all this, Michael. I’m the one that came onto you, remember?” 

“W-Well, yeah, but —“

“No buts!” You laugh, pressing a finger against his lips as you shake your head, “I have eyes too, you know.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You haven’t been the only one watching someone for months,” you giggle shyly, pressing your forehead against his, “I meant what I said about that date, too.” 

His arms wind around your waist, holding you tight as he processes your words with a dumbstruck smile, blushing under your gaze. “Whatever you say, love,” he concedes finally, pressing his lips against yours sweetly. 

He yawns tiredly when he pulls away from you after a moment, which only makes you yawn as well, and you glance over at the little clock on your dresser. “Christ,” you gasp, turning back to him, “I didn’t realize it’s already almost four… you can crash here, if you want?” 

He considers it for a moment, knowing he has to be back in that stupid little basement by noon and making a mental map of where exactly your dormitory is in relation to the Merton College Chapel. “I… I can stay, yeah,” he finally nods after a moment. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Love, I’m not sure my legs work well enough yet to walk out of here anyway.” 

Michael

Groaning, Michael slowly blinks his eyes open, rubbing them softly as he sits up in bed with a yawn. Blindly reaching over for his glasses, he’s confused when he doesn’t feel them in their usual spot and finally opens his eyes properly. 

He stares, confused for a moment as to how exactly he somehow got transported into what appears to be Barbie’s damn dream house, before the events of last night come flooding back to him. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes when he turns his head and sees your still-sleeping form beneath your flowery sheets, your hair tousled wildly on the pillow as your shoulders rise and fall evenly still with each breath. Looking around, he finally spots his glasses and puts them on before reaching for his phone, and cursing again when he sees the time. 

11:47 AM. 

He practically falls out of your bed as he tries to extricate himself from the sheets, and he hears you wake with a start behind him as he grabs wildly at his clothes on the floor. 

“Michael?” You ask questioningly, your voice still hoarse from sleep as you, frankly fucking adorably, rub at your eyes before fixing him with a curious look. 

“Gotta, shit, gotta run,” he explains quickly, cursing as he nearly loses his balance trying to tug his trousers on, “Need to be at Merton Chapel in, like, Christ, ten minutes!” 

“Ohh,” you giggle softly, watching with amusement as he finishes getting dressed, hair and clothes so disheveled that he’s sure he looks like the very definition of the walk of shame. 

Just as he’s tugging his shoes on and making a mad dash for the door, you stop him. “Here,” you smirk, holding out the same lacy pair of pink panties you wore last night, “For proof,” you explain, nodding to the phone in his hand, “Along with that. Should be more than enough,” you giggle proudly. 

He smiled sheepishly as he pockets your underwear. “T-Thanks,” he nods, turning to leave before you stop him once more. 

He can’t help but blush when you lean in and press and quick kiss to his lips, your cherry chapstick rubbing off on him some. Pulling away, you playfully smack his chest with a little grin. “Go get ‘em, honey.” 

Nodding, he smiles again before finally pulling your door open and bounding down the hallway. “I’ll text you, love!” He calls, peering back just before he rounds a corner, “About that date!” 

It’s 11:58 on the dot when he flings the basement door open, only to be pulled over to the same stupid dank basement wall, his back hitting it once more with a dull thud. 

Glancing around, he sees the ski-masked boys again, all fifteen of them, standing in a row with the head boy slightly out of line. To his left stands one of the other initiates, clutching a black tube of some sort. 

The basement stays silent for a moment before one of the masked boy’s watch alarms goes off just as the bells in the tower begin to chime. 

Once, twice, all the way up to twelve. Noon.

Right on cue, the head boy steps forward even more and looks between Michael and the other initiate. “Your friend couldn’t be bothered to show his face, then?” He asks, dark eyes peering at the boy next to Michael. 

He scoffs and shakes his head, glaring at the head boy. “He’s still at the bank!” He snaps, “All the way in bloody Switzerland,” he kicks at the dirty stone floor as he explains, “Dickhead,” he finally mutters lowly under his breath. 

“Shame,” the head boy quips, clasping his hands in front of his waist, “Some men are simply not cut out for Bullingdon.” 

The boys in the row behind him nod knowingly, each making some little noise of affirmation until the head boy quickly stops them, holding a fist up by his head, bringing it back down to his side when they shut up. 

“So, initiates, what’ve you got?” 

The boy next to Michael steps forward first and hands the black tube to the head boy with a sigh. “There,” he says, gesturing to it, “There’s your bloody map. My mum could get sacked for that.” 

The head boy pops open one end of the tube, a document sleeve Michael now realizes, and gingerly extracts a rolled up piece of parchment from it, unrolling it just enough to confirm it's what they asked for. 

“Well done, initiate,” he nods, seemingly impressed as he flashes a smile at the boy, white teeth gleaming creepily through the slit in his ski mask. Carefully, he rolls the document up again before sliding it back in the tube, “Your commitment to Bullingdon will take you far. Welcome to the fray.” 

The boy stands still for a moment, eyeing the document tube with an almost regretful expression before curtly nodding and taking his place back against the wall. 

“And then there was one,” the head boy murmurs, dark faze fixed on Michael, “I seem to remember we gave you quite the… interesting task indeed, initiate. How did you manage?” 

Smiling damn near arrogantly, Michael all but skips up the head boy and proudly pulls your panties from his back pocket, letting them dangle from his index finger. “See for yourself.” 

The head boy grabs them by the edge and studies them for a moment, turning back to the row of boys behind him with a questioning glance. The boy Michael knows already to be that cunt, Oliver Quick, glances between him, the panties, and Michael, before cutting a sideways glance to a tall boy standing next to him. 

“These could be anyone’s,” the head boy says, turning back to Michael as he shakes his head, “You could’ve nicked them from your sister or something, we’ll need more than this, initiate.”

“Don’t even have a sister,” Michael quips, shrugging his shoulders with a little frown. 

“Okay, like, your cousin or something then –”

“Don’t have a female cousin,” he says with a shake of his head, “All boys.”

“The point still stands!” The head boy finally snaps, making Michael bite the inside of his cheek to hide a little laugh, though the corner of his lips still quirks up in a smirk, “You haven’t got any proof, do you? Is that why you’re stalling?”

Huffing a little laugh, Michael finally lets himself smirk meanly and steps closer to the head boy as he pulls his phone from his pocket, flips it open, and navigates to his video gallery. “Is this enough proof?” He teases, pressing play on the most recent video. 

The picture is small and grainy but there’s no doubt as to what’s happening as the sound of your pretty whimpers and moans echoes around the brick basement, along with the wet smack of Michael’s cock driving into you again and again. 

The head boy stares at the screen still as curiosity gets to a few of the boys in the row behind him and they all come crowd around Michael’s phone, eyes widening behind their ski masks and mouths falling open. 

The tallest one, the one Oliver keeps glancing at, lets out a long sigh as he peers down at the small screen and brings a hand up to his head as if he were going to run it through his hair before remembering the mask he has on. With him this close, Michael finally notices the little silver barbell stuck through his eyebrow and shivers as his lips curl up into a sadistic Cheshire cat smile, a tidal wave of savage pride crashing through his system. 

Finally, fucking finally, I get something he wants, he thinks as your breathy moans continue to pour from the speaker of his phone, tinny and muffled in some spots where he’d accidentally covered the microphone, but beautiful, beautiful and because of him.

After a moment, the video ends, the tiny phone screen reverting back to it’s little thumbnail as the head boy peers up at Michael, the rest of the club members taking their places back in line, though he can’t help but notice that Felix’s broad shoulders are slumped now and Oliver stands ever closer to him, like some kind of fucked up bodyguard. 

“I’ll be damned, initiate,” the head boy sighs with a shake of his head, “I really didn’t think you had it in you.”

He watches as Michael merely nods and pockets his phone again, holding it tightly in his fist even still. After a second, he smiles widely and claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“Welcome to Bullingdon.”

Some time later, Michael finally exits the basement, a few of the club members, sans ski masks now, nodding goodbye to him as they disperse across campus, meeting adjourned. 

He wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting from the initial meeting but it was mostly them prattling on about where exactly they had all their grubby little fingers, poked in seemingly every facet of society from Parliament to local newspapers. 

Braggy cunts, Michael thinks as he ambles outside, glancing up at the sky as he steps into the Mob Quad, surrounded by stony old buildings. 

Smiling to himself, he pulls out his phone and quickly finds your number in his contacts list, blushing when he sees you’ve taken the liberty of adding some girly heart emoticon next to it. He hardly has time to press it against his ear before you answer.

“Well?” You demand with that now familiar giggle, some unfamiliar pop song playing in the background.

“I’m in,” he confirms, nodding to himself as he slowly walks in the direction of his dormitory, “Thanks to you.” He smiles like an idiot when you laugh.

“Don’t sell yourself short, honey,” you tease, he can picture your bright, glossy smile in his head, “You earned that spot.”

Michael merely shakes his head with a happy little sigh. “So,” he starts, clearing his throat and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “About that date… I was thinking the King’s Arms? Tonight at six, if that works?”

“Oooh, tonight at six,” you repeat teasingly, an image flashing in his mind of you twirling your hair around a perfectly manicured finger, “Someone’s quite eager, hm?”

“Can you blame me?”

“Hmm, I suppose not,” you giggle, pausing for a second, “It’s a date then.”

“Fantastic,” Michael sighs, trying with every fiber of his being to sound casual and cool about the whole thing, even as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. 

“See you tonight, Mr. Bullingdon,” you tease, making a little kissy sound into the phone before hanging up. 

Michael pauses for a moment, standing to the side on the pavement as he nods to himself. If it weren’t so fucking cheesy, he’d raise his fist in the air, victorious, à la Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club. 

Instead, he flips his phone back open and navigates back to your video. Sighing, he stares at the little thumbnail for a second before deleting it, pocketing his phone once more, and continuing back to his dormitory. 

He has the real thing now.

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[tender-rosiey]

grip and giggle — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: just a lil smth while I finish up vulnerable gojo okay but like bby grips are STRONG

satoru has a big problem with your baby.

listen, of course, he loves his own son, adores him even, but he can’t help but just want to throw that baby in the nearest day-care—read: nanami’s house—just so he can have you for himself.

he is no jealous man, but he is your husband so he believes he has every right to want to be with you.

his son doesn’t think so.

satoru has long expressed his woes of how you’re the baby’s favorite; however, your son’s affection remained unchanging. your husband thought he would get over it.

he didn't, but the point is that he thinks that the fact he can't have your attention is the bigger problem.

and this big problem is, well, big, but a part of the very big problem is that the baby has a grip stronger than that of a man holding onto his last snack while gaming.

now, why would that be a problem you ask. 

well, because the baby doesn’t let go of you, like ever.

