#using his back as my personal canvas

[xiaoshy]

biker bf

we had a little cat fight. obviously.

[thedevotionaltour]

i havent even read enough gl to justify the feelings and emotions i have about kyle i just have the lovers heart and also something wrong with me. and my projection. in my mind he's just like me. and he would have loved college vending machine frozen cheeseburger and heating it up in the microwave at 1 in the morning because he was bored and didn't want to work on a drawing assignment on 20" x 30" paper that was due tomorrow in his freshman year. he would have loved going to the club to push off finals work that's creating the worst stress known to man in his brain. and he would love to annoy the fuck out of his roommate when high and avoiding homework on a saturday.

[bunny-jpeg]

better than home (kidnapper!simon) - you had seen enough horror movies to know that being kidnapped meant being on the news, being butchered, and being a cold case. but simon wasn't like that. except for the bruises he left when he took you, his touch had gentle. kind in a way that someone would brush their cat.

you flinched under his touch, but he just simply shushed you. "not gonna break a thing on ya, angel." that was his name for you. angel. he said that it was like you were given to him fro heaven, "if i do, i give ya the right to put a knife between my ribs."

it was unnerving to say the least. in the tiny home you both shared, locks on the windows, you had never seen a front door that needed a key to unlock from the outside. you tried getting out, but simon was simply so much bigger and stronger, that he didn't need to hurt you herd you back into a safer place.

"don't need to think about much anymore. safer here." he said in his gruff voice. you didn't know what kind of life this man had lived, but with the hunting knife on the coffee table, the well-used rifle over the fireplace and the old army formals in his closet. you knew that there was a story.

it didn't sink in till the first week, but you didn't have to worry about anything. you moved through the house on your own, when you scurried into rooms simon sometimes didn't follow. it was like he was bird-watching. keeping a close eye and admiring you. except you weren't exactly a free bird, rather a delicate beauty in a shiny cage.

you were surprised that simon had your favourite snacks in the pantry, even the same brand of plant-based milk you enjoyed. it was like he knew everything about you, and yet he was a total mystery.

"scary world out there." simon said, kept his distance from you in the recliner while you were curled up in the couch. you had taken a liking to a black and white checkered flannel blanket. it reminded you of the one back home, that you wondered if he just broke in a took it. he eyed you, which made it hard to read one of your many books, "pretty things like you need to be protected... bad men out there." as if this massive mountain of a man wasn't one of those so-called bad men.

you were in no place to argue. you still felt like you were in a spring locked trap and one wrong move would have it clamped down on you. that this was just some sick game before simon buried your body in the field behind the house.

"when can i go home?" you asked, finding your voice.

"this is better than home."

"are you going to kill me?" you asked before you swallowed the lump in your throat.

he shook his head, "no, ma'am. never." sounded like wedding vows rather than an answer. your curiosity only grew with each day. when you finished the books he brought you, he simply put them back in a bag and returned them from where they came from and came back with new ones.

"saw them on the shelf at the library, thought a woman like you would like them." he gave a curt nod as he dropped the canvas bag by your little nest of blankets on the floor by the television. you hadn't been able to watch television yet. primarily busied with sleeping, books, puzzles and notebooks where you had been writing.

and while it started a journal in the event the police found you. it had become more about fictional stories. for your personal pleasure. you thought about being a writer as a child, but the grind of corporate work in your adulthood seemed to dash that dream.

"next time." you said, feeling a little bold, "can you get some science fiction books too...." it felt uneasy to make any demands. he was your captor.

"well then, angel. be good for me then." he said, smiled under that mask. you looked over and made a face at him. you scampered off back into your nest of books and puzzles. maybe he was right, this was better than home. <3

a/n: this is unwell, i hope you enjoyed it. thank you!!

[woncheolisms]

purple and pink. (rafayel x reader)

summary: you and rafayel cover yourselves in paint and (redacted).

word count: 3450

warnings: porn without plot, smut, swearing, nsfw, mdni, fem!reader

tags: @keiva1000 @kindnessspreads @msbyomimi

a/n: my brain is rotting for this man so this is just self indulgent crap atp

You weren’t exactly an artistic person.

You just never indulged in art before. Of course, you admired the craft and thought it was extremely difficult to actually create meaningful art. But you didn’t think you were a particularly creative person, nor did you think you had an eye for such stuff.

Ever since you began dating Rafayel, you would say your appreciation for art had definitely improved. How could it not, considering he spent all day creating it, and in the time he wasn’t, his world was still colored by the lens of it. Rafayel saw art everywhere he went, in the gentle roll of the water where it rippled in fountains, or the timid but pinpoint light of a lone star in a dark sky. He loved describing it to you, and the way he put it would make you look around twice. He had really changed the way you viewed the world.

What you were about to do now wasn’t exactly the kind of art that made you think deeply of the universe, but hey, not all art can make you question your existence. Sometimes you need to create….. lighter pieces.

Stepping back, you stared down at the bed sheet sized canvas you had stuck to the floor, sure that you had used enough adhesive to keep it temporarily in place. The clock on the far wall of the studio told you that Rafayel would be home in a little while, which meant you needed to start the next phase of your plan shortly. But first things first, you needed lighter clothes.

After you had switched your jeans and button down shirt for a thin, short robe, you began pulling down buckets of paint from the storage closet connecting to the main studio. You chose only two, a light purple and a light pink. Both colors you knew Rafayel liked using in his pieces. You might not know a whole lot about art, but you knew him inside out. And you also knew he would love this idea.

You spent the next few minutes going over the canvas with the two buckets, pouring a few globs of paint over it. Small, but dense, with lots of blank canvas around them so they could be spread. You decided to only do two or three globs of each color. After all, wasn’t the art in how the colors would move and slide on the canvas? This should be enough paint for that purpose.

Your face was heating up at the thought of what was about to happen, and you felt almost giddy. When was he going to be home? You couldn’t wait to get started.

As if on cue, the door of the studio clicked open, not making a single sound as your boyfriend lumbered in, closing the door behind him. His white shirt was loose, black pants tight, and you couldn’t help but admire his ass when he turned around to shut the door with a light snap.

“Hey-” He stopped almost immediately upon seeing you, eyeing the half empty paint can you were setting down and the flimsy robe covering your body. A body that was definitely naked under it.

“What are you doing?” You saw his eyes flick over you and then behind to eye the massive canvas you had laid out, along with the little circles of paint looking fresh and shiny on it. You gave him a grin.

“I was hoping we could collaborate for your next piece.” You tugged at his shirt until you both stood closer to the canvas, taking special joy in how confused he looked. His eyes kept darting all over the place to try and make sense of what was going on, and you had to stifle a giggle.

You thought to elaborate on your suggestion by slowly unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. Rafayel raised his eyebrows but didn’t stop you, probably curious to see what you were cooking. You tugged his shirt off his toned shoulders, before going to work on his pants. His hand finally seized yours, tilting his head so your eyes would meet his.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” His tone was amused. You hummed almost in thought, pulling your hand away. You tugged on the belt of your robe until it slipped free, and the front fell open. You saw the tips of Rafayel’s ears turn red, and his expression blanked a bit.

“You have paint. You have a canvas. And you have me.” Your voice was a low whisper. You reached into the bucket next to you, palms stretched, until they were both covered in paint. Then you reached one hand up and dragged your fingertips over his bare abs.

The cool paint made them contract a bit, and you heard the way his breath hitched under the touch. Four long streaks of pink now stood out against his pale skin. Finally, you looked back up to meet his gaze, his face inches from yours.

Rafayel’s blush had extended from his ears down to his neck, but the corner of his lip twitched up into a slow grin. His hands were eager as he undid the button of his pants, and you felt a thrill run up your spine. You watched him undress quickly. He was slow, smooth, as he lifted one precise hand to tug on the shoulder of your loose robe until it was falling off your shoulders and pooling at your feet.

He looked around and his eyes caught the second can of paint. Purple. He dipped his hands into it, and you watched him walk back over to you.

“Where did you get this idea, baby?” His voice had lost its confusion, coated in honey now, sultry and low, nearly a whisper, and you shivered when his breath hit your bare neck. He took advantage of the fact that your hair was pulled up and away from your shoulders, tracing gentle lips over the slope of your shoulder. Instinctively, your hands smoothed over his torso, and you were reminded of the paint on them, still wet, now swiped onto the man before you.

Rafayel hummed at the feeling and proceeded to return the favor, his hands set on your hips. The paint was cool on your skin, and you almost jumped at the temperature if it weren’t for his warm hands taking the feeling away in the next second. Your boyfriend gave your naked bodies a gentle tug backwards until you were stepping on paper, slight crinkling noises hitting your ears.

Gentle lips now made contact with yours, and you sighed in relief. You had missed this, just the feeling of him kissing you. You had been thinking about it- and other things- all day, and you were so excited to start. Hands caressed over each other slowly but eagerly, and you couldn’t even begin to imagine how much paint you had managed to get on each other.

Your kisses became more hurried, more firm, and you could feel Rafayel’s body temperature rise a bit. His breath stuttered when you moaned into his mouth, tongues dancing together in a synchronized battle. He nibbled at your bottom lip and you arched deeply into him, nails digging into his biceps.

“Fuck, the paint is drying.” You managed to gasp out when your lips separated, his mouth finding the skin behind your ear immediately. He sucked hard on it, until you shivered and let out a long, shaky breath. Your knees were so weak, and you were glad for his strong arms wrapped around your waist, since it was the only thing currently holding you up.