“s/n, can I have some time with your mama?”

the baby babbles some nonsense before slamming into your chest and nuzzling closer. you giggle.

however, satoru isn’t having it so he tries to pull him away, but the kid hangs on for dear life, to the point you think your shirt is going to get torn.

the funny thing—to you, at least—is that your baby is laughing and kicking while your husband’s face is full of a pout and furrowed eyebrows as he huffs, “s/n! let go of your mama!”

the baby squeals, grip getting tighter and tighter.

he also decides that the best course of action is kicking his dad in the face—which, by the way, serves him right for turning his infinity off. 

satoru tumbles back as he lets go the baby who happily falls onto your chest again. meanwhile, your husband is rubbing his face as he stares at the baby, “what the…”

the strongest baby for the strongest sorcerer, I guess.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[cordeliawhohung]

the prowl - single dad! Price x teacher! stripper! Reader (fem) taglist

[7] intended plurals

cw: minor mentions of masturbation

You stare at the slip of paper in your hands and you feel your stomach plummet through the floor. 

All murmuring conversations around you fade into white noise. Every childish giggle and the scrape of chairs along the freshly lacquered floor. You read off the carefully scrawled out numbers before you. The paper is hastily torn. Printer paper shredded for a quick note to be doused with rich dark ink. It swirls and cuts in sharp corners and dashes. A moment of disbelief settles over you before you’re able to swallow down the fact you’re staring at John Price’s number. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, voice low and hushed. “I know it’s a tall order, but it would settle my mind a little. We’ve never been apart so long before. Call me an overbearing parent, if you want.” 

Setting the paper face down on your desk, you carefully push yourself to your feet. Your eyes glance over to Amelia’s desk where she’s busy fetching last week’s homework from her dinosaur bag. You notice there’s a new charm on the zipper — a stegosaurus with comically large googly eyes. Her movements are slower than usual. Heavy lethargy pulls at her body as she sorts her items. When she turns, you see the irritation rimming her eyes. The crystalline blue hue of her iris looks nearly translucent by comparison. 

“How long will you be gone?” you question, turning your attention back to John. 

“Only a week,” he assures. “Normally I can weasel my way out of these sorts of conferences but didn’t get so lucky this time. She’ll be staying with Diana, of course, but she’s not… the most talkative with me. Don’t want to irritate her by just trying to get information about my kid.” 

“She doesn’t tell you about Amelia at all while she’s watching her?” you ask, baffled. 

“Only the important things. Pictures and daily updates aren’t on that list, unfortunately.” 

Nodding, you allow your brain to soak in the information John’s tossed your way. A phone number. A trip. His daughter. Your student. It’s a simple task. Inconsequential. It isn’t wholly uncommon for teachers and parents to exchange numbers. Oftentimes it’s easier to communicate over text than in what little office time you have. Yet, this feels different. Wrong. It’s wrong because you still think about running into him at the tea shop the other week. You can recall his wet clothes clinging to his chest, and how you touched yourself to that very image later that night with shame broiling deep in your stomach. 

Could you keep your fingers off your phone long enough — off your cunt long enough — that it would be professional? Healthy? Can you fully separate the John standing in front of you now and the John whose side you once curled up against? Whose sent you bathed in? 

“It’s a tall order, and I know I’m askin’ a lot of you already…” he continues. 

“No, not at all,” you cut him off. “It’s not a problem. I couldn’t imagine having to be away and not get to talk with your own child.” 

“You’re sure?” he asks. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to do me any favors.”

Shaking your head, you smile. “It’s fine, John.”

A huff escapes with the chuckle he gives you. He looks different today, you realize, than all the other times you’ve spoken with him. His hair is more mussed than normal, and the lack of his usual business casual attire isn’t lost on you. A plain charcoal grey t-shirt fits snug and close to his torso, and you try not to stare at the thick hair that decorates his arms. His shoulders are… big. Bigger than the dress shirts he normally dons would have you believe. Dense and wide enough to get lost in. 

“Daddy?” 

Both you and John turn to find Amelia anxiously pulling at her skirt. Moisture brims so heavily in her eyes you’re surprised they haven’t spilled over yet. You’re reminded of that day she tripped on the playground with shredded knees and fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Now, the scabs have healed and you can’t even make out the scars. Amelia Price is stubborn. She refuses to cry the same way she did that day, no matter how much the pressure builds behind her eyes. 

“Are you leaving now?” she asks, bottom lip trembling. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, pumpkin,” he promises. John sinks down to kneel in front of Amelia. She looks puny next to him. Doting hands straighten out her uniform, attempting to undo the anxious wrinkling going on in her skirt as the fabric is clutched between her fists. “Granny’ll take good care of you.” 

Their farewell is tearful and long. Long enough that your other students begin to whisper and stare, so you attempt to control the damage before it fully starts. John embraces her. Lifts her small frame into the air to hug her tightly as he cradles her head like it’s the last time he’ll ever see her. All eyes are on you by the time they’re finished sending one another off, and no questions are asked as Amelia returns to her seat. John leaves the room with a tight lipped smile and a wave to you. You refuse to let your eyes linger on the wet patch on his shoulder. 

For the rest of the day, Amelia seems to be merely a shell of the girl you had grown to know. Despondent and quiet, she hardly participates in any of the activities you’ve prepared for the day. Her curious mind seems just as silent as she is. She does not raise her hand in question or quirk her head in curiosity throughout any of your activities. That vivacious girl is hardly present at all. Stuck in her mind. Thinking about nothing but her father and how much she wishes he was home. 

You try to rekindle that spark inside of her. Feed it all the fuel it could ever dream of consuming with engaging stories and silly voices. Nothing rouses her. Even the coloring project you have them do for their English time fails to bring a smile to her face. Her usual love for art has dissipated into dust just like everything else she ever seemed to enjoy. She sits, curved forward over her coloring page as she lazily draws inside of the lines with peeling, cracked crayons. 

“Wonderful job, Amelia,” you croon, kneeling in front of her desk. 

Your praise hardly stirs a response from her other than a sheepish smile that quickly fades into a quivering lip. All your students have good and bad days. Children her age aren’t exactly known for their emotional maturity, but she’s downright pitiful like this. Like a wounded animal. 

Tapping your fingers on her desk, you quietly grab her attention before you lean closer to whisper. “When you’re finished, why don’t you let me take a picture? I’ll send it to your dad.” 

For the first time that day, Amelia’s eyes illuminate with something other than tears. Mouth agape and crayon still firmly in hand, she stares up at you, dumbfounded. 

“Really?” she asks. 

You grin. “Really. Take your time, and come find me when you’re finished, okay?” 

She grins back. “Okay!” 

When Amelia finishes her coloring, she demands to be in the picture you send to her father. She holds the paper out like it’s a work of fine art. Something she’s slaved over for months. A toothy grin graces her lips as she tilts her head to the side in the way little kids always seem to do. She giggles profusely when you show her the picture, and you quickly text it off to the number John gave you before the next lesson starts. 

Amelia is quite the artist today!

It takes him some time to respond. You can already imagine him, half awake, head held up by the tips of his fingers as he sits in some meeting too far from home. Maybe he’s slouching like he did that night at the club. Legs spread far and wide, head tilting to the side as he listens to whoever’s speaking. You wonder if he’ll visit you — visit Saffron — again when he returns home; his way to unwind after a long trip. It’s been a while since you — Saffron — last saw him. 

Your thoughts are mercifully interrupted with the quiet buzzing of your phone. 

Glad to see her smiling again. Thank you.

Once Amelia’s learned you’re her new, unimpeded access to her father, she’s consistently requesting you to send pictures and messages to John. You can see the way she holds herself back. Quietly separating the important stuff she wants to tell him now, from the stuff she’ll tell him herself when he gets home. Still, nothing matches the way her cheeks get rosy and her lips pull into a grin when you read off a response from him during what little down time the kids have between lessons. It’s simple enough, and John is polite in his responses. Professional. Proper. 

This is a respectable relationship to hold with a parent. 

You have to keep that mantra in your head lest it degrade into something terrible. 

On Friday, Amelia arrives to class, beaming. She doesn’t greet you like she usually does, but every time you look at her while lecturing or reading, she’s grinning. She’s held that expression so long you’re certain her face is going to freeze that way. Forever joyous. Patiently waiting for… something. 

It isn’t until their first recess that you’re able to sniff out the reason for her behavior. Her hair is different. Adorable. Long, inky locks are half pulled up into strands that gently swirl down her back. A fat, puffy bow adorns her hair, keeping the strands of her hairdo together. It’s a pristine white, but you can see small designs that you can’t quite discern from a distance. You watch it bob and bounce as you lead them outside into the dwindling summer heat.

Before she has the chance to run off and join her friends on the playground, you catch her attention. “That’s a pretty bow, Amelia. Is that new?” 

Giggles burst free from her lips as she sways back and forth. They’re sharp and shrill, as if she’s been holding them in all day. Blue fabric swirls around her knees as she moves, nearly buzzing inside of her own skin. 

“Granny bought it last night. I saw it, and wanted it because it reminds me of your dresses!” she explains, eyeing your clothing. 

Now that she’s closer, you’re able to make out the pattern. Little lollipops and hard candies adorn the white fabric, giving the appearance that it’s polka dotted. You have a dress that’s eerily similar in patterning to it hanging up in your closet at home. Today, you’re wearing daisies and moons — doesn’t quite match, yet her enthusiasm is touching all the same. 

“That’s so sweet of you. It looks beautiful on you.” 

“Can we take a picture? For papa?” she asks. 

Refusing to deny her request, you sneakily fish your phone out from the pocket of your dress to open the camera. You attempt to get her to pose — big smile! — but she only looks at you with pinched brows. 

“No, you have to be in it, too,” she insists. 

“Do I?” you challenge. 

“He has to see that we’re matching!” 

Hesitant, you bite into your bottom lip. Sending pictures of Amelia to John is something you have no gripe with. It’s his daughter — after all — but a picture of you? It unsettles your stomach. Disrupts the bile and has the muscle angrily churning in protest. In want. Just as you open your mouth to make up an excuse, or explain that it’s not proper, you lose the will. When she stares at you with eyes so wide and hopeful, you find it difficult to deny her anything. 

“Alright well… maybe a video will be easier,” you give in. 

Propping up your phone on a nearby bench, you let Amelia take the lead. You’re awkwardly in frame behind her, hands politely folded in front of you as she rattles off her story. She makes a show of displaying her new bow, and telling the camera all about how her grandma got it for her. How it reminds her of you. When she’s finished, she does a cute, clumsy spin to show it off properly before she looks at you expectantly. 

“Okay. Spin,” she directs, swirling her finger at you as if it were a wand. 