He hummed against your skin, not letting up on the marks he was marring it with. You had discovered pretty early on that Rafayel was a biter, and marks on your skin was another way he created art. It just so happened that you enjoyed the feeling more than you could ever think to describe.

“Good thing you laid more out for us then.” He responded, referring to the globs just below your feet, before tugging you down until you were sprawled on the canvas below you. It was cool under your skin, and you felt something wet just under your shoulder. Oh. Your eyes met Rafayel’s before they finally traveled down his body for the first time since you two had started. You gulped in a deep breath.

His pale skin was covered in purple and pink streaks, like smooth color streaked over brilliant porcelain. The ridges and bumps of his muscles stood out even more under the paint, and you could tell in a few places the exact route your hands had taken, pink running over his waist and down his V-line. The remnants of the journey your fingers took stood before you, proud on his skin. You felt a thrill run through you at the sight, something stirred in your core.

“This is turning you on.” Rafayel observed, a light smirk resting on his face. You felt your body burn at the teasing lilt of his voice.

“As if this isn’t something you’ve dreamed of doing.” You retaliated, opening your legs so he could fit himself between them, resting his elbows on either side of you so your faces were a hairbreadth away. He hummed and sighed, lowering his body until his erection grazed right over your center, making you gasp.

“Believe me, I’ve dreamed of this.” He sighed, reached for the paint to the left and just above your head. You watched him cover his palm with it before he reached down, hooking a hand under your knee and pulling it up until it folded against your torso. The paint was wet on your skin, and you were learning to love the feeling more and more. His cock prodded your entrance, now on full display for him. He gave you another mischievous smirk.

“Baby I’m about to ruin you so bad.”

The first slide of him inside you had you crying out and arching into him, his cock carving its way through your unprepped hole and bringing with it a burn so delicious it made your head spin. When he bottomed out, he moaned unabashedly into your ear, hot breath hitting the shell of it and sending shivers through your spine. Your core clenched and unclenched rapidly, trying to adjust to the glorious intrusion. Your brain screamed at him to move, to slide in and out, do anything at all. You needed to feel him rock into you. Your hips twitched and jerked, making your boyfriend moan before he finally started moving.

His thrusts started out languid, smooth, gliding in and out of you at a reasonable pace. You sighed, head leaned back and reveling in the feeling it brought, leg tensing under his grip. Little tendrils of pleasure zipped up from where you were connected, heavy cock stretching you open until your pussy was adequately wet, ready to take the pounding you knew was inevitably coming your way.

And oh, did you receive it.

Slowly, steadily, Rafayel picked up the pace until his hips were smacking hard into your pelvis, knocking every breath from your lungs. You cried out, one arm thrown over his shoulder while the other seeked desperate purchase under you, used to the feeling of silk sheets but now met with nothing but smooth, stretched out canvas and the wet sensation of sticky color. Rafayel used the grip he had on your knee to twist your leg out further, inviting him to hit that one spot that made you see stars. A broken wail left your mouth and your back arched impossibly high, hearing a low moan hit your ear when you clenched tight around the cock pounding into you.

“F-fuck, Rafi-” His head lifted, just enough to connect your lips in a desperate slurry of rushed kisses, sucking and biting on your lips as his pace didn’t so much as stutter. Your moans dissolved straight into his mouth, little pornographic ‘yeah, yeah, yeah’s slipping out with every thrust. You didn’t bother muffling them, knowing exactly what the noises did for Rafayel’s ego, and with how he was ravishing you currently, you were okay with giving him a little ego boost.

(You would deal with the consequences of that later.)

“Gonna cum-” You managed to choke out just as your orgasm rammed into you with no warning, effectively silencing any other words as you cried and shook through it, muscles seized tight and legs kicking in the air.

“God- fuck,” Rafayel’s first words. “There you go. Fuck, that’s it.”

He fucked you through the last vestiges of your high before his arms slipped under your arched waist and lifted you up, rolling over until you were perched on his hips, throbbing cock still nestled inside you. The change in position made him slide in deeper, and you let out a broken moan. Your orgasm was still lingering around the edges, encouraging you to prolong the feeling, to chase after it again. And so you did. You rolled your hips, placing your hands on Rafayel’s abs as leverage to push your body up and down. You finally took a good look at your boyfriend.

His chest was heaving with exertion, shining under the glow of the lights above you, catching on the swirling mixes of purple and pink. Under the paint, his skin glistened with sweat, tensing and straining under his movements. The paint had reached all the way up the side of his neck, and even into his hair, blending with the purple tresses. The purple complimented his eyes, half lidded and heavy with lust, his lip was tucked under his teeth.

He was a vision.

“Baby, you’re so fucking beautiful.” His voice was fractured and strained, and in your staring you had forgotten that you were also the object of his gaze. You couldn’t imagine how you looked right now, slathered with paint and hot under the stimulation you were receiving, strands of hair leaving your bun and trailing down over your face and neck. You rolled your hips and tightened hard around his cock, watching the way his jaw slackened and eyes rolled shut. Another zip of pleasure ran through you, and you couldn’t help but keen, pushing yourself to go faster, to make him feel even better.

“I’m- I’m so close.” You could feel your vision swim, tears gathering in your lash line as his cock dug deep into your core, prodding into your spongy walls in all the right ways. Rafayel grabbed both your wrists off his chest, pulling them behind your back and then tugging you down until your body was pinned tight against his. You let him do as he pleased, planting his feet on the canvas before he started thrusting hard and fast up into your sopping cunt.

You screamed and arched, body tensing at the pace he set, chin resting on his shoulder and head thrown back as you let him carry you face first into another orgasm, gushing around him until the sounds of his thrusts grew impossibly wetter, sloppier than the paint around you and covering you, blabbering incoherent phrases and curses as tears poured from your eyes. With every thrust, the ecstasy prolonged itself, like an endless high that came with intense drugs, except all you needed was him, and he would get you there if it was the last thing he did.

Your perspective was shifting, Rafayel’s cock leaving you until you felt cold and empty. He maneuvered you onto your hands and knees, or rather, arms and knees since you felt that you couldn’t even hold yourself up at this point. A firm hand pushed on your back until it arched to his liking, spreading you until he could slide his massive length back into you with little to no resistance. You whimpered pathetically, eyes rolling unhindered in your head, cheek smushed into the paper beneath you. Briefly, you felt like you could almost taste the paint, but the thought left your brain faster than cigarette smoke dissipating on a windy day when Rafayel started moving again.

“Stop me if you can’t take it.”

You could never, would never stop him, not when your pussy keened at the feeling of his cock filling you up to fulfillment once more. Especially not when he planted a foot on your side that gave him leverage to thrust harder and stronger into you. Your body buzzed and reveled under the feeling of being used like this, basking in the sounds coming from Rafayel getting heavier and choppier as he finally chased his own orgasm instead of yours. You wanted nothing more than for him to warm you up, fill you with his seed until you couldn’t take any more of it. Your depraved mind was wiped blank of everything else except that crushing need.

“Cum in me.” You managed to whine, clenching hard around him. Rafayel moaned and his hips stuttered.

“Fuck. I’m gonna- I’m cumming baby, take it, take it, take it, take it-” Your body jostled at the strength of his thrusts, once, twice, and then he was slamming his cock deep into you and holding it there, hot spurts of cum hitting your walls. Painting your insides white like your bodies had painted your outsides purple and pink.

Your entire body collapsed on itself when Rafayel pulled out, dropping onto the paper heavily as you tried to catch your breath. Your vision was swimming and so was your head, unable to do anything but focus on the faint buzz in your muscles. You could hear shuffling somewhere behind you before you were being lifted into strong arms. You sighed and curled into them, seeking the warmth of your boyfriend after the beating your body just took. And he was happy to provide it- in the tub he ran for you while both of you settled into warm water.

You dozed in and out of sleep as Rafayel cleaned you up, giggling and humming along with whatever little anecdotes he was telling you. He knew you would barely remember most of it later, considering how dopey and spacey you got after sex. You pouted and leaned up to him every few minutes, stealing tiny kisses from his lips. And afterwards, you let him pat you dry and put you to bed in the usual “princess treatment” he gave you after one of your sessions. The only time he backed off from teasing you relentlessly and instead doted on you properly.

You couldn’t tell how long you slept, but you woke up feeling well rested. The bed next to you was empty but still slightly warm, and you could hear quiet shuffling outside in the studio.

Your muscles screamed when you forced them to move, your hips and thighs feeling like particular sore spots. You ignored the feeling in favor of pulling a shirt off the floor to throw over your body, realizing it was your boyfriend’s when it fell all the way to your thighs. You trudged out of the room while rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You saw him standing with his back to you, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. The muscles of his bare back shifted as he moved, now clear of all the paint you two had slathered on it. Oh right, the paint.

Your eyes shifted behind him to the canvas, which Rafayel had propped up against the wall now, and was observing silently. You walked closer to admire the streaks of pink and purple on it, watching it carefully. Somehow, the choppy strokes showed your desperation, your passion, and you felt your face heat up at the thought.

“Looks pretty.” Your voice was slightly rough. Rafayel turned around at the sound and gave you a soft smile, pulling you closer and wrapping his arms around you from behind as you both stared. You settled into his warmth as you swayed gently back and forth.

“Why’re you thinking so hard about it?” You asked.

You turned your head to watch as he huffed and pouted a bit. He looked so cute, you bit back the urge to squish his cheeks.

“Pretty sure there’s some cum in there somewhere.”

Aaaaaand the urge was gone.

You smacked his chest hard, making him jerk back and laugh, but not releasing his hold on you.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Not more than you.”

He kissed you before you could land another smack, hand cupping your jaw to tilt your head back. You fought to keep a grin down, but failed when you felt his lips stretch with a smile of his own, erupting into giggles.

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

SYNOPSIS: A fall shattered her future, dreams slipping through trembling fingers—but in the quiet ache of recovery, love reveals itself. Not in grand gestures, but in the steady presence of Paige, who has always been home.

WARNING(S): -ish, angst ⋮ yelling ⋮ argument ⋮ ACL injury ⋮ pain ⋮ crying ⋮ reader feeling lost(ig) ⋮ kissing ⋮ fluffy towards the end ⋮ ACL recovery ⋮ friends to lovers ⋮ emotional ⋮ slow-burn(ish) ⋮ kind of shit writing :/ ⋮ i'm not sure if i'm missing anything...

WORD COUNT: 9.2k [Here's a pretty long one before I start writing the series <3]

| MAIN MASTER LIST |

ONE SECOND, I WAS IN THE AIR—suspended between gravity and glory—the ball in my court, the championship within reach.

The lights above gleamed like stars, burning bright against the cavernous arena, the roar of the crowd swelling like a tidal wave, pushing me higher, willing me forward. 

Every muscle in my body coiled with purpose, years of training condensed into this single, breathless moment. This was for us. For my girls, who bled beside me in every grueling practice.

For coach, who shaped me from raw talent into something unstoppable. For every person who had ever screamed my name, believing I could be something more than just a player.

And then the next second, it was as if time twisted, crueling and unrelenting. 

Time did not just slow; it fractured. The moment of collision ripped through me like a lightning strike, sudden and merciless.

My body twisted midair, momentum stolen, limbs flailing before the ground rose up to meet me. But it wasn’t just a fall. It was a crash, a brutal, unforgiving descent into agony.

The court was not hardwood beneath me; it was steel, unrelenting, and I crumpled against it like a marionette with its strings cut. Pain detonated through my body—sharp, blinding, all-consuming. 

A firestorm in my knee, a searing knife twisting in my hip, a sickening pop I both heard and felt.

The scream ripped from my throat before I even realized I was the one making it, raw and jagged, swallowed by the gasps in the crowd, the shrill of the referee’s whistle, the frantic shouts of my teammates.

 But none of it was louder than the relentless pounding in my ears, the deafening rhythm of my own heartbeat, slamming against my ribs like it wanted out. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

Tonight was the night. One of the biggest games of the season–– the Big East Championship. The night we were supposed to take everything we had bled for and make it ours.

And yet—here I was. Not sprinting down the court, not lifting the trophy, not standing.

Just lying there, my fingers digging into the polished wood, as if I could anchor myself against the inevitable.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

The pain wasn’t fading. It was swelling, spreading, sinking into my bones like venom. My knee was twisted at an unnatural angle, the joint already ballooning, throbbing, pulsing with heat. My hip screamed in protest when I tried to move, sending shockwaves of white-hot agony racing up my spine. And then there was the fear—the cold, creeping dread settling in my chest, suffocating, paralyzing.

Because this wasn’t just a fall.

This was something worse.

Something that could rip basketball from my grasp. Forever.

The world around me blurred, colors bleeding together, faces twisting in and out of focus like smudged paint on a canvas.

My chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, my fingers twitching against the slick hardwood as if I could claw my way back to before. Before the fall. Before the pain.

Before the moment my entire world began to slip through my fingers like sand in an unforgiving tide.

A hand pressed against my shoulder—firm, steady, yet trembling at the edges.

Coach.

His voice was a muffled hum against the static in my ears, but I could hear the strain in it, the forced calm he was trying to wield like a shield. I didn’t need to see his face to know. 

He was scared.

I blinked hard, my vision swimming in and out of clarity, and through the overhead glare, I saw them. My team. My girls. Their faces frozen in horror, hands clasped over their mouths, eyes wide with something I had never seen in them before—helplessness. 

They were warriors, fighters, the kind of players who clawed and scraped and pushed through anything. But now, they stood frozen, as if moving might shatter what little hope remained.

The trainers were there now, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Hands hovered over me, assessing, measuring, calculating the extent of what I already knew was devastating.

“Where does it hurt?” one of them asked, but it felt like a cruel joke.

Everywhere.

The answer sat heavy on my tongue, but I couldn’t force it past my lips. My knee throbbed violently, a deep, bone-deep ache that spread like wildfire, the joint swollen, stiff, unnatural.

My hip burned with a pain that rooted itself into my spine, anchoring me to the floor in agony. But worse than all of it—worse than the physical destruction—was the creeping, soul-crushing certainty that this was it.

This wasn’t just a sprain.

This wasn’t just another injury to ice and shake off.

This was something bigger. Something worse. Something that could take everything from me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the noise, the panic, the sheer, unbearable weight of it all. But I couldn’t ignore the way the stretcher was brought onto the court.

I couldn’t ignore the hush that fell over the crowd, the way thousands of voices had shrunk into silence, waiting, watching, knowing what I wasn’t ready to accept.

The trainers moved carefully, methodically, but even the slightest shift sent a fresh wave of agony rolling through me. I bit down hard, tasting copper, my nails digging into my palms, a futile attempt to ground myself in something other than the pain.

And then—Paige.

I didn’t see her at first. I felt her. The familiar presence before I even heard her voice. Then, suddenly, she was there, pushing past the others, dropping to her knees beside me, her fingers brushing against mine in a whisper of warmth. Her touch, the only thing in this moment that didn’t hurt.

Her eyes locked onto mine, stormy and wild, brimming with something fierce, something unbreakable.

“I’m here,” she breathed, voice tight, shaking. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time since the fall, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, she did.

Her touch was a lifeline, delicate but unwavering, as if her fingers could draw the pain out of me, pull it from my skin like a curse unspoken.

I clung to her, the rhythm of her breath syncing with mine, a soft, fragile beat in the chaos of the world spinning around us. 

Her presence was the anchor in a sea of doubt, the only thing keeping me tethered to something solid, something real. But even that wasn't enough to quell the storm raging inside me.

"Hey," Paige whispered, her voice steady, but there was something raw underneath it, something jagged that cut through her carefully controlled words. "Look at me. You’re going to be ok, alright?" 

I could see the way her lips trembled, the way her hands were clenched tight around mine, as if she feared that if she let go, I might disappear. And in a way, I understood. Because in that moment, I felt like I was slipping.

Like the very core of me was being pulled apart, thread by thread, until I was nothing but a collection of broken dreams and what-ifs.

The stretcher came, the cold, unyielding metal frame beneath me sending a shiver through my body, and with it came the realization: this wasn’t a bruise I could ice away. This wasn’t a sprained ankle that would heal in a few weeks. 

The look in the doctor’s eyes when he glanced at me told me everything I needed to know.

They couldn’t say it yet, not with so many people watching, but I saw the truth there. A diagnosis, a future that wasn’t certain, a career that might slip away in a single, cruel breath.

“You’ll be alright,” I heard Paige say again, her voice barely a whisper, but it wrapped around me like a cloak, warm and tight.

The words burrowed deep inside me, sinking into the wound of my heart, and for a moment, I allowed myself to let go of the panic, of the fear that gnawed at the edges of my mind. 

For that fleeting moment, it was just the two of us, her breath mingling with mine, her presence filling the empty spaces where I used to believe in things like certainty and control.

I couldn’t feel my leg anymore, the numbness creeping in like the dark, but the pain in my chest—a hollow, aching emptiness—was enough to consume me whole. I had built my life on this game. 

On the rush of the court beneath my feet, on the ball in my hands, on the endless hours of practice, sweat, and sacrifice. And now, as I was lifted away from everything I had ever known, I wondered if I would ever feel whole again.

The stadium lights, once brilliant, now seemed like distant stars, fading and flickering as I was carried away, as if the universe itself were dimming in sympathy with the crushing weight on my soul. The cheering, once deafening, now felt like an echo from a life I could no longer touch. 

My dreams, so close they had once seemed within reach, were now drifting further away with every inch the stretcher moved.

But then, I felt her hand again, pressing against mine, warm and steady. Her fingers intertwined with mine, a promise, a tether to something I could still hold onto.

“We’ll figure this out,” she said, her voice strong now, like a steady current cutting through the storm. “You’re not alone in this. I’m right here.”

Her words were a balm to the raw, open wound inside me. But the truth was, no one could take away the fear. The cold, gnawing fear that my future in this game, the one thing I had known for so long, was slipping through my fingers like smoke.

I closed my eyes, my heart beating slow and heavy in my chest, and for the first time, I let myself lean into the warmth of Paige’s presence.

Her hand was the only thing that kept me from shattering, and in that brokenness, I allowed myself to believe—if only for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, I could rebuild.

We would rebuild. Together.

Together.

Togeth-

To-

“Y/N?” 

“Y/N.”

Paige’s voice slipped through the static, sharp enough to cut through the fog wrapped around my mind. My head felt heavy, thoughts sluggish and tangled, like a radio caught between frequencies—just white noise and fleeting, incoherent signals. 

I barely registered the crease in her brows, the slight part of her lips, the way she hovered, waiting.  

“I was asking what you wanted for dinner,” she repeated, her voice softer now, laced with something careful, something that tread lightly.  

Her words reached me slow, like sound traveling through water, distant and warped. 

My gaze flickered, landing on the deep blue of her eyes, then the soft parting of her lips. I caught the quick flick of her tongue, the way it glossed over her bottom lip before disappearing again. 