Chuckling, you follow her command with stiff, awkward limbs. You try not to be too showy. Too much. Too anything. Luckily, your lackluster performance satiates Amelia long enough for you to walk back up to your phone and cut the recording. You send her off to play with her friends before her break is used up and wasted talking to you. The video is already sent John’s way before she even reaches the top of the slides. 

For the rest of the day, you try your best not to look at your phone. It’s not a difficult task to accomplish. Children this age need a lot of attention and looking after. Besides, you have a job to do, and talking with John Price isn’t on the agenda. You spend your time reading stories, instructing writing, and leading projects. By the time all your students are gone and off enjoying the weekend with their parents, you’re tired to the marrow. Fatigue seeps into every cell in your bones, webbing cracks into the structures until you can do nothing but sit and rot in your chair as you grade easy assignments with a red pen and stickers. 

You’re yanked out of your thoughts the moment your phone vibrates against your thigh. Allowing yourself a quick mental break, you pull it free and unlock it to find the preview of the video you sent John staring back at you, along with his response. 

My girls.

You can’t stop staring at it. Those two words. One of them is certainly a mistake. Girls. Girls. Plural. More than one. More than one and his. His girls. It’s a typo. An error. It should be singular. Girl. His girl. His daughter. Nothing to do with you. You’re not his. Nothing of his. 

The words seep into your brain. They take purchase in the raw, messy parts of you where they feed off the sparse nutrients lurking in your grey matter. The worst desires you try not to crave. As you read the words again, you hear them in his voice. Low and deep. Quiet. Tired. As if you’re pressed against his side again attempting to keep his mind off a long day. It ruins you. Shreds apart the most delicate parts of your skin until all of you is an open wound begging to be saved. To be kissed. To be loved. 

The screen goes black and you slam it face down on your desk. It’s a typo. That’s all it is. And still your heart pounds in your throat as if to choke you and put you out of your misery. 

A pitiful squeak leaves the chair as you stand. Every ounce of blood in your body rushes to your core. You feel it pool in your face, ears, and chest, leaving you with clammy hands and colder feet. Everything within you is telling you to run. To flee. So you do. You shove your phone back into your pocket with no intention of responding to him, and you leave with your bag hastily thrown over your shoulder. 

“Goddammit,” you mutter. 

You can run, but the damage is already done. John’s in your classroom in the form of a scented note. He’s in your phone as pixelated replies to your messages. And now, finally, he is in your head. He’s in your head, lurking in the form of knowing smiles and deep baritone, and you don’t think you’ll be lucky enough to shake him off any time soon.

[bunnis-monsters]

I was wondering if you could take requests for an SFW scenario of a monster of your choice with an S/O who, when angry or frustrated, bites their arm because they can't communicate their feelings

Your lion hybrid bf’s tail swayed in annoyance as he lifted his arm, just for you to be attached to it by the mouth. He huffed, raising an eyebrow as his golden eyed stared into yours.

“Is that it? You’re just going to bite me?”

You mumbled something around his arm, and he watched in light amusement as you noticed he couldn’t understand you.

“…”

You sat on his lap, petting his mane while you sucked on one of his fingers. The two of you had a fight earlier, and you just got really frustrated.

“You can’t just bite me when you get upset, little one. It isn’t fair to me.”

“… I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… I don’t know how to express myself.”

His chest rumbled with purrs as you played with his mane some more. “Mmm… try drawing or writing about how you feel next time, okay?”

“Okay…”

He licked the top of your head, grooming and preening you as you drew something.

You handed it to him, and he finally understood why you were upset.

The drawing depicted him being careless with an important stuffy of yours and causing its arm to be torn off.

“Ah… I’m sorry, little one. I’ll pay for it to be properly sewn back on.”

With your feelings heard, you were able to truly relax and curl up with your boyfriend, burying your face into his mane.

———————

SFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @peachesdabunny @misswonderfrojustice @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @zyettemoon1800 @kassandra-hawthorne @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @readeryn68 @danielle143 @omglovelylaila @midromiell @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @hammerhead96-blog @bubblez-blop @snugglyshoji @wanderlustingcastaway @amberexe2 @swasti8854 @an-ever-angry-bi @nenggie

[fr0stf4ll]

Flavours of Prythian

Coming from that request

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; Y/N, a talented restaurateur’s life is turned upside down when she forms an unexpected bond with Azriel, the mysterious Spymaster of the Night Court. Befriending Elain, who confides in her about a male she’s trying to win over, she eagerly helps her new friend — only to discover the male is none other than Azriel. When the bond between her and Azriel snaps at first touch, she’s torn between loyalty to Elain and the undeniable connection she shares with the shadowy warrior.

word count ; 7.8k

warning; //

notes; Yoo everyone, here is my first one shot ! Thank you again for the request<333 Should I do a more general taglist so that you guys can be permanently on it. Enjoy it, see you <3

---

Prythian was a land of many wonders, from the towering peaks of the Illyrian mountains to the lush, rolling hills of the Spring Court. But for you, the true magic of the land was found in its kitchens, markets, and the rich flavors that each court had to offer.

You had always been drawn to the culinary arts, even as a child. Your curiosity led you to travel across the courts, tasting the distinct dishes of each region, learning from the most skilled chefs, and uncovering the hidden culinary gems that most would overlook. You spent years journeying from the Day Court, where spices danced like sunlight on the tongue, to the Winter Court, where hearty stews and warm bread were a staple against the biting cold. In the Night Court, you discovered the delicate balance of flavors that mirrored the starlit skies above, and in the Summer Court, you indulged in the rich, vibrant tastes that seemed to capture the very essence of the sun-drenched beaches.

Your travels weren’t just about satisfying your own cravings; they were a quest to bring the best of Prythian’s diverse cuisines to others. And so, you did the impossible—you opened a series of restaurants, each one in a different court, each one a testament to the culinary traditions you had learned and made your own. Your establishments became a haven for those seeking not only a good meal but an experience, a journey through Prythian’s tastes and textures without ever leaving their seat.

Your flagship restaurant, nestled in the heart of Velaris, was particularly special. It was here, in the City of Starlight, that you combined the flavors of all the courts into a menu that was as varied and enchanting as Prythian itself. Word quickly spread of the remarkable dishes served within, and soon, it wasn’t just the citizens of Velaris who came to dine—High Fae from every court sought out your creations.

One such evening, as you oversaw the final preparations for the dinner service, the door to your restaurant swung open, and in walked a familiar face—Elain Archeron. Elain had been wandering through Velaris, taking in the beauty of the city, when the warm, inviting aroma from your restaurant had drawn her in.

Elain was known for her gentle nature, her love of gardening, and her keen eye for beauty in all things. But tonight, she was here for something different—a new experience, a chance to explore another form of beauty through the culinary delights that had been whispered about throughout the city.

As Elain took her seat near a window overlooking the Sidra, she immediately felt at ease. There was a sense of comfort and warmth in the restaurant, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself walking over to greet her. She looked up with a warm smile, her eyes bright with curiosity and a touch of shyness.

“Welcome,” you said, your own smile reflecting her warmth. “I’m Y/N, the owner and chef here. It’s a pleasure to have you.”

Elain’s smile widened, and she nodded appreciatively. “I’ve heard so much about this place, I just had to come see for myself. The aromas alone are worth the visit.”

You chuckled, feeling an instant connection with her. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ll make sure the food lives up to the expectations.”

As the evening went on, you found yourself returning to Elain’s table more than once, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you. You talked about your travels, the different courts you had visited, and the inspiration behind some of the dishes on the menu. Elain, in turn, shared stories of her own—of her love for gardening, the peace she found in the quiet moments spent among the flowers, and her growing appreciation for the little joys in life, like a perfectly prepared meal.

There was something comforting in the way you both connected, as if you had known each other for much longer than just one evening. By the time dessert arrived—a delicate pastry inspired by the flavors of the Summer Court—you and Elain were chatting like old friends, the conversation punctuated by shared laughter and the occasional appreciative hum as she tasted each new dish.

As the night drew to a close, Elain hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’d love to come back,” she said, her voice soft but sincere. “Maybe we could do this again sometime?”

You smiled, genuinely pleased by the idea. “I’d like that. You’re welcome anytime, Elain.”

Elain quickly became a regular fixture at your restaurant, her visits growing more frequent as the two of you bonded over shared stories, laughter, and the occasional glass of wine. It wasn’t long before your casual conversations began to take on a more personal tone, with Elain confiding in you about her life, her hopes, and her dreams.

One evening, after the dinner rush had died down and the restaurant had settled into a peaceful hum, Elain arrived with a particular glint in her eye. You noticed it the moment she walked in, her steps lighter, her smile brighter. She took her usual seat by the window, and you didn’t waste any time joining her, a knowing smile on your face.

“Alright, Elain,” you said, sitting down across from her. “You’re glowing tonight. What’s going on?”

Elain blushed, her hands fluttering nervously in her lap. “It’s nothing, really… Well, maybe it’s something. I don’t know.”

You leaned in closer, eyes wide with curiosity. “Come on, you can’t just leave me hanging like that. Spill!”

She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment before finally giving in. “There’s… this male,” she began, her voice soft but filled with excitement. “I’ve been trying to get his attention for a while now, and I think… I think it might actually be working.”

You couldn’t help but squeal in delight, clapping your hands together. “Elain! This is amazing! Tell me everything—who is he? How did it start? What’s he like?”

Elain giggled at your enthusiasm, her own excitement bubbling to the surface as she began to share the details. “He’s… well, he’s different. Reserved, I guess you could say. But there’s something about him that just draws me in. He’s kind, in his own way, and he has this quiet strength that I really admire.”

You listened intently, hanging on her every word as she described this mysterious male who had captured her attention. It was clear that she was smitten, and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement for her.

“So, what’s the plan?” you asked, your mind already racing with ideas. “How are you going to win him over?”

Elain smiled shyly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “Well, I thought… maybe I could start by cooking for him. You know, something simple but special. He loves good food, and I think it might help him see… well, see me.”

You practically jumped out of your seat with excitement. “Elain, that’s perfect! And you’re in the right place—I can help you with recipes, tips, anything you need. We’ll make sure this meal is unforgettable.”

Her eyes lit up with gratitude. “Really? You’d help me?”

“Of course!” you replied, beaming. “This is what friends are for. And besides, I love a good love story. We’ll make sure he can’t resist you after this.”

From that moment on, the two of you were inseparable. Elain would visit the restaurant every few days, sometimes to try out a new dish, other times just to chat and share the latest developments in her budding romance. The more she talked about this male, the more you could see how deeply she cared for him, and it made you all the more determined to help her succeed.

You spent hours in the kitchen together, experimenting with different ingredients and techniques, crafting meals that were not only delicious but also filled with meaning. Elain would watch you work, her eyes wide with admiration as you explained the significance of each spice, each flavor, and how it could be used to convey emotion.

“There’s a language in food,” you told her one afternoon as you kneaded dough for a loaf of bread. “Every dish tells a story. When you cook for someone, you’re sharing a part of yourself with them. It’s intimate, in a way.”

Elain nodded thoughtfully, her hands busy chopping herbs for the soup you were preparing. “I never thought of it like that, but it makes sense. I want him to know how I feel, even if I can’t always find the words.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection for your friend. “Then we’ll make sure every bite he takes is filled with love.”

As the days turned into weeks, Elain’s visits became a highlight of your day. She would burst through the door, her eyes sparkling as she recounted her latest interactions with the male who had stolen her heart. You would listen with rapt attention, offering advice and encouragement, celebrating every small victory and reassuring her during moments of doubt.

“He loved the soup,” she told you one evening, her cheeks flushed with happiness. “He said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. And I think… I think he’s starting to notice me.”

You grinned, feeling a surge of pride. “I told you, Elain. No one can resist good food, especially when it’s made with love.”

She laughed, her joy infectious. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Y/N. You’ve helped me so much.”

You waved off her gratitude with a smile. “Nonsense. You’re the one doing all the hard work. I’m just here to cheer you on.”

But the truth was, you had come to care deeply for Elain and her happiness. It wasn’t just about the food anymore—it was about seeing your friend find the love and connection she so deserved. And as she continued to come back, sharing her hopes and dreams, you couldn’t help but feel that you had found something special too.

Your friendship with Elain had become a source of joy and fulfillment, a reminder that sometimes, the most meaningful connections were forged in the simplest of moments—over a shared meal, a quiet conversation, or a burst of laughter that echoed through the night.

And so, as the seasons changed and the nights grew longer, you continued to help Elain in her quest to win over this mysterious male, knowing that whatever the outcome, you had found a true friend in her. A friend who had come into your life unexpectedly, but who had quickly become an irreplaceable part of it.

Weeks had passed since you and Elain had first started crafting meals together, each one a carefully planned step in her quest to win over the male who had captivated her heart. Every visit, every dish, brought a new story, a new glimmer of hope in her eyes. You were genuinely happy for her, thrilled to see her so full of life and excitement. So, when she asked if she could bring him to your restaurant for dinner, you couldn’t have been more supportive.

“Of course, Elain!” you’d said, flashing her an encouraging smile. “I’ll make sure everything is perfect. It’ll be a night he won’t forget.”

You’d spent the entire day preparing, selecting only the finest ingredients and crafting a menu that would showcase the very best of what your restaurant had to offer. You wanted this night to be special for her—special for them. You had no idea how special it would become, for reasons you never could have imagined.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city of Velaris in a warm, golden glow, Elain arrived at the restaurant with a male by her side. You couldn’t quite make out his features at first, but the way she clung to his arm, her eyes bright with anticipation, told you all you needed to know. This was the one.

As they stepped into the softly lit dining room, you finally got a good look at him—Azriel, the shadowsinger of the Night Court. You had heard of him, of course, through whispers and stories, but nothing could have prepared you for the moment your eyes met his.

Elain beamed as she introduced the two of you, her voice filled with warmth and pride. “Azriel, this is Y/N, the wonderful chef I’ve been telling you about. And Y/N, this is Azriel.”

He extended his hand to you, his expression polite, reserved. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice deep and smooth.

You reached out, intending to greet him with the same friendly courtesy you offered all your patrons. But the moment your hand touched his, something shifted in the air—a sudden, overwhelming rush of heat and energy that took your breath away. The bond snapped into place with such force that it nearly knocked you off your feet.

For a split second, the world around you faded, and all you could feel was the pull, the undeniable connection that tethered your soul to his. His eyes widened in shock, and you knew he felt it too—the bond, the realization that fate had just entwined your lives in a way neither of you had expected.

But as quickly as the bond formed, reality came crashing back down. Elain was standing there, her eyes full of hope, completely unaware of the storm that had just erupted inside you. She had no idea that the male she was so clearly infatuated with, the one she had been working so hard to win over, was now bound to you in a way that went beyond anything you could have ever imagined.

Panic surged through you. How could this happen? How could you possibly accept this bond when it would mean shattering the friendship you had built with Elain, when it would mean taking away the one thing she wanted so desperately?

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

With a forced smile, you quickly withdrew your hand from Azriel’s grasp, the warmth of the bond lingering like a phantom touch. “It’s nice to meet you too,” you managed to say, though your voice sounded hollow even to your own ears.

Azriel’s gaze lingered on you, confusion and something deeper flickering in his hazel eyes. But you couldn’t let yourself look too long, couldn’t let yourself feel what was brewing inside you. Not when Elain was standing right there, her happiness hanging in the balance.

“Please, take a seat,” you said, stepping back and motioning toward the table you had specially prepared for them. “I’ll make sure everything is perfect.”

Elain smiled, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart, and took her seat. Azriel hesitated for just a moment before following suit, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, the unspoken questions hanging in the air between you, but you didn’t dare meet his eyes again. You couldn’t.

As the evening went on, you did your best to stay professional, to act as if nothing had changed. You brought out dish after dish, each one more exquisite than the last, all while ignoring the fire burning in your chest. Every time Azriel tried to catch your eye, every time he tried to speak to you, you found a reason to turn away, to focus on something—anything—else.

Elain chattered on, completely unaware of the tension building between you and Azriel. She complimented the food, praised your skills, and even mentioned how much Azriel seemed to be enjoying himself. And through it all, you kept up the facade, kept pretending as if the bond snapping into place hadn't turned your entire world upside down.

But it was getting harder. With every glance Azriel sent your way, with every quiet question he tried to ask you in passing, it felt like the invisible thread between you was pulling tighter, demanding to be acknowledged. Yet, you refused to give in.

As the night dragged on, the tension between you and Azriel grew unbearable. He could sense it—you knew he could—but Elain remained blissfully unaware, happily recounting the gossip from the latest happenings in Velaris, smiling every time she caught Azriel glancing her way.

Azriel's eyes kept drifting back to you. Not once, not twice, but every time you approached the table, as if he couldn’t stop himself. You could feel the weight of his gaze burning into you, the way his expression darkened each time you brushed past him without so much as a word. He knew you were avoiding him, and he didn’t like it.

When you brought out the final dish—an indulgent dessert meant to close the evening on a sweet note—Elain excused herself to step outside for a moment, leaving you alone with Azriel for the first time since the bond snapped.

You could feel his presence before you even turned around, the quiet intensity of his gaze. And as you set the plate down in front of him, you knew you couldn’t avoid this confrontation any longer.

“Y/N.” His voice was low, barely more than a murmur, but the way he said your name sent a shiver down your spine. “We need to talk.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes firmly fixed on the table in front of you. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, your voice cold and distant, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions raging inside you.

Azriel leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. “Don’t lie to me. You felt it too.”

The bond. He didn’t have to say the word for you to know what he meant. It was a truth that hung in the air between you, undeniable and impossible to ignore. And yet, you had to. You had to protect Elain, to protect your friendship, no matter the cost.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, your heart aching with the effort it took to deny the pull you felt toward him.

Azriel’s expression darkened, his hand curling into a fist on the table. “Don’t do this, Y/N. Don’t shut me out.”

But you couldn’t let him in. If you let him in, if you allowed yourself to even consider what the bond meant, you would be betraying Elain in the worst way possible. How could you even think about being with him when she had spent weeks confiding in you, trusting you with her feelings for him?

“No, Azriel.” You stepped back, your voice firmer this time. “I can’t.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Why? Because of Elain?”

You winced at the mention of her name, the weight of guilt pressing heavily on your chest. “She cares about you. A lot.”

Azriel's expression softened, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Y/N, it’s not like that between Elain and me.”

But you shook your head, refusing to let yourself believe it. “It doesn’t matter. She’s my friend. I can’t—I won’t—do this to her.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick with tension, a storm of emotions swirling just beneath the surface. Azriel opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, the sound of the door opening broke the silence.

Elain re-entered the dining room, a bright smile on her face as she made her way back to the table. “Sorry about that,” she said cheerfully, oblivious to the charged atmosphere between you and Azriel. “What did I miss?”

You forced a smile, masking the turmoil raging inside you. “Nothing,” you lied, your voice steady even though your heart was breaking. “Just making sure everything’s perfect.”

Elain beamed, clearly pleased with how the evening had gone. “It really has been perfect, Y/N. Thank you so much for everything.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he finally looked away, the tension in his jaw clear as he nodded in agreement. “Yes… thank you.”

You nodded once, offering them both a stiff smile before excusing yourself from the room, your chest tightening with every step you took away from them.

As you retreated to the quiet of the kitchen, your hands bracing against the counter, the reality of what had just happened began to sink in. The bond had snapped. Azriel was your mate. And yet, you couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept it.

You had promised yourself you’d never hurt Elain. And if shutting down every advance Azriel made, if pushing away the one person the Cauldron had chosen for you was the only way to keep that promise, then that’s exactly what you would do.

Even if it tore you apart.

Back in the kitchen, you leaned heavily against the counter, your hands gripping the cold marble surface as you tried to regain your composure. The bond had snapped, and with it, any sense of stability you had managed to hold onto throughout the evening. The world felt off-kilter, like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering on the brink.

One of your sous chefs, a sharp-eyed female who had worked with you since the restaurant’s inception, noticed your pallor. She set down the pan she was holding and approached you, concern evident in her eyes.

“Y/N,” she began cautiously, her voice gentle but probing, “are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You forced a nod, though you knew your expression wasn’t convincing. “I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice was shaky and unsteady.

She frowned, clearly not buying your response. Her eyes scanned your face, taking in the unusual paleness of your skin, the way your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the counter. “You don’t look fine. Do you need to sit down? Maybe get some air?”

You shook your head, trying to brush off her concern, but the weight of the bond pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe. “No, I’ll be okay. It’s just… been a long night.”

She hesitated, still studying you closely, before glancing around the bustling kitchen. “But, Y/N,” she continued, her tone turning more inquisitive, “it’s strange. You always insist on preparing Miss Elain’s meals yourself, especially when she’s bringing a guest. But tonight, you didn’t even touch the preparation. You left it all to us.”

You froze at her words, the reality of what had happened sinking in even deeper. She was right—normally, you would have insisted on handling every detail of Elain’s meal, wanting to ensure that everything was perfect for your friend. But tonight, when it mattered most, you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to do it.

The truth was, the moment you realized Elain was bringing someone special, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch the ingredients. You had let the staff handle everything because deep down, some part of you knew something was about to change—something you weren’t ready to face.

“I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to find some semblance of an explanation. “I just thought… maybe it was time to let you all handle it. You’re more than capable.”

She tilted her head slightly, her frown deepening as she searched your eyes. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

You nodded again, more firmly this time, even though the lie tasted bitter on your tongue. “Yes, I’m sure. I trust all of you with the kitchen. You don’t need me hovering over every detail.”

She didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she didn’t press the issue further. Instead, she offered a small, supportive smile. “Well, if you ever need a break, don’t hesitate to step out. We’ve got things under control here.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I appreciate it.”

With a final nod, she returned to her station, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the crushing weight of the bond you were trying so desperately to ignore.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you tried to push away the overwhelming emotions swirling inside you. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the image of Azriel’s eyes, the way they had widened in shock and recognition when the bond snapped into place. You couldn’t forget the warmth of his hand in yours, the way the world had seemed to narrow down to just the two of you in that fleeting, life-altering moment.

But Elain… you couldn’t do this to Elain. You couldn’t shatter her hopes, her dreams, just because of a bond you had never asked for. So, you did the only thing you could—you steeled yourself, pushed down the emotions threatening to break free, and vowed to keep your distance from Azriel, no matter how much it hurt.

You would be there for Elain, just as you always had been. You would help her win over the male she had been trying so hard to impress, even if it meant denying your own heart in the process.

Because that’s what friends did. They put each other first, no matter the cost.

And as you stood there in the kitchen, surrounded by the comforting sounds of sizzling pans and clinking utensils, you made a silent promise to yourself: you would protect Elain’s happiness, even if it meant sacrificing your own.

—

Azriel sat in the sitting room of the townhouse, surrounded by the familiar faces of the inner circle, yet he felt completely out of place. The evening had been an unexpected whirlwind of emotions, leaving him reeling from the bond that had snapped so suddenly and without warning. He had come here to find solace, to clear his mind, but every thought seemed to spiral back to you—the way you had looked at him, the way you had recoiled after the bond had formed during dinner at your restaurant.

He couldn’t understand it. How could something so significant be brushed aside so easily? He had tried to reach out to you, to understand what was happening, but you had shut him down, leaving him to grapple with the weight of the bond on his own.

The others were chatting around him, the sound of their laughter and conversation filling the room, but it all felt distant, muffled. Azriel’s mind was too clouded to focus on anything they were saying. He was trapped in a loop, replaying the moment over and over in his head—the spark, the connection, the way your eyes had widened in recognition before you quickly masked it.

He was so lost in thought that he almost missed it when Rhysand mentioned your name.

“You know, Y/N’s restaurant is one of the best in Velaris,” Rhys was saying, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Feyre and I went there a few nights ago, and it was nothing short of incredible.”

Feyre nodded enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up at the memory. “The food was amazing. Every dish was like a work of art. She really has a talent, doesn’t she?”

Mor, who was lounging on one of the couches, joined in with a grin. “That’s not even the half of it. Y/N’s got restaurants all over Prythian—one in each court, if you can believe it. She’s become a bit of a legend in the culinary world.”

Azriel’s heart sank further as they continued to praise you, each word driving the knife deeper into his chest. It wasn’t that he disagreed with them—he knew you were remarkable, talented, someone to be admired. But right now, every mention of your name was like salt in a wound that was already festering.

Cassian, who had been listening with a smirk on his face, finally spoke up, his tone playful. “Sounds like Az here missed out on one hell of a meal tonight. Maybe he’ll have to go back and get a taste of what everyone’s raving about.”

Azriel tensed, the comment hitting far too close to home. He knew Cassian was just joking, but the implication—the reminder of what had happened tonight—was too much to bear. Without a word, he pushed himself up from his chair, his movements abrupt enough to draw everyone’s attention.

“Az?” Feyre called out, concern lacing her voice as she watched him head for the door. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t trust himself to respond. Instead, he muttered something about needing some air and quickly left the room, the weight of their gazes heavy on his back as he made his escape.

As the door closed behind him, an uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Everyone exchanged glances, clearly taken aback by Azriel’s sudden departure.

“What’s gotten into him?” Rhysand wondered aloud, his brows furrowed in confusion.

Cassian, never one to let an opportunity for humor pass by, snorted and shook his head. “Probably just realized he’s been a brooding mess all night and couldn’t handle the idea of someone actually having a good time.”

Mor chuckled, though there was a trace of worry in her eyes. “Or maybe he just can’t handle the fact that Y/N’s cooking is so damn good, it knocked him off his game.”

Rhysand sighed, glancing toward the door Azriel had just walked through. “He’s been off since he got back tonight. Maybe something happened.”

Feyre bit her lip, her expression softening. “I hope he’s alright. He seemed… different.”

Cassian, ever the optimist, leaned back in his chair with a lazy grin. “He’ll be fine. Az is tougher than all of us combined. He just needs some time to brood in his room, and he’ll be back to his grumpy self in no time.”

The group shared a few more laughs at Azriel’s expense, but the concern in their eyes never fully faded. They all knew Azriel well enough to understand that when he withdrew like this, it meant something was seriously bothering him.

Azriel’s footsteps were heavy as he made his way to his room, the quiet of the hallway amplifying the thoughts swirling in his mind. As soon as he entered, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, closing his eyes as he tried to block out the noise, the chaos of emotions inside him.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of your hand in his, the way the bond had snapped into place like it had always been there, waiting. The connection was undeniable, and yet… you had denied it. Denied him.

Why? The question gnawed at him, refusing to let him rest. He had seen the recognition in your eyes, the brief moment when you had felt it too. But then, you had shut down, shut him out as if the bond meant nothing.

It was more than just confusing—it was painful. Azriel had spent centuries in the shadows, watching from the sidelines as his friends found their mates, found love. He had accepted his place, accepted that perhaps it wasn’t meant for him. And then, in the span of a heartbeat, everything had changed. You had changed it.

And now… now he was left in this strange limbo, caught between the undeniable pull of the bond and the walls you had erected between you.

Azriel’s fists clenched at his sides as he fought the urge to storm back to your restaurant, to demand answers, to make you acknowledge what had happened. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t force you to accept the bond, couldn’t force you to feel something you clearly weren’t ready to face.

With a frustrated sigh, Azriel pushed off the door and crossed the room, heading to the window that overlooked Velaris. The city was peaceful, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, but his mind was anything but. He rested his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes scanning the distant lights of the city below.

“Why?” he whispered into the empty room, his voice tinged with a desperation he rarely allowed himself to feel. “Why won’t you let me in?”

But the night offered no answers, only the quiet whisper of the wind as it brushed against the windowpane.

—

The next day passed in a blur. You threw yourself into your work, letting the familiar rhythm of chopping, stirring, and plating distract you from the turmoil brewing inside. The restaurant had been busy, as always, with customers filling every table, their laughter and chatter echoing through the dining room. But despite the bustle, you couldn’t shake the heavy weight in your chest—the bond that you were trying so desperately to ignore.

When the last customer had left, you sent your staff home, insisting that you would handle the closing on your own. You needed the time alone, needed to clear your head without the distraction of others around. As the front door clicked shut behind the last of your employees, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

The kitchen was quiet now, save for the soft sound of the knife in your hand as you prepped ingredients for the next day. The rhythmic motion of slicing through vegetables was soothing, almost meditative. But as you worked, you couldn’t help but feel the tension still coiled tight in your chest.

You were focused on the task at hand, chopping carrots with practiced precision, when a voice cut through the silence, making you freeze in place.

“I bet you could be good with a sword with how you work that knife,” came the familiar, deep voice, tinged with a hint of amusement. “Personally, I wouldn’t want to be those carrots.”

Your hand stilled mid-slice, the knife hovering just above the cutting board. You knew that voice all too well—Azriel.

Slowly, you turned to face him, finding him standing just inside the doorway to the kitchen, his expression guarded but his eyes full of determination. He had changed out of his usual leathers, dressed instead in a simple tunic and trousers, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his gaze.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension from the previous night hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. You could feel the bond thrumming faintly between you, a constant reminder of the connection you were trying so hard to deny.

But you knew why he was here. You had been avoiding him all day, refusing to even think about the conversation you knew was coming. But now, with the restaurant empty and the two of you alone, there was no escaping it.

You set the knife down on the counter, wiping your hands on a nearby towel as you steeled yourself for what was about to happen.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm as you faced Azriel. The tension in the room was almost palpable, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between you. You had been dreading this conversation, but there was no avoiding it now.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” you said, your voice firm, though you could hear the tremor in it. “We can’t do this, Azriel.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Why not? Y/N, you felt it too. The bond—it snapped into place. We can’t just ignore that.”

You shook your head, your heart aching at the look on his face. “I’m not ignoring it. But I can’t—I won’t act on it. Not when Elain… Not when she’s been trying so hard to win you over.”

Azriel’s eyes widened in realization, and he took a step closer to you, his expression softening as he reached out. “Y/N, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Elain wasn’t trying to win me over… not in the way you think.”

You hesitated, frowning as you tried to make sense of his words. “What do you mean? She’s been telling me everything, Azriel. How she’s been trying to get your attention, how much she cares about you… I can’t do that to her. I won’t be the one to hurt her like that.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, clearly frustrated but determined to set things right. “Y/N, you don’t have the full story. Elain… she’s not interested in me like that. She’s been trying to make Lucien jealous.”

You blinked, taken aback by his words. “Lucien? But… he’s her mate. Why would she do that?”

Azriel nodded, his expression softening as he saw the confusion in your eyes. “Yes, he’s her mate. But they’ve been going through a rough patch lately. Lucien’s duties as emissary for the Night Court have kept him away, and Elain’s been feeling… neglected. She thought that by spending time with me, by pretending there was something more between us, she could get a reaction out of him. It was never about me, Y/N. It was always about Lucien.”

You felt your heart drop as the realization hit you. “So, you were just helping her as a friend?”

Azriel nodded again, his gaze steady as he took a step closer to you. “Exactly. I was only doing this to help her. I never had feelings for her in that way, and she knows that. We were just… playing a part to get Lucien’s attention.”

You swallowed hard, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place. “She didn’t tell me any of this.”

“She probably didn’t want to worry you,” Azriel said gently. “Or maybe she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself. But I promise you, Y/N, there’s nothing between Elain and me. There never was. She’s still trying to figure things out with Lucien, and I was just trying to help her.”

You looked away, your mind racing to process everything Azriel was telling you. You had been so sure, so convinced that you were protecting Elain by shutting Azriel out. But now, with this new information, everything felt uncertain, like the ground had shifted beneath your feet.

“Azriel, I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond. You had built up walls around your heart, walls meant to protect both you and Elain from the pain of betrayal. But now those walls were crumbling, leaving you vulnerable and confused.

Azriel took another step closer, his voice gentle as he spoke. “Y/N, please. Don’t shut me out. Let’s talk about this—really talk. Give me a chance to show you that this bond isn’t something to be feared. It’s something that could be… everything.”