Something about the motion anchored me, pulling me just enough from the haze to remember I had to answer.  

I blinked. Tilted my head slightly.  

“Mexican— please.” The word tumbled out, weightless, thoughtless.  

Paige lingered, watching me, waiting for something more. I gave her nothing. Just turned back to the window, to the blurred streaks of streetlights smearing gold across the glass. 

The world outside moved, but I felt detached from it, like I was watching from behind some invisible barrier.  

She sighed. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.  

She thought I was tired. Or maybe that’s just what she told herself.

Brent Faiyaz murmured through the speakers, his voice smooth, weaving into the quiet like silk. The hum of the car, the occasional flick of the turn signal—it all blended together, a background score to the silence stretching between us.  

Paige broke it first.  

“Talked to Macy today.” She kept her voice even, dipping her toes into cold water. Testing. “told me you made some pretty great progress at therapy.” 

A quick glance, then a nudge against my arm, something light, something meant to pull me in.  

I rolled my eyes instead. Kept them fixed on the moving world outside.  

I could feel her waiting. Expecting me to say something.  

I did.  

“What is this?” My voice came out flat, edged with something bitter. “You keeping tabs on me now? Counting my steps, measuring my progress? Waiting for me to finally catch up?” A dry, humorless laugh.

 “Bad news—I haven’t gone anywhere in the past 10 months.”  

The air in the car shifted. Grew heavier. Paige’s grip on the wheel tightened.  

“You know that’s not what I meant.”  

I didn’t respond. But my gaze—it drifted.

Down, down, to the brace wrapped around my right knee. The one I had worn like a second skin since the accident. 

The one that screamed at me every time I moved wrong. A reminder. A weight. A sentence I hadn’t been given the choice to serve.

My fingers curled into my palm, pressing deep, grounding myself in the sting. Paige noticed. She always noticed.  

Her eyes flicked toward me, then to my hands—tense, unmoving. Her right hand left the console, found mine, threading our fingers together with ease. Like it was natural.

It was.  

It had been, for a while now.  

"Hey," she murmured, softer this time. "Don't let yourself think that just because you hit a bump in the road, you don’t matter. Don’t—don’t ever let that shit get into your head, alright? Because you’re still in this, whether you think so or not." 

I swallowed, but it did nothing to loosen the knot in my throat.  

She didn’t get it.  

10 months. 10 months of feeling trapped in the same aching cycle. Wake up. Pain. PT. More pain. Nothing changed.

I had pushed, forced myself through every damn exercise, through every stretch, through every stair climbed and weight lifted. And still—I was stuck.  

It felt like being locked in a room with no doors, no windows. Just walls that kept closing in, pressing tighter, leaving just enough air to exist but never enough to breathe.  

And at night, when the world was quiet, when the weight of it all sank into my bones, I could still see it.  

The accident.

The moment my body folded wrong, the sickening pop, the way pain swallowed me whole before I even hit the ground.

The way the sky blurred—too bright, too vast—as the sounds of the game faded into white noise. Hands on me. Voices I couldn’t recognize. The panicked rush of the ambulance.  

The surgery.

Sterile lights. Cold air against my skin. A mask over my mouth, the slow, creeping pull of anesthesia dragging me under. Then—darkness.  

The first day of PT.

The first time I tried to move and failed. The sharp, unforgiving pain that shot through me like a live wire. The way my body refused to listen. The way my therapist had smiled at me, patient and kind, telling me it would take time. That it was a process. That I had to trust it.  

But trust was hard when every step felt like a battle I kept losing. 

Behind all of it, lurking beneath the surface, was something heavier. The articles. The ones that used to paint my story in bright, bold letters, capturing every slam dunk, every game-winner, every moment that made me feel like I was on top of the world.

 But now, they only reminded me of the cracks, the moments where I stumbled, where my body couldn’t keep up with the force of my ambition. 

The whispers. The ones that echoed in locker rooms, in hallways, in the stands. They used to ask when I’d get drafted, when I’d make it to the next level.

Now, they barely spoke my name. It was as if I was just a ghost on a paper trail, slowly fading away. 

The expectations.The ones that used to drive me, that pushed me harder, faster, until every second of the game felt like life or death.

Now, they were suffocating, bearing down on me, reminding me of what I was supposed to be, not what I had become.  

And underneath it all, the weight that felt the heaviest—the fear that I was being left behind. Everyone else was moving forward.Everyone else seemed to be finding their place, their rhythm, their future.

 But me? I was stuck in this moment, this place, where I didn’t matter anymore. 

I could feel it, like a knot in my chest. The chance to get drafted was no longer just a dream—it was a distant possibility I couldn’t touch. It felt like I was watching from the sidelines, a shadow on a game I used to play in.  

I couldn’t shake it. The thought that I was slipping through their fingers, just another name, another headline that would eventually fade into the past.

 Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them all moving forward, without me. 

I saw the clock ticking, louder and louder, as if it was counting down to a time when I was no longer relevant.

Paige’s thumb brushed against my knuckles, slow and steady, pulling me back to the present.  

“I know it’s been hard,” she murmured, voice threading through the quiet like the first crack of dawn against an endless night. “I know you feel stuck. But you’re not alone in this, Y/N/N. You never have been, and you never will be.”

Her words hung in the air, fragile, like the last leaves of autumn clinging to their branches before the wind came to take them.

I stared down at our joined hands, at the way her fingers curled around mine—gentle, warm, steady. A tether in the storm.

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to.

But belief was a fickle thing, slipping through my fingers like sand, impossible to grasp no matter how tightly I tried to hold on.

“Right,” I muttered, the word slipping past my lips, hollow, weightless. I exhaled slow, deep, as if trying to empty my lungs of something heavier than air—something that had settled deep inside me, thick and unmoving.

My teeth grazed the inside of my cheek, sharp against soft, the dull sting grounding me for just a moment. My jaw clenched, a quiet rebellion against the emotions pressing at the edges of my ribs, waiting to spill over.

Instead of letting them, I turned back toward the window, watching as the world blurred past in streaks of amber and shadow, a silent film playing at a speed I couldn’t match.

And then—her grip.

Slightly tighter. Once. Twice. Three times.

A rhythm. A pattern. A pulse against my skin.

She always did that. And I always wondered why.

"You think this is just about your knee?" Geno’s voice cracked through the air like a gunshot, sharp and unforgiving. "No, kid. This is about you. About that damn wall you keep building between yourself and the game. Between yourself and the people trying to help you."

I sat there frozen, my pulse thrumming in my ears, my arms crossed so tight it felt like I was trying to hold myself together. His words struck like a match against dry wood, igniting something volatile inside me. 

My chest was tight, my jaw locked, my breathing uneven. I wanted to fight back, to tell him he didn’t understand, but I knew the second I opened my mouth, the weight of everything I’d been carrying would come spilling out.

"You don’t get it—"

"Oh, I get it just fine." Geno stepped closer, his presence towering, his voice like thunder rolling low in the distance, a storm waiting to break. "You’re pissed. You’re frustrated. You feel like the universe dealt you a bad hand, and now you gotta crawl your way back to where you were. And instead of taking the help, instead of trusting the process, you’re making it harder for yourself."

The air felt thin, my lungs refusing to expand fully. My fingers dug into my arms, nails pressing crescent moons into my skin. I needed to hold on to something, anything, before I shattered.

"You think I want to be like this?" My voice came out sharp, like broken glass, words slicing at the edges of my teeth. "You think I want to wake up every damn day feeling like I’ve lost everything? That I have to fight just to move like I used to? To watch everyone else move forward while I’m stuck in the same place?"

I was unraveling, the seams fraying, every emotion I had buried beneath exhaustion and frustration clawing its way to the surface.

Geno let out a slow breath, measured, but his gaze stayed locked on mine, unyielding. "No one’s saying it isn’t hard, Y/N. But you? You’re the one making it unbearable."

The words slammed into me like a body check. I flinched—barely—but he caught it. He always did.

"You think the weight of all this is yours to carry alone, but it’s not. You have people who want to help you, who believe in you, who see more in you than just this injury. But instead of trusting them, instead of trusting yourself, you’re shutting down. You’re keeping yourself in this prison of doubt and anger, and the only one suffering for it is you."

My vision blurred for a split second—not with tears, but with the sheer force of everything I’d been trying to suppress.

The articles. The scouts. The draft. The future I had spent my entire life chasing, now dangling just out of reach, taunting me.

Because what if I never reached it?

What if I clawed my way through the pain, through the rehab, through every grueling day of physical therapy—only to come up short?

The thought had been haunting me for months, a quiet, insidious whisper in the back of my mind.

What if you never get back to who you were?

What if you’re just… done?

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat thick and immovable. "It’s not that easy."

Geno’s expression softened for a fraction of a second before the steel returned, unwavering. "No. It’s not. But you’re making it impossible."

The silence between us was thick, weighted with everything left unsaid. I could still hear the echoes of that moment—the sharp crack of impact, the way the world had wrenched sideways as I hit the ground. 

The crowd’s roar had died in an instant, replaced by a suffocating stillness, a beat of eerie quiet before panic surged through the air.

I could still see the blur of the stretcher, the sterile white of the hospital room, the forced smiles on my parents’ faces—strained, trembling at the edges, unable to mask the fear in their eyes.

I could still feel it.

All of it.

And the worst part? It hadn’t stopped feeling like that moment.

Like I was still on the ground. Still watching everything I had worked for slip through my fingers.

Suddenly the air in Geno’s office felt suffocating, thick with the weight of words I wasn’t ready to hear.

The walls felt closer than they should have, the fluorescent light above casting a harsh glare over the desk between us.

"You don’t understand," I whispered once more, my voice barely there, fragile like glass threatening to shatter under pressure.

Geno tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, unrelenting. "Then make me." His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. "Or better yet, make yourself get it. Because if you don’t? If you keep fighting the wrong battle, Y/N?"

He shook his head once, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between us like a chasm. "You’ll lose before you even step back on that court."

And that—that—was the part that scared me the most.

Because deep down, I knew he was right.

I could survive the rehab, the pain, the grueling hours of training. I could take the blood, the sweat, the exhaustion. But losing myself? Losing the game—the only thing I had ever truly known, the only thing that had ever made sense?

That was a different kind of pain entirely.

The weight of it sat on my chest, heavy, suffocating, clawing its way up my throat. I couldn’t lose myself. But the fear of losing everything I had worked for—it clung to me, ghosting over my skin like a warning, like a whisper of what could come.

The protection of being the greatest player on the court was no longer in my hands.

The realization was devastating.

My breath was shaky, uneven, as I pushed back from the chair. My legs felt unsteady, my head light, but I stood.

My eyes burned, the tears I had spent weeks—months—trying to hold back brimming at my waterline, desperate to fall. I wouldn’t let them. Not here. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.

I turned on my heel, fingers curling around the doorknob. I needed to get out. I didn’t want to hear any more, didn’t want to face the truth that Geno had shoved in my face like a mirror I couldn’t look away from.

But when I pulled the door open, my stomach dropped.

They were there.

KK. Azzi. Sarah. Ice.

And Paige.

All standing just a few feet away.

The hallway was eerily quiet, but the way their faces fell, the way their eyes flickered with something between concern and hesitation—I knew they had heard everything. Well, more like the yelling.

My breathing stuttered, my chest rising and falling too quickly. Tears I had barely been holding at bay slipped past my lashes, hot against my skin, and I hated it. Hated how exposed I felt. How raw.

I turned my back to Geno, my vision blurring as I wiped at my face roughly, as if scrubbing the emotion away would make it disappear.

But when my gaze met Paige’s—that soft, worried expression, the way her brows knitted together, the way her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how—I felt something snap.

I stood frozen for a second, caught in the weight of her stare, the quiet understanding that sat between us like something unspoken, something fragile.

I shook my head, as if shaking myself out of a trance.

I pulled my hoodie over my head, the fabric swallowing me whole, a pathetic attempt to disappear, to make myself small, to push them all away.

And then, without a word, I walked past them.

Didn’t know where I was going, but I just kept going.

The world around me blurred—faces, voices, the rush of movement all melting into a distant hum.

The neon signs above the storefronts flickered weakly against the night, their glow swallowed by the thick, humid air that clung to my skin. Even at this hour, UConn’s campus still pulsed with life. 

Groups of students spilled onto the sidewalks, their laughter and chatter weaving into the distant wail of sirens and the rhythmic hum of cicadas.

No one noticed me.

No one saw the way my shoulders curled inward, the way my breath hitched unevenly in my chest.

The farther I walked, the quieter everything became.

My hands clenched deep inside the pockets of my hoodie, fingers curling into fists.

The fabric was rough against my knuckles, grounding me in something tangible, something real. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, heavy and uneven, drowning out the world around me.

I didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t think. 

Then, suddenly, I was here.

The gym.

Its towering structure loomed before me, untouched by time, yet somehow different—colder. The doors groaned on their rusted hinges as I stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of sweat, aged wood, and the faint metallic tang of dust.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, flickering like dying stars, casting long, distorted shadows against the polished floor.

I stood there, still.

The court stretched before me, vast and empty, its boundaries marking the space where I once felt whole—where every movement had purpose, where my body knew exactly what to do before my mind even had to think.

Now, all I felt was the crushing weight of everything I’d lost.

A presence loomed above.

Geno.

Watching. Silent. Measuring.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. I knew that.

But my feet had brought me anyway.

Like they always did.

Like they always would.

My gaze flickered to the sidelines, where a lone basketball rested against the edge of the court. Its once-vibrant orange hue was dulled with time, scuffed and worn, its grooves filled with dust. It looked abandoned. Forgotten. Just like me.

I bent down to pick it up, fingers brushing against the rough surface. The weight of it settled into my palms—familiar, yet foreign. Like holding a memory that no longer fit the shape of who I was.

A past version of myself lingered in this gym, in these walls, in the phantom echoes of sneakers squeaking against polished wood.

 I used to belong here. This court had once been my second home, a place where I moved without thinking, where my body knew exactly what to do before my mind had even caught up.

But now?

Now, it felt like a cage.

A cruel joke. A reminder of every second, every minute, every month that had slipped through my fingers while I sat on the sidelines, watching.

Ten months.

Ten months of physical therapy.

Ten months of rehab.

Ten months of stretching, icing, strengthening, pushing—only to feel like I was standing still.

They told me healing wasn’t linear. That progress took time.

But what if I had wasted all this time just to end up exactly where I started.

I swallowed hard, exhaling sharply. Then, I moved.

Dribble. Dribble. Dribble.

The sound cracked through the empty gym like a heartbeat—mine, erratic, desperate. I gripped the ball tighter, fingers pressing into the seams, trying to anchor myself to something real. Something solid.

One step. Two steps. Pull up. Shoot.

The ball clanked off the rim.

My breath stuttered, the sound scraping against the silence.

Again.

One step. Two steps. Pull up. Shoot.

Short.

The sound of failure echoed through the hollow space, wrapping around me, sinking into my skin.

What’s wrong with me?

I used to make this shot in my sleep. I used to move without thinking, without questioning, without this crushing weight of doubt pressing into my lungs.

Now, nothing felt right.

Not in the way I jumped. Not in the way I landed. Not in the way I breathed.

The brace on my knee squeezed like a vice, a silent reminder, a whisper in the dark: You are not the same.

And I knew that. God, I knew that.

But I was so tired of waiting.

Tired of time moving like a glacier, of watching the world spin without me, of clawing at progress only to feel it slip through my fingers like sand.

I wanted to be back.

I needed to be back.

But what if—what if when I finally got there, I wasn’t enough?

What if I had lost her—the version of myself who soared, who dominated, who had no fear of falling?

What if I was chasing something already gone?

I pushed harder.

Faster.

More.

The court blurred beneath me, my body moving on pure defiance, on the raw ache of desperation. My lungs burned, sweat slicking my skin, my vision tunneling to the basket—because if I just made this shot, if I just did this one thing, maybe—just maybe—I could prove to myself that I still belonged.

But then—

I misstepped.

The world tilted.

Gravity seized me in its merciless grip, and before I could catch myself, I was falling. Again.

My body collided with the hardwood, the impact reverberating through my bones, but the sting barely registered. Because the real pain—the kind that burned beneath my ribs—had already settled in.

I wasn’t the same.

I wasn’t the same.

And maybe—I never would be.

Footsteps rushed toward me, quick and urgent.

"Y/N!"

Paige.

Her voice cut through the thick silence, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her.

She crouched beside me, her presence warm and unwelcome, hands reaching, hovering, like she didn’t know if I’d let her touch me. "What the hell are you doing?"

I let out a sharp breath, turning my face away. "I’m fine."

"No, you’re not." Her voice was gentle but unyielding. "Seriously, Y/N/N—"

"I’m fine!"

The words came out too sharp, too raw, slicing through the space between us. I shoved her hands off me, a final push, a desperate attempt to keep her at arm’s length.

Paige froze, hurt flashing across her face before she quickly masked it.

I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair, my breath coming too fast, too uneven. "God, Paige!" My voice cracked, splintering under the weight of something I wasn’t ready to name. "Why can’t you just—leave me alone? For one fucking second?"

She didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

And that only made the anger rise higher, hotter, burning through my veins like wildfire.

"All you’ve done these past months is get on my ass!" My voice wavered, but I couldn’t stop. "Tellin’ me what I need to do, how my progress is going, how I should be feeling. Just—just stop!"

"Y/N..." Her voice was quiet, but it held so much weight. "I’m just trying to help."

"Help?" I repeated, sarcasm lacing my words. "Is that what you’re calling it? 'Cause it sure as hell doesn’t feel like help. It feels like... like I’m some fucking project, and you’re the goddamn teacher, making me jump through hoops to prove I’m worth something."

Her brows pulled together, frustration flickering in her eyes. "Because I know you’re trying! I know you’re putting in the effort. But you’re the only one who can’t see that. We want you back, Y/N. We need you back. But you’re so afraid of failing, you don’t even wanna try more."

I let out a hollow laugh, empty and bitter, the sound barely resembling something human.

"What else do you want me to do, Paige?" I snapped, my voice raw, my throat tight. "You think I’m making this harder for myself?" My breath hitched. My vision blurred. "You think I’m not tired? Tired of feeling so useless? Tired of feeling so stuck while all of you are out there, playing, living, moving forward—"

I swallowed thickly, my pulse roaring in my ears.

"I have been fighting." My voice trembled. "But nothing—nothing is fucking working." My shoulders sagged, the exhaustion settling deep in my bones.

"I’ve spent the last ten months working my ass off to get back to who I was. But what if I never do?"

The words hung between us, thick and heavy, raw and real.

Paige opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Silence pressed down on us, suffocating.

Then, suddenly, I was moving––pushing myself up, turning away.