You stood there, trying to process everything Azriel had just told you. The confusion, the guilt, the realization that you had misunderstood everything—it all came crashing down at once. You looked away from Azriel, your gaze dropping to the floor as you struggled to make sense of it all.

“Okay,” you finally muttered, more to yourself than to him. “Now I actually feel like a dumbass.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you cringed internally. But when you glanced back up at Azriel, you found him staring at you with wide eyes for a moment—before a warm, rich laugh escaped him. It was a sound you hadn’t expected, a sound that cut through the tension and made your own lips twitch into a reluctant smile.

Azriel shook his head, still chuckling softly. “You’re not a dumbass, Y/N. Just… someone who cares a lot about her friend.”

You let out a shaky breath, your shoulders relaxing slightly as the weight of the misunderstanding began to lift. But even with the air between you lightened, you couldn’t shake the lingering worry, the uncertainty of what this all meant.

“I just… I don’t know you that well,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, more hesitant. “And this bond… it’s a lot to take in. I was so worried about Elain’s feelings that I didn’t even stop to think about how I felt. About how to navigate this.”

Azriel’s expression softened further, and he took a careful step closer, making sure not to crowd you. “I understand. The bond is… overwhelming, especially when it comes out of nowhere. And I know we don’t know each other well yet, but that’s something we can work on. We don’t have to rush into anything, Y/N. We can take this one step at a time, if that’s what you need.”

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time since the bond had snapped. There was no pressure in his eyes, no demand—just a quiet patience that made your heart ache with a strange mix of relief and something else, something warmer.

“But… what if this doesn’t work?” you asked, your voice small, the fear you had been trying to suppress finally finding its way out. “What if I can’t be what you need?”

Azriel’s eyes softened even more, and he shook his head gently. “Y/N, you don’t have to be anything but yourself. The bond doesn’t demand perfection—it’s just a connection, a starting point. We figure the rest out together.”

You swallowed, feeling the sincerity in his words. The fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of your mind, but it was tempered now by something else—a tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, this could work.

“Okay,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but Azriel caught it nonetheless.

He smiled softly, his wings shifting slightly as if in relief. “Okay,” he echoed. “One step at a time.”

For a moment, you both stood there in the quiet of the kitchen, the bond humming faintly between you. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t without its complications, but it was something. And for the first time since the bond had snapped, you felt like maybe you could handle this—together.

Azriel extended his hand, not as a demand, but as an offer. “How about we start with something simple? A walk, maybe? Just to talk, get to know each other.”

You hesitated for a moment, the anxiety still lingering, but then you nodded slowly, reaching out to take his hand. His grip was warm, reassuring, and as his fingers closed around yours, you felt a little of that fear ease away.

“Yeah,” you agreed, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “A walk sounds good.”

And as you both stepped out of the kitchen, hand in hand, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something worth taking a chance on.

[starboye]

starring: charles xavier x male reader x scott summers x logan howlett

request: I wanna be like Logan so badly (I want to be dicked down by every xmen)

warnings: smut, reader passed around, blow job (scott receiving), cursing, some rough sex, unprotected sex

this but with reader getting passed around the mansion by the x men, mainly scott, logan, and charles just calling you to their room through the night to empty their balls. first it was charles telepathically calling you "y/nnn" he said in a sing songy tone "yes charles" you say rolling your eyes, you were just trying to read a little before going to bed but it seemed like charles knew just when you'd be most calm just to get you to come to his room.

"would you mind making a quick trip for some alone time" he asks and you could just hear it in his voice, the smugness of him "and why would i want to do that" you ask still reading your book "it'll only be really quick darling" he croons and after a little consideration you agree and quietly make your way to charles room down the hall walking into him already pumping his cock in his hand, charles had you moaning and whimpering as he made you ride his dick, flashing images of your past hookups into your mind.

making you cum three times before he tuckers himself out and thanks you for your help by giving you a couple kisses and sending you on your way but soon you're getting called over by scott, pulling you into his room and begging you to suck him off after hearing you fuck charles, you agree just to get him to stop pestering you, dropping to your knees and pulling his cock out to start throating it back and forth while scott tried to hold in his whiny moans.

but there was a certain someone listening in on all of it but we'll get to that later, the man that was scott was slow;y thrusting into you mouth, aching to cum in your mouth already "m'sorrry for doing this it's just jeans been gone for so long" a slew of apologies fall from his mouth as he grips your hair and shoves his cum down your throat, you gagging at the forcefulness of the man "you done" you ask wiping your mouth of his cum "mhm" he whimpers and you walk out from his room just to get tugged by logan into his room.

"you open to take another cock" he whispers fondling your ass "for you? always" you roll your eyes before logan throws you onto the bed and rips off your underwear to reveal your ruined ass "damn wheels did a good job on you" logan smirks slapping your ass before he's thrusting into you at an ungodly rate for someone his age but none the less you take every inch of his aching cock while his balls slap against your ass turning you into a moaning mess that i think anyone in the hall could hear but at the time logan thought shoving your face into a pillow was a good idea.

and sooner than expected logan was flooding you even fuller with his cum "shit you sure know how to milk guys" logan huffs pulling out of you with small shudders through his body "thank you" you pant taking a moment to regain your breath "stay in here tonight" logan asks rubbing your back soothingly "as much as i would love to i know how you get in the morning and i would much rather be able to walk tomorrow" you laugh wrapping a towel around you waist after seeing your torn underwear and walking back to your room to plop down on your bed, quickly dozing off from the exhausting task of draining these men.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft

[pinchofhoney]

broken promises, part one

part one | part two | part three »

coriolanus snow x fem!reader

word count: 1.8k

warning: none

summary: In Snow's world, only one thing mattered more than his family's reputation—you. But that was before he met Lucy Gray.

a/n: coryo is the type of person i sincerely hate and i'm glad that there are no such arrogant people in my life, who think they are better than others and who in crisis situations only care about themselves and to save their own arse. but at the same time i'm aware that young snow could be someone i'd catch a crush on at school. so why shouldn't i hate him even more?

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

taglist: you told me to tag you everywhere, so i'm back to doing it again; @wolfmoonmusic

gif is not mine, credit to the owner

The problem with snow is its tendency to melt, mirroring the way we once thought our feelings would endure forever. Yet, shouldn't emotions, particularly those nestled in our hearts, last longer?

You had known Coriolanus since childhood, and your families had always been close. You had grown up together, surviving the hardships of the war-torn Capitol side by side, and now, in the post-war era, you were still inseparable. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you going above a simple friendship. Your connection ran deep, like the roots of the oldest trees in the Panem's forests.

Coriolanus was an intriguing character, a puzzle you had been solving together since you were children. He was the embodiment of Capitol charm, with his perfectly tailored suits, polished manners, and charismatic smile that could sway even the most skeptical of Capitol elites. But you knew that beneath that carefully constructed facade was a mind as sharp as a blade and a heart that carried the weight of his family's fallen reputation.

Yet, when he was with you, it was as if a different side of him emerged. The hard lines on his face softened, and his icy demeanor melted away. With you, he could be himself, unburdened by the expectations of Capitol society. It was a rare glimpse into the man behind the mask, and you cherished those moments even more than your favorite jasmine tea and the cat you found shortly after the war had ended.

You couldn't help but admire his intelligence, his quick wit, and his relentless determination to succeed in a world that often seemed stacked against him. His family's name might have been tarnished, but Coriolanus was determined to reclaim their lost glory. He was driven by a burning ambition that flickered like an eternal flame, and you were his unwavering support, the one who fanned that flame to keep it burning bright.

In your eyes, he was more than the sum of his flaws and ambitions. He was the boy you had shared secrets with under moonlit skies, the man who had held you when the world crumbled around you, and the person who knew you better than anyone else. With him, you felt safe, cherished, and loved in a way that no one else could replicate.

Your love for him was boundless, and you were content in the knowledge that you were his confidante, the one person he could be truly vulnerable with. Your relationship with Coriolanus was the envy of many in academy, a seemingly perfect match of two souls intertwined by fate and affection. You were the golden couple, a shining example of love and devotion in a world that often lacked both.

But you wished you had known sooner that it's often the things we love most that destroy us, as Coriolanus Snow's world was about to collide with that of a girl named Lucy Gray and you were not ready for it to happen.

As the day of the tribute's arrival approached, you had been by Coriolanus's side more than ever. The weeks leading up to this moment had been filled with your unwavering support. You had reassured him countless times, sitting together in your cozy bedroom, his head resting gently on your thighs while you combed your fingers through his soft blonde curls. It was a calming gesture, one that had become a comforting routine. You listened to his concerns, his fears, and his ambitions, and you were sure that everything would be fine, that he would be just perfect as a mentor, and that his scholarship and dreams of continuing his studies at the university were within reach.

Your words were like a soothing melody to him, a reminder that he wasn't alone in this daunting new role. He would look into your eyes with his cold ones, filled with gratitude, and you could see the weight lifting from his shoulders, if only temporarily. And in those moments, you felt like his anchor, the one who kept him grounded amid the chaos of his own thoughts.

Now, you both stood at the nearly deserted train station, the oppressive heat of the day hanging heavily in the air. The scorching sun beat down relentlessly, casting shimmering waves of heat across the empty platform. It seemed that most of the Capitol's citizens had chosen to stay indoors, seeking refuge from the sweltering weather.

The only other souls present were a handful of stoic peacekeepers, their pristine white uniforms stark against the dull backdrop of the station. The silence was broken only by the distant hum of the city beyond, a reminder of the bustling Capitol life that lay just outside the station's borders.

Coriolanus tightly held a single white rose plucked from his grandmother's garden, a symbol of his intent to make a lasting impression on his tribute. It was a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of your academy uniforms. The simplicity of the white rose spoke of his sincerity and dedication to this new role as mentor.

With no clear timetable for the tribute train's arrival, the two of you stood patiently, pretending that the day's weather didn't bother you, the weight of uncertainty hanging over you like a heavy cloud. Coriolanus shifted his gaze between the tracks and the single white bloom in his hand.

You observed him closely, and when his gaze finally met yours, you offered a reassuring smile. “Remember, Coryo,” you murmured, “no matter what, you'll be the mentor she needs; your sincerity and kindness will shine through.”

“I hope you're right, Y/N,” he replied softly, his voice filled with a hint of doubt. “I need her to survive on the arena as long as she can,” he added, as if the idea of a group of vulnerable youths engaging in brutal competition in just a few days were the most ordinary occurrence in the world.

But that was precisely what it represented for the Capitol residents – the Hunger Games, an annual spectacle of entertainment.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly under the unrelenting sun, and the station remained eerily devoid of any signs of life. It felt as though hours had passed, but in truth, you couldn't be sure. Beads of perspiration formed on your brows, and you could feel the heat radiating from the platform's surface.