"Where are you going, huh?" Paige’s voice was louder now, tinged with desperation. "Nothin’s gonna do you any good if you’re just gonna go back to your dorm and feel sorry for yourself."

The moment the words left her mouth, regret flashed across her face.

Instantly, everything stopped.

I stood there, my back to her, my fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms.

She didn’t mean it.

I knew she didn’t.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady, even as the weight of it all threatened to pull me under.

"I never asked for your help, Paige."

And with that, I walked away.

Again.

It was another Wednesday. Another grey morning that bled into the warmth of the afternoon, stealing a touch of brightness into the dullness of winter.

 Late January had no business feeling this warm, yet there it was, a surprise sunshine pushing through the clouded sky.

 A slight breeze played with the edges of my jacket, tugging at me in gentle reminders of the world continuing outside my small bubble of frustration.

I hadn’t spoken to Paige since last night… since the words I threw at her like stones, sharp and unwarranted. I could still hear them echoing in my mind.

Practically telling her to fuck off.

 It felt like a jagged thing to say, even now. I had no right.

I knew I shouldn’t have said it. I knew that, but the frustration in me boiled over—too much, too fast. She didn’t deserve that.

Especially not after everything she’d done for me.

I couldn’t even count the nights she’d stayed up with me when the pain from my surgery made sleep impossible.

The nights where she curled up on the floor beside my bed, her hand resting lightly on my wrist, grounding me when the discomfort turned unbearable. When I got frustrated—at the limitations, at myself—she never snapped, never told me to get over it.

She just listened.

The endless drives to and from physical therapy, even when I wasn’t able to offer her any thanks, because my knee was a constant reminder of my limits.

When I’d been too bitter to acknowledge her efforts, when I sat in silence, fuming, she never wavered. 

She would just let the music play softly through the car speakers, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel in time with the beat. Letting me exist in my anger but never letting me sit in it alone.

Paige had been nothing but patient, kind, and steady. She had shown up—again and again.

When I lashed out, when I pulled away, when I made it impossible for anyone to get close—Paige stayed. She pushed when I needed pushing and gave me space when I needed air.

She brought me my favorite snacks, even when I refused to eat, leaving them on the table without a word. She sat with me through the rough nights, playing old movies on her phone when I couldn’t sleep.

She learned how to tape my knee properly when I complained that the physical therapists always did it too tight.

She carried my bag when the weight of it pulled too much at my shoulder. She made jokes, teasing me just enough to make me forget—if only for a moment—how much everything hurt.

And I had the audacity to act like she was the problem. Like she was in my way.

The regret curled up at the edges of my chest, cold and insidious, a reminder of just how unfair I had been. How blind..

But the words… they’d slipped out, a careless storm of resentment, clouding everything. And now, here I was—silent in my guilt, unable to shake the weight of what I had done.

I sighed deeply as I glanced into the vanity mirror, the soft hum of the Bronco’s engine cooling into stillness. The reflection staring back at me was no different than usual. 

My hair was simply braided, strands falling loose in a few places, and my UCONN sweatshirt, the one I’d worn so many times, hung comfortably over me like a second skin. 

I adjusted the brace on my knee, a reminder of everything I had gone through, and grabbed my bag, my phone, my lifeline.

The parking lot outside the facility was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of other cars coming and going. I could feel my nerves gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. And then, across the lot, to my left, there she was.

Paige.

Leaning casually against her black Jeep, arms crossed, eyes gazing off into the distance, lost in thought or perhaps waiting for me. I stopped. My breath caught. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not now. Not after what had happened.

My heart skipped a beat in a way it never had before. It wasn’t just the sight of her—it was the fact that she was here. Standing in front of me, even after last night. Even after everything.

I furrowed my brows, walking toward her slowly, hesitantly, as if I weren’t sure whether I was moving toward her or away from the uncomfortable mess we’d made.

"You’re here."

I muttered the words under my breath, a small disbelief lingering between us. 

Paige looked at me with that soft, half-smile that could always make me feel like everything was going to be okay, even when I didn’t feel like it. "When have I ever missed any day of your PT?"

Her smirk seemed almost like a challenge, but also a quiet comfort. I shifted on my feet, looking anywhere but directly at her.

But, I knew better. Paige wasn’t just here because of that. There was more to it, something unspoken, yet too heavy to ignore.

The words I wanted to say felt too large, too complicated to voice, and the silence settled between us like an unsolvable puzzle.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, barely above a whisper, a soft curiosity edging into my voice.

Paige uncrossed her arms, letting them drop to her sides, and sighed, a long exhale that seemed to carry all the tension she’d been holding onto.

She turned away for a moment, looking toward the distant horizon, her fingers twitching at her sides. When she turned back, she seemed more vulnerable than I had ever seen her, eyes searching mine as if she were weighing something in the space between us.

"Because I realized that you’re right."

She paused, swallowing hard, and I felt the ground shift beneath my feet, the weight of her words settling heavily in my chest. "I have been on your ass..."

Guilt flooded through me, sharp and biting. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, holding back the emotions that were rising too quickly. She didn’t deserve my frustration.

"Paige," I started, but she was quicker, cutting me off with a softness that disarmed every defense I had left.

"But because I care about you," she continued, and the world seemed to stop for a heartbeat, the air thickening with the gravity of her words. "And I love you."

Her hand found mine, delicate and warm as she slid her fingers between mine, grounding me in something familiar, something safe. My heart tripped over itself, a sudden skip that sent a confusing wave of emotion through my chest.

I love you wasn’t new. I had said it a thousand times before—both to Paige and to others. Yet now, with her hand in mine, it felt different. It was a deeper pulse, a deeper truth.

Paige continued, her voice lower now, carrying an apology wrapped in care. "And because I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said that shit to you yesterday."

The weight of her words settled over me, washing away the sharpness of the argument. Sorry.

It was a small word, but it held so much. She didn’t have to say it. She didn’t owe me an apology. But there it was, hanging in the space between us, an offering I didn’t know I needed until now.

I looked at her, and everything inside me stilled. The guilt that had knotted in my chest began to loosen, though it lingered, hanging like the last drops of rain after a storm.

I felt the pulse of her heartbeat against my skin, felt the truth of everything we had shared and everything that was still left to be said.

In the quiet that followed, I squeezed her hand gently, offering something I couldn’t yet say aloud.

My heart still raced, uncertain but softening. And in that moment, everything else—the anger, the argument, the walls we had built—felt like echoes in the distance.

We were here, together, standing in the light of this new, fragile truth.

The world around us seemed to blur, melting away like the early morning fog caught in the sun’s embrace. The faint hum of cars in the distance was a muffled memory, drowned out by the beating of my own heart.

The warmth of her touch seeped into my skin, spreading through me like a slow fire, awakening parts of me that had long been dormant. Every breath I took felt deeper, more intentional, as if we were both waiting for the next breath, the next word to break the silence.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke, our bodies suspended in that fragile space where everything is too big to express and too important to leave unsaid.

The world felt slower, gentler. The sun was still climbing, its rays now stretched wide across the parking lot, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the tension between us, but there was something tender in the way the light fell.

As if the day, too, was waiting for us to choose the next step.

I shifted my weight, my fingers tightening around hers. A small gesture, but it felt like I was offering something I wasn’t sure I had—my trust, my willingness to try again.

The ache in my chest softened just a fraction, though I couldn’t help the flicker of uncertainty that lingered in my stomach.

Was this real? Would we ever be the same after last night?

I opened my mouth, but the words I’d rehearsed in my head for hours felt inadequate, too small for what was swirling inside me. I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t know how to make up for everything. How could I?

“I’m sorry,” I finally said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue, but necessary. I didn’t even know if it was enough.

But I needed her to know—needed to feel like I was trying, like I was reaching for something beyond the anger, beyond the frustration. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that.”

The guilt crept back, cold and insidious, curling up at the edges of my chest. I could feel it there, a constant reminder of how much I had hurt her, even though all she had ever done was try to help me. Try to love me.

Paige’s thumb brushed softly over the back of my hand, grounding me once again. Her gaze softened, the sharpness of earlier giving way to something warmer, something more vulnerable.

She was here, and she was willing to meet me where I stood, even after everything.

“I know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity in it was enough to stop time. “I know, and I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was… like I was smothering you.”

“You weren’t,” I said quickly, shaking my head, hating the way my own words had made her feel. “Paige, you were just—” I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down my face before dropping it. “You were just looking out for me. You always do.”

Paige let out a dry chuckle, her tongue running along her bottom lip. “Yeah, well… maybe I need to chill out a little,” she admitted, and then met my eyes again. “But I just—” She sighed, shaking her head. “I just hate seeing you struggle. I know how hard this has been for you. And I didn’t wanna let you go through it alone.”

I swallowed hard, her words settling deep into my chest.

“I know,” I whispered.

Paige stepped closer, just slightly, but enough for me to notice, enough for my body to respond before my mind could catch up.

“I meant what I said,” she continued, her voice softer now. “I care about you. And I love you.”

My breath hitched. I knew this feeling—it was familiar, something safe, something that had always been there between us, unspoken but present. So why did hearing her say it make my stomach twist?

 I forced a small chuckle, trying to lighten the air before it swallowed me whole. “You act like we don’t always say that, P,” I murmured, shrugging. “We say it to Azzi and the girls all the time.”

Paige tilted her head slightly, studying me in that way that always made me feel like she saw more than I was willing to give. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah,” she said, voice almost teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something careful, deliberate. “But do you feel like this when you say it to them?”

I blinked, caught off guard. My breath hitched before I could stop it.

Paige had never said anything like that before—not so directly, not so openly. My mouth opened. Closed. My throat felt tight.

The air between us shifted, something unspoken crackling in the space where our fingers touched. Paige must’ve noticed, because she let out a small, knowing breath, her amusement laced with something softer, something more dangerous.

“Yeah,” she murmured, glancing away for the briefest moment before her eyes found mine again, steady and sure. “That’s what I thought.”

My heart slammed against my ribcage, a sharp, unmistakable rhythm.

Her fingers curled just a little tighter around mine, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I was still breathing.

She sighed, breaking the tension slightly. “Look, I know we fight,” she admitted. “And I know you’re stubborn as hell.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped me, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle of her own.

“But I also know you,” she continued, a little more serious now. “And I know that when you push people away, it’s because you’re hurting. And I don’t care how much you fight me on this, Y/N—I’m not going anywhere.”

I felt my chest constrict, emotion creeping up my throat faster than I could swallow it down.

Paige smiled then, small but warm. “So,” she murmured, nodding towards the building behind me, “are we gonna stand here all day, or are you actually gonna let me walk you in?”

I huffed out a laugh, rolling my eyes. “God, you’re annoying,” I muttered, shaking my head as I turned on my heel, my hand still in hers.

Paige grinned. “Yeah,” she said, tugging me along beside her. “But you love me for it.”

And, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t argue.

The tension between us began to dissolve like mist in the early morning sun, and I could feel the space between us closing, slowly, like the tender stitches of a wound trying to heal.

Paige spoke again, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You’re the best player on this team—maybe even on the same level as Michael Jordan.”

I rolled my eyes despite the smile etching on my face. “Ok, now that’s reaching.” I laughed.

Paige laughed too, her laugh sweet and familiar, but then she shook her head, her expression softening. “Alright, that’s not the point!” She nudged my arm.

She hesitated for a second, as if choosing her words carefully. “Look, I know it doesn’t always feel like you’re getting anywhere. I know how frustrating it is to work your ass off and still feel stuck. But, Y/N, that doesn’t mean you’re not growing. You’re not just a great player—you’re one of the hardest-working people I know. And you know what happens when someone like you keeps pushing, even when it’s tough?”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Enlighten me.”

Paige smirked. “They don’t just get better. They come back stronger, smarter—more unstoppable than they ever were before. So yeah, maybe you don’t feel like you’re at your peak right now. But that doesn’t mean you won’t be. And when that happens? Michael Jordan better watch his back.”

I let out a breathy chuckle, shaking my head, but the warmth spreading through my chest told me that her words had landed exactly where they needed to.

Something about the way she said it—the quiet certainty in her voice—made my heart clench. She didn’t just say things to make me feel better; she meant them.

And that realization hit me like a wave, pulling me under before I even had the chance to catch my breath.

My gaze drifted from her deep blue eyes to her lips—soft, perfect, slightly parted as if waiting for something, for me.

My heartbeat stuttered, a rapid, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

Before I could overthink it, my hand moved on its own, fingertips grazing the sharp line of her jaw. Her breath hitched, a subtle intake of air that sent warmth rushing through me.

Slowly, I tilted her face down to mine, closing the space between us, and then I kissed her.

The world around us blurred, faded into nothing. There was no noise, no expectation, just the quiet press of her lips against mine—soft, warm, achingly familiar yet entirely new.

It was slow, unhurried, like the moment had always been waiting for us to catch up to it.

I could feel everything in that kiss—the way her lips moved against mine, tender but sure, the way my hands trembled slightly where they held her.

She tasted like something sweet, something comforting, and yet there was a fire beneath it, a spark igniting deep in my chest. The way she melted into me, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly against my waist, sent a shiver down my spine.

By the time we pulled back, I felt lightheaded, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with oxygen. Paige’s eyes searched mine, something unreadable flickering across her face before her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. 

“I love you,” I murmured, the words tasting different now—deeper, more honest than they had ever been before.

Paige’s smile widened, and she squeezed my hand gently. “I love you, too.” Her voice was steady, but there was something raw in it, something that made my heart flutter. “And I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

I nodded, unable to find the right words to say back. What could I say? She had already given me everything I needed to hear.

I didn’t need grand gestures or promises that we’d be perfect. I just needed her to stay—to show up, like she always had.

She pulled me into a hug, and I let myself fall into it, the warmth of her body pressing against mine, grounding me.

In that moment, I could feel the weight of everything that had been said and unsaid—everything that had hurt and healed—begin to settle in a place where I could finally let go.

I breathed her in, the familiar scent of her hair, her skin, mingling with the cool air around us. The sun, now higher in the sky, warmed my face as I closed my eyes.

The world outside continued, but in this moment, everything felt still, everything felt possible again. The past was never going to be perfect, but we could make the future ours, one step at a time.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was finally ready to move forward, with her by my side.

Paige smiled knowingly. “You’re already incredible, Y/N. And I can’t wait to see the player—the person—you’re becoming.”

My heart fluttered, an unexpected rush of emotion tightening in my throat. I looked away for a moment, trying to play it cool, but Paige caught my chin gently between her fingers, guiding my gaze back to hers.

“And just so we’re clear,” she added, her voice a little softer now, “no matter how good you get, I’m still totally claiming credit for hyping you up first.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t fight the grin spreading across my face. “Obviously.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[stnkiconverse]

Hii :3 could I have sum of the creep boys (Ej, Toby, Jeff, Masky and Hoodie) with a reader who likes marking (bites/cuts/hickeys) their thighs? Pls and thank u 💛

This has been collecting dust in my drafts for months, im so sorry bby, i just needed to have my masky and hoodie headcanons in place before posting this😭😭

Also- Ik you said thighs, but i did mention some other places, i hope you don’t mind :3

E Y E L E S S J A C K

Jack is surprisingly unbothered by your habit. He views it with a mix of curiosity and amusement, often analyzing your techniques silently. (like this = 🤨)

"Hmm. Is this an attempt at branding? Or is this just for fun?" His DRY ASS humor makes it hard to tell if he's teasing or genuinely questioning.

He’s not fond of pain but does not shy from it either. The marks don't bother him, they heal faster than you think anyway.

If you center the attack on his thighs, he'll arch a brow and say something quick and sarcastic, like, "I'm honored you've chosen me as your personal canvas."

Jack has super sharp senses, so he's super aware of your touch. If you bite or leave cuts near sensitive spots, hips, or neck, for example, he might tense for a moment but never stop you.

His favorite places for you to mark? His shoulders or his ribs. He finds the sensation grounding in a strange way, though he'll never admit it. (he moaned once)

If you tease him about it, he'll deadpan: "Just don't expect me to reciprocate. My claws aren't…delicate." (😏)

T I C C I T O B Y

Toby is a little awkward about it at first, not used to someone being so physically affectionate in such an intense way. But once he gets used to it? He's all in. (fucking weirdo 😒 / lovingly)

He doesn't actually feel pain like others do, (obv) so he lets you go wild without flinching. "You're gonna have to try harder than that to leave a mark on me," he'd tease, looking down later to grin at the faint bruises or bites.

If you target his thighs, he might giggle a bit, kicking his leg. "That tickles, stop- stop!"

Neck and collarbone marks fluster him the most. He'll try to hide them with his hoodie but secretly love that they're there.

Sometimes, he'll encourage you in his chaotic way: "Oh, you missed a spot. Try here!" and point to random places like his back or ribs, sometimes even shoving his wrists in your face 😭😭

If you ever leave too many marks, he'll grin like a maniac and joke: "Guess I'm your chew toy now, huh?"

J E F F T H E K I L L E R

Jeff would be cocky about it, but secretly flustered. He'd smirk and say something snarky like, "Didn't know you were that desperate to get your hands on me," but the redness creeping up his neck gives him away.

He doesn't mind pain and might even enjoy it a little. If you bite too hard, he'll laugh and go, "Is that all you've got? You're gonna have to try harder."

Loves when you leave marks on his neck, it makes him feel a twisted sense of pride. He'll strut around the manor like a smug idiot, showing them off.

His thighs are a sensitive spot, though he won't admit it. If you target them, he'll squirm slightly and mutter, "Don't get any ideas..." but he won't stop you. (bcs he likes it 😏)

If you leave cuts or scratches, he'll trace them with his fingers absentmindedly, secretly loving the way they look.

"You're turning me into your personal art project, huh? Not that I'm complaining."

T I M / M A S K Y

Masky (Tim)

Tim is not immediately comfortable it, especially if it's in a more vulnerable spot like his neck or inner thighs. He'll tense up and grumble, "What are you doing?" but he won't push you away :3

Over time, he warms up to it, especially when he realizes it's your way of showing affection. He won't admit it, but he finds it oddly reassuring :p

Marks on his shoulders or upper back are his favorite. He won't say anything, but you might catch him subtly glancing at them in the mirror (😏)

If you bite too hard, he'll sigh and mutter, "You know I have to cover that up, right?" while pulling on another layer of clothing (i love him guys)

Surprisingly, he doesn't mind if you mark his thighs when he's sitting or lounging. He might roll his eyes but secretly enjoys the attention.

"You're a little too into this, you know that?" he'd say with the tiniest smirk, though the faint blush on his face betrays him.

B R I A N / H O O D I E

Hoodie (Brian)

Brian is surprisingly chill about your habit and takes it in stride :D

He'll joke, "Do I look like a notebook to you? Or is this some modern art thing?"