You and Coriolanus were on the verge of giving up and returning to the cool embrace of your penthouses when, at long last, the distant rumble of an oncoming train reached your ears. The sound grew steadily louder, and you looked at each other, exchanging tired glances.

Coriolanus's grip on the white rose tightened as he turned his gaze towards the approaching train. As he rose from the bench where you had sat, his anticipation peaked. You stood beside him, wanting to be his support, but you had no idea that your role was about to change very soon.

The train pulled into the station with a hiss of steam and the screech of brakes, billowing clouds of moisture and smoke into the scorching air. The two of you watched the machine in silent, your heart pounding in your chest. This was the moment when you would come face to face with people from the Districts, individuals whose lives were so far removed from the opulence and extravagance of your own. It was a rare and humbling experience, one that left you with a slight quiver in your step as you clung to Coriolanus, seeking solace in his reassuring presence.

For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. The train's doors remained sealed shut, as if holding its cargo of tributes in a reluctant embrace. The only thing that reached you was an unpleasant stench wafting from the carriages, a stark reminder of the grim reality that these young souls were about to face.

Finally the impatient peacekeepers took matters into their own hands. They descended upon the train, their authoritative presence enough to scare the tributes out of their temporary sanctuary. One by one, they were herded onto the platform, their expressions ranging from fear to defiance.

And then, your eyes locked onto a figure unlike the others. A girl stood there, her presence a stark contrast to the muted palettes of others tributes. She wore a rainbow-colored dress that shimmered with vibrancy, a flare of color and individuality amidst the sea of old attire. You recognized her immediately from the television screens, a girl whose name had already become a part of your daily life even before this encounter.

Lucy Gray Baird.

The very name whispered in the hushed tones of Capitol citizens as they watched her on the screens, intrigued and fascinated by her enigmatic presence from the Reaping. Her gaze swept across the platform, and for a brief moment, your eyes locked onto each other's.

You couldn't help but break into a warm, welcoming smile. With a cheerful wave of your hand, you signaled to her that both you and Coriolanus were eagerly awaiting her arrival, hoping to ease the initial tension of this life-altering moment.

Lucy Gray's response was a hesitant yet appreciative smile in return. Her steps were slow and cautious as she walked slowly toward you, a palpable sense of curiosity radiated from her, her eyes flitting between the unfamiliar faces that lined the platform.

Your gaze briefly shifted to Coriolanus, a subtle expectation in your heart that his eyes would mirror the warmth you felt. But when you looked at him, you noticed something different. It was as if his eyes were magnetically drawn to Lucy Gray, locked onto her with a nearly unwavering intensity that bordered on fixation. Those eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now held an expression you had never quite seen before. It was as though he had stumbled upon a priceless museum exhibit, left captivated, awestruck, and undeniably intrigued.

A soft, knowing smile played at the corners of your lips, silently acknowledging his reaction to the girl before you. You gently squeezed his hand, a gesture of affection and solidarity. You understood that this moment bore immense significance for him, that he was on the corner of a journey filled with unforeseen challenges. Lucy Gray was the keynote of this new chapter in his life, and you couldn't help but admire her from a distance, captivated by her unique presence and the aura that surrounded her.

Before you could utter a word, Coriolanus took a determined step forward, his eyes still locked on the girl. He extended his hand, offering her the pristine white rose he had clutched throughout the wait and with a subtle nod, he greeted her in a tone that resonated with formality and welcome.

“Welcome to the Capitol.”

part two »

[valerie-is-in-the-cupboard]

HEYYYY! loved your alastor fanfic! since your taking requests, could i get a human alastor x wifey where he comes home after killing someone and she cleans him up? make it really sweet because he’s totally into it pleasee!!!!! thanks youu~~

Taking care - Part One - human!Alastor x human!fem!reader

Hello, anon! Thank you so much for your sweet request <3

Before we dive in, I have a few announcements to make. First, I’m not sure when the next update for the "Out of Darkness" fanfic will be. I’ve been dealing with some overwhelming events in my life recently, which has made it difficult to find the inspiration to write a full chapter. However, I’m hoping to post an update sometime this week.

Second, I’m uncertain about how to handle the taglist for my "Out of Darkness" work. If you’re on that taglist, please let me know if you’d like to be notified about all my Hazbin Hotel posts or just the "Out of Darkness" fanfic. You can let me know in the comments, via DM, or, for an easier and safer option, by filling out the Taglist Google Form)

With that said, I hope you enjoy this post <3

Words: ~2050 TW: mentions of blood and fluff

Coming to terms with who Alastor truly was hasn’t been easy. The night he took you to the basement and revealed his latest victim has lingered in your nightmares ever since.

But if it was for him, he wouldn't have shown you. He didn't want you to enter this world full of violence. Still, it was better than the countless arguments whenever he would come home late at night, acting strange, not knowing how to answer your questions. In fact, he did it because he felt insulted by your accusations - him, who would kill for you, accused of cheating. Pathetic.

That night, he was waiting for you to run, to tell the police, even preparing for the painful scenario in which he'd have to kill you. But you didn't. He couldn’t fathom why you chose to stay, but he would lie if he said he wasn't relieved.

But you did tell him you don't want to know - You didn't want to know who he killed or why. You didn't need that and he respected it.

Alastor did everything in his power to shield you from this part of his world, attempting to protect you from the brutal realities he faced. So whenever he would come home, full of blood, adrenaline rushing through his veins, he would try his best to hide from you.

Usually, when your husband came home, he would make his presence known: humming his favourite songs as he enters the house or immediately telling you about his day, followed by a kiss on your wrist or cheek.

But whenever someone died at his hands, the night would be silent. The way he locked the door behind him ever so slightly or the way he would make his way to the bathroom in the darkness of the house, almost like a cat - that's when you knew to stay away. When you knew not to ask about his day. It's when you knew it was better to just continue preparing the dinner in silence or just fall back asleep, depending on the time, waiting for him to get ready and return to his everyday demeanour. This way, it became easier for you to deal with it.

Tonight was different though.

Alastor burst through the door, a rare sight of raw distress evident in his heavy, laboured breaths. It was clear something had gone terribly wrong. In a rush of adrenaline, you jumped out of bed, rushing to your husband.

"Dear, don't come here, please..." you heard him saying, hissing in pain as he tried to close the door. But you didn't listen. You peeked in the entryway, seeing him sliding down against the door, falling on his knees.

"Love?" you asked, cautiously stepping towards him. "What happened?" You turned on a lamp next to you, your eyes widening at the sight.

Alastor looked up at you with tired eyes, showing the signs of recent violence. His suit was torn in various spots, and his face was swollen and bruised.

"Ah... I didn't want you to see me like this, love," he said, his voice hoarse from pain. He tried to smile, but the effort was half-hearted. He looked down at himself, taking in the state of his battered body.

You got closer, trying your best to help him get up. Alastor stumbled forward, leaning heavily on you as you attempted to support his weight. He let out a pained grunt as you struggled to keep him upright. "Careful, love... I'm not as light as I look," he tried to joke, his breath laboured.

"What happened to you?" you asked, carrying him to the couch, trying your best not to fall. Alastor winced in pain, his body feeling heavier with each step.

"Ah... Just a run-in with some trouble," he replied through gritted teeth. "But I'm alright, love. Don't worry about me too much."

You carefully guided him to the couch, your hands trembling slightly as you unbuttoned his shirt. Beneath the fabric, his body was full of bruises and wounds, each one a stark reminder of the night’s violence. You brushed your hand along his chest, your heart clenching at the sight.

"Who did this, Al?" you asked.

He winced as your fingers grazed over the bruised and battered skin of his chest, the pain still fresh. He attempted to keep his smile, trying to reassure you, but you could see right through his facade.

"It's nothing, really... just a few bumps and bruises," he muttered, his voice strained. "Nothing to fuss about, love."

You started to take off the rest of his clothes, taking advantage of the fact that he was too tired to argue with you. He grumbled under his breath. He had always despised showing weakness, and being cared for like this made him feel vulnerable, a feeling he wasn't used to.

"Love, I don't need your help... I can take care of myself," he insisted, though his voice lacked its usual strength.

"You can't. We need to clean these." Alastor huffed in annoyance but didn't protest further. He knew that when you used that tone, there was no arguing with you.

"Fine, fine... Do as you like," he grumbled, reluctantly submitting to your care.

You made your way to the bathroom, the warm water filling the bathtub. You jumped when Alastor appeared behind you, leaning against the wall, the pain written all over his face.

"You should've waited for me to help you!" you protested.

"Ah, come now love, you worry too much. I'm not made of glass," he said, trying to shrug off your worry. He walked past you, slowly getting into the bathtub. He hissed through clenched teeth as the warm water enveloped his battered body, the stinging sensation intensifying as it touched his open wounds.

You kneeled next to him, Alastor letting out a deep sigh as your hands caressed his battered flesh, the pain mixing with a strange sense of relief. He closed his eyes shut, leaning back against the tub, silently enjoying your care.

"They tried to fight back, didn't they?" you eventually asked, your words coming out no louder than a whisper. You had to admit that a part of you grew more curious with every arrival of his: did they fight? did they beg him to stop? Sometimes it made you think if you were just as twisted as him for not being more disturbed by the whole situation.

Alastor's body tensed slightly at your question, his muscles aching. He knew the question would eventually come, and he had hoped you wouldn't ask. But he knew he couldn't lie to you, no matter how much he wanted to keep you away from the darker sides of his life.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice low. "They always do."

You started cleaning the bleeding wounds, your mind still wandering at what could've happened that night: why did he kill them? how did he do it?

“Do they… suffer?” you asked quietly, a shiver of dread coursing through you as you thought about the pain endured by those he faced.

Alastor’s gaze met yours, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. He understood your curiosity, but the truth was too grim to reveal, and he was torn between honesty and the need to shield you. But you were stubborn, and he knew you wouldn't let it go that easy.

"No," he said after a few moments, his voice steady. "They don't suffer." It was a lie. But it was the only answer he could give you to keep the truth hidden.

You reached for the shampoo bottle, poured some into your palms and started scrubbing his scalp. Alastor let out another hiss of pain as you rubbed the shampoo, the knots and blood making the process more painful. He tried to keep his face passive, hiding his discomfort from you.

"Careful, love... You're pulling too hard," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Sorry... I need to take the blood out. It's really dried up."

Alastor grumbled under his breath as you continued to wash his hair, a mix of frustration and discomfort etched on his face.

"It's fine," he finally said, forcing himself to relax a little. "Just... try to be a bit more gentle, will you?"

You nodded, your hands rubbing more gentle as the water became red. Alastor leaned back against the tub, his body slowly relaxing under your touch. The pain began to fade, replaced by a strange sense of comfort. He closed his eyes, letting out a soft sigh.

"Love...," he muttered softly, his voice weary. "You don't have to do this, you know. I could manage on my own."

"It's not a crime to let me help you sometimes, you know?"