He's not huge on pain, so if you bite too hard or draw blood, he might flinch and gently push you away. "Careful, I'm not indestructible."

Loves when you leave hickeys or gentle bites on his shoulders or chest. He finds them oddly comforting and will trace them when he's alone, smiling softly.

If you go for his thighs, he'll laugh and tease you: "That's bold. Didn't take you for a thigh person."

Occasionally, he'll play along and say something like, "You missed a spot," pointing to random areas just to see you flustered.

Brian enjoys the possessive nature of your markings but is too reserved to admit it outright.

Instead, he'll say something teasing like, "Guess I'm yours now, huh?"

I hope this was good enough!! :D

sorry to keep you waiting so long 😭

[peachpitfics]

Cruel Summer

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary: Following your romp with Benedict Bridgerton in his art studio, he asked your brother for your hand! Now you're on your honeymoon, and you're getting a little bored, posing for him. A lady must find ways to amuse herself!

Length: 2.1k

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Content Warnings: Oral sex (male receiving), Penetrative vaginal sex, unprotected sex, light bondage, food play.

a/n: This is an anonymous request for a continuation of 'Guilty as Sin'.

Bridgerton master list (tag list)

Benedict Bridgerton escorting you to view his artwork, at his private studio, was just the beginning of your story. After sneaking around behind your family’s backs for a small while, Benedict gathered enough courage to ask your eldest brother’s permission for your hand. This seemed strange to the y/l/n family, not one of them had ever seen the two of you together, which showed how much attention was paid to the middle child. Benedict made sure to ask you in the Bridgerton drawing room, just before family tea, for everyone to see. He made such a big to-do, confessing his love to you, before every member of the Bridgerton family in attendance. It felt particularly safe there, amongst people who took interest in who you were as a person.

It was bittersweet to have siblings who offered their time, their attentions, and their hobbies freely. You learned so many new things from each of them, from pall-mall, to sewing, even horse riding.  In six months, you were married and moved into the Bridgerton house for the meantime, until after your honeymoon. You would never outright tell Benedict you did not want to move out, but he felt it, he knew.

“My love” Benedict whispered, shaking your shoulders gently. Honeymooning in Paris was something the two of you had instantly agreed upon. So far, two weeks of sleeping late, making love, and eating copious amounts of divine food was your only concern. Of course, there were a lot of other lovely things Benedict had planned for your honeymoon – river boat rides and romantic dinners, every moment between locations filled with fine bread, wine, and cheese.

“Yes, my love?” You grumbled, rolling away from him, clearly having not had enough sleep.

“You must wake up, it is midafternoon!” Benedict exclaimed with a chesty laugh, rolling you back into him and tickling your sides. You howled with laughter, pushing him away playfully, leaning up to distract him as only you knew how. His lips were warm and wet against your own, seductive, and luscious.

“You must come downstairs! The housekeeper has left us a feast and I wish to paint my gorgeous wife” Benedict slid his hands around your naked body, lifting you out of bed as you groaned.

“Again?!” “My darling, I’ll be painting you until death takes me” Benedict chuffed, sliding sideways between doorways and down the stairs to the sitting room.

“What if death takes me first?” You smirked back, figuring you had him cornered here.

“I have made God promise I am to go first. And even so, I’ll have every detail committed to memory and these paintings and sketches of you now to keep me company” Benedict squeezed you in his arms, he didn’t like to joke about parting ways, in any sense. It was his truest nightmare, his deepest fear.

Benedict set you down in the sitting room and gestured to what he and the house keeping staff had readied. Paint, canvas, a staging area - littered around the room were bowls of fresh fruit, bottles of wine, candles surrounded by plates of cheese, oil, and bread. You relaxed back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, cupping your breasts sweetly. You giggle a little, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. He nodded to your position for the rest of the day, a chair with the back faced to a very high window, casting a streak of sunlight down upon the spot.

There you sat, for hardly an hour before your mind began to wander, circling Benedict in your mind like a shark in open water. You had learned to become comfortable being nude for long periods of time these days, however Benedict had learned nothing of your persuasion or power when your attentions were dashed. Your movements started slowly, daintily taking your hands to your knees, and spreading your legs wide upon the chair. Resting a little, relaxing your back and cupping your own breasts. Your fingers gently grazing your nipples. But nothing, no attention from your husband. He sat close to his canvas, squinting into the detail of his work, his realm of perception clearly inhibited. With a huff and a light moan, you continued to palm at your own breasts, fingers trapping your nipples in a pulling motion- you decided to pretend Benedict wasn’t here. Suddenly, taking notice, you watched as his brush left the canvas, his mouth hung open a little and he removed his glasses, almost tossing them to the floor.

“What are you doing, darling?” He mumbled, swallowing hard. Your hands ran down your mid-section, over your belly and down your thighs sensually, soft mewls slipped from between your lips. Benedict loved the sounds you made.

“I’m just amusing myself, continue on with your painting my dear” Your replying comment was nonchalant in the best way. Benedict almost looked offended that you would suggest he could go back to painting.

“How do you suppose I paint, while my wife ravages her own body before me?” He blinked at the audacity of you.

“Well, dear one, this is what you have chosen for this afternoon’s activities… Now, you must endure” You smiled, sliding your hand between your legs, dipping your finger in the wet warmth there. Benedict shuddered, wishing any part of him were exchanged with your finger.

If there was anything you had learned about Benedict in the last six or seven months, it was that his desire for you was consistent and all encompassing. Benedict watched on as your fingers circled your clitoris, you moaned and exhaled gently - his paint brush never did return to the canvas. Beads of sweat formed on his brow line, the hot, French summer finally taking its toll in the late afternoon. You reached to the small stool next to you, extracting the tiniest jar of honey. You looked into Benedict’s eyes, holding the jar above your body, dangling your head back and pouring a steady stream of honey over your chest. The sun glistened, reflecting little pools of light off your sticky, sweet skin.

Taking your finger, you swept up your belly from your navel, placing your finger on your tongue in clear view of him, and that was his very last straw. Benedict threw his paintbrush to the ground, thrusting himself up and out of his chair, to march across the room to you.

“What do you think you are doing, wife?” Benedict’s voice rasped, his eyes were so dark, the colour had all but gone.

“Playing, my love” You replied cheekily, sucking another nip of honey off your finger. He all but growled watching your finger slip between your lips, his breath quickening in sheer lust for you.

“Are you punishing me for getting you out of bed?” Benedict’s face was so close now, his nose tip to tip with yours. There was such tension in his jaw, his teeth clenched hard in his fierce need of you. You fluttered your lashes back at him, refusing to answer with your words.

“Do you have even a semblance of an understanding of what you are doing to me? This is unbelievably cruel,” He breathed heavily down on you, desperation flooding his body and adrenaline surging behind, “You can’t begin to imagine the things I want to do to you right now” His stubble gliding across your ear and cheek, making you shudder.

“Show me then,” You challenged, “You are my husband after all”.

Benedict’s hands slowly moved to his shirt, shedding it, and throwing it somewhere behind him. He acted with a sureness and a strength you hadn’t yet experienced, but it was drawing you in. Undoing his pants, Benedict took his hard member into his hands, stroking himself against your chest, lathering it in honey. His other hand wove into your hair, tangling the perfect hold, bringing you forward.

“Oh. Goodness. Seems I’ve made quite a mess of myself… Wife, help me clean it up” He smiled smugly down at you.

 Something feral, untamed, was unleashed inside you, your eyes darkening, “Certainly, my lord”. As your tongue reached out to meet his tip, his head lulled back in pleasure, his hand still wrapped around the base of him. Your lips parted slowly, encasing his first inch, and swirling your tongue around to suck the honey from him. Benedict exhaled headily, his breaths deep, but quick with the slightest grunt mixed in. The way he sounded, even now, made you wetter and wetter.

There was something maliciously keen in Benedict’s eyes as he watched from on high, your pretty mouth sucking all the honey off him and then some. His body gently rocked forward, his hand heaving your head forward, onto him in a more perverse manner. His head hung back in greedy caution, grasping to the very last straws of his gentlemanly nature as you sunk to the base of him, your tongue wriggling slyly underneath.

His fingers grew taut in your hair, reefing you backwards. His laugh was low, both impressed and challenged by your ministrations. In the next moment, Benedict had hauled you up and over his shoulder, he was charging up the stairs, mad with temerity.

Entering the bedroom, he threw you down on the bed, scrambling for any piece of material in reach, he began ripping. Four pieces of silk fabrics in his hands, he loomed over you in profound ownership. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, Benedict taking each wrist and ankle, tying them to each to their respective corner post of the bed.

“There” He stood, hands on his hips, proud of his work, “There’ll be no more of that”. Clearly touching yourself had had a dire effect on Benedict’s work ethic.

Kneeling between your thighs, his naked body unjustly out of reach, Benedict’s supercilious smile sick with goofy dominance. He thumbs over your folds, his finger descending, extorting whines of pleasure you never knew existed within you. Broad strokes of the most painful, unapologetically evil gratification. Benedict’s tongue flicked over his lips hungrily.

“I need you” The words escaped you violently, the thrill of his touch, his charming smile becoming all too much for you. He ignored you and continued another moment or two, reducing you to a begging mess beneath him.

“Shall I oblige you, my marvellous bride?” His grin was jubilant and all knowing, his hands came down on your wrists, pressing them into the bed. Benedict’s brutal, familiar kiss sown into your lips permanently, as he pushed inside of you with surprise.

“Y/n” He groaned