Alastor chuckled weakly, his usual cockiness returning, if only slightly. "Ah, stubborn as always," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of affection. "You never back down, do you, love?"

You ignored his question, your eyes never leaving the wounds. "Did this happen... before?"

Alastor's eyes darted to yours for a moment before looking away. The truth was, he had had many run-ins before where he had to defend himself. But he had never been this badly injured before.

"Once or twice," he finally answered, his voice low.

You looked at him, your heart hurting at the thought. You hated seeing him in pain, you hated the thought that on those many nights, he was here alone, taking care of his wounds, trying to hide from you.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Alastor leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes for a moment, the truth catching in his throat. "I didn't want you to worry," he finally admitted, his voice soft. "I know it bothers you when I come home late, when I'm quiet or when I try to hide from you. But I didn't want you to see more of... this. I didn't want to scare you off."

You wrapped your hands around him, resting your face against his bruised neck. For a moment, his body stiffened, but he slowly relaxed into your warmth, finding solace in your touch. "I know I said I don't need to know... that I don't care who you kill or why. But I do care about you, Al! And seeing you like this..." Your words, spoken with such sincerity, hit him deep and stirred something within him

"I... I didn't want to hurt you," he said, his voice catching in his throat. "I just... I wanted to keep you out of this... To keep you safe."

“If you want to keep me safe, then you need to be safe too,” you said, your voice firm with concern.

Alastor chuckled weakly, his lips curving into a wry smile.

"You and your logic," he muttered, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You always find a way, don't you, love?" His hand squeezed yours in a gentle, yet firm grip, as if silently pleading you not to let go.

"But I gotta admit... I kind of like taking care of you like this," you said, a small smirk on your face.

Alastor chuckled softly, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Is that so, love?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Well, if I'm being honest... I could get used to it too."

“As long as you promise to cook jambalaya for me at least once a week,” you teased with a small, relieved smile.

Alastor let out a mock sigh, feigning reluctance. "Ah, you drive a hard bargain, love. But I suppose I can live with that." He chuckled, his eyes holding a hint of warmth and affection.

"Al..." you said, a hint of worryness in your voice. "Please, don't die..."

Alastor's face instantly softened at your words. Your worry tugged at his heartstrings, and he knew he had no choice but to reassure you. He took your face in his hands, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.

"I can't promise I'll always come home unscathed, love," he admitted, his voice sincere. "But I can promise you this... I'll do everything in my power to come back to you. I always will."

Tags: @ratsematary

[freyaphoria]

Ateez Reactions: You want to keep your hoodie/t-shirt on (maknae line)

hyung line

tw: gaining weight mentioned, being skinny memtioned, stretch marks, hurt-comfort, kissing, insecurities!! (idk why but i can't write tw properly)

taglist: @aim-blossom @itza-meee

San

You had just finished the first month of your relationship with San, you didn't see each other often due to his work so you hadn't been physically intimate yet. Since you had been friends for a long time before becoming lovers, he knew well the things that you were confident in and those that you were not, and he always approached you with respect on these issues. He would try to cover up your shortcomings without letting you know, which is why you've never felt insecure around him before. But why do you feel like you're going to sink into the ground right now?

San was on a week-long vacation and wanted to spend his vacation with you. You are also excited to spend time with him. San had booked a room at a nice a hotel with sea view, and things happened faster than you expected and now you were under him, waiting for his next move.

You were feeling insecure because of your skinny body compared to his wide and muscular body. San was always a gym freak and loved bodybuilding. What if he doesn't like your skinny body?

His hands were touching every part of your body he could find. He never let go, as if you would disappear if he left you for even a moment. "Are you sure? If you don't stop me now, I won't be able to stop again." He asked you without looking up from his buried head in your neck. Your hands were pulling on his hair and you pulled a little hard because you were nervous. San looked up at you because he thought you wanted him to stop. "Love? Is there something wrong?" You were torn between telling him or not, but if you didn't tell him about your insecurity and he found out later, he would be sad and maybe disappointed with you; you didn't know, you were so overwhelmed right now.

"I don't want to take off my t-shirt because I'm so skinny and I'll look bad next to you, you won't like me." San looked at you for a while and laughed. But it wasn't a sarcastic laugh, it was like 'are you giving a fuck about this?'.

"You look bad next to me? Love, you are the hottest person I have ever seen and you call yourself bad? Huh?!" San pulled you closer and brought his face closer to yours. "You're so beautiful! Get that in your mind!" He started tickling you and you were squirming. "San- Sannie! Stop!-" You couldn't talk because you were laughing. He knew how to instantly lift your mood. This was a habit from your time as friends. If one of you was in a bad mood, the other would tickle them until they forgot about that thing.

"Okay okay! I give up!" He left you and you regained your breath. "Say it." "Say what?" "Say that you're beautiful or I'll tickle you again." "I am beautiful." You said, staring at him blankly for a moment before his hands moved back to your waist again. "But can I still keep my shirt on? To make me feel comfortable." "Of course, you are already so beautiful in every way." He nod his head before burying his head in your neck again and whispering into your ear the most beautiful words you've ever heard.

Mingi

It wasn't unusual for you to get close in the studio. You've done it dozens of times before at Mingi's studio. But what was different was that you were insecure about your body these days because you thought you had gained weight. Mingi never commented on your size; He wouldn't talk to you critically, except to tell you how beautiful you were and that he adored you.

But when one of your close friends talked about your weight gain in a very humorous and derogatory way, you inevitably felt bad.

While Mingi was trying to write his new solo song, you were lying on the sofa in the studio and playing on your phone because you couldn't find anything to do. You were startled when Mingi suddenly pulled his chair back and turned towards you.

"Come here." He patted his lap. You lazyly got up and sat on his lap. This was also a habit between the two of you. Whenever Mingi was stressed, he would call you to his lap, hug you, and while your scent enchanted him, new ideas would come to his mind.

Mingi's hands began to wander over your body as he hugged you tightly. He started tugging on the thick hoodie you were wearing. When his breathing deepened, you understood what he wanted. “Put your arms up kitten, help me” he grabbed the hem of your hoodie and tried to lift it up. When you stopped him by grabbing his wrists, he looked at you confused. "I don't want to take it off." When you said it hesitantly, his eyes looked worried. "Did I do something? I'm sorry? Did I make you angry? Is it because of the cake I ate yesterday without realizing it was yours? Kitten, I didn't know it was really yours." If you weren't in a bad mood you'd giggle at him. "No, of course not. It's just... I gained weight and my body is not beautiful. I don't want you to see me like this." Mingi pulled you closer to him and hugged you again while stroking your hair. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't care even if you gain weight. I love you so much that even if you weigh 500 kilos, you will still be the most beautiful woman in the world." You giggled at him. "Is it possible to weigh 500 kilos?" Mingi pulled your hoodie down. "I don't know, maybe not?" You both laughed. "Would you feel more comfortable if we didn't take off your hoodie?" You nodded at him. “Okay kitten, I got you."

Wooyoung

"Would you relax a bit?" It was the first time you and Wooyoung got this close; Yes, he was usually on you all the time, but this was different. You were in his dorm room and you were nervous because someone would break in at any moment, on top of that you were going to show him your body so openly for the first time, and he understood your nervousness. "What if someone sees it?" He was kissing you slowly. "There's no one in the dorm right now. Can you trust me for a bit?" You trusted him, and he didn't force you. At first you wanted to get closer, but then your insecurities took over and you started making excuses.

He pulled you into his lap and held your head in his hands. "Why are you nervous? If you don't want to, I can stop and we can continue our day as if it never happened." You shook your head. "I want, but..." "But what?" You avoided eye contact and started playing with the ends of your shirt. "But you know... I..." Your eyes met as he lowered his head to make eye contact with you. You took a deep breath and spoke. "I'm not happy with my body and I have stretch marks." He looked at you confused. "So? I have stretch marks too? What does this change?" You were too embarrassed to talk so you whined in his lap. He grabbed you under your arms and lifted you into the air, pulling you closer. "Look, if you worry about such small things, you'll miss the moment." His eyes were so full of love that they almost made you forget all your insecurities. "I know I just can't help it. Can I just keep my t-shirt on? Besides I'm scared that someone will come and see me. Please?" He grabbed you by your neck and gently pulled you down to his eye level and kissed you slowly on your lips. "I'm 100 percent sure no one will come, but as long as you're comfortable."

Jongho

You and Jongho hadn't gotten physically intimate enough to take your clothes off yet. You would kiss and hug each other every day, but you wouldn't go that far. Jongho wanted to wait until you were ready and not bring it up so that you don't get nervous. But today, for the first time, when you said you were ready for him, you had doubts. Jongho never made a bad comment about your body, but you still didn't feel good about him seeing your body.

When you and Jongho were lying lazyly on the couch in the living room and the topic came up with physical intimacy, you gave him the green light, Jongho couldn't wait any longer, he changed his position, laid you on your back and started kissing you slowly. Your heart was beating so fast with excitement and tension that you thought he could hear it. He was kissing you deeper than you had ever kissed before, and you thought he was holding back until now. Since only the light of the television illuminated the room, you couldn't clearly see his facial expressions; you got nervous because you didn't know if he liked you, if he was enjoying you, if he was happy... You were afraid that anxiety would start to take over and ruin the mood. So you tried to pull away as his hands moved from your chin to your waist and he slowly started removing your top. You couldn't go back too far and held his hands.

"Don't." You were still kissing, but your pace slowed down. "Hm?" He hummed you without leaving your lips. You didn't know how to tell him. "Don't take off my hoodie." Jongho finally pulled away from you and you locked eyes. But his hands went to your hair and tucked the strand from your face under your ear. "Why? How will I see and feel you then?" You could feel your ears turning red with embarrassment. You mentally thanked the lack of light in the room. "You don't need to see my body because it's not beautiful-" He interrupted you by kissing you and whining against your lips. "Don't be ridiculous." "I'm not being ridiculous, I'm telling the truth."

He picked you up and placed you on his lap. "If you're comfortable, let's keep your clothes on, hm?" You nodded your head, too embarrassed to speak. "Look at me, doll." You lifted your head and looked at him. "It doesn't matter to me, stop stressing yourself. Besides, it makes me very angry that you are so beautiful and you treat yourself unfairly." Just as you were about to open your mouth and object, he interrupted you. "We can do it any way you want, as long as you feel comfortable and safe. Shall we go to the bedroom?"

a/n: I finally completed it! Sannie's was a little long but... Anyway, I'll continue with yandere requests. Yunho is wrecking me these days, so don't be surprised if I post 50 yandere yunho at once. HE IS SO!?!?!?!???!?! You have to stop Jeong Yunho, my heart can't take it anymore.

I don't think anyone reads this a/n place lol so I'm going to ramble on around here from now on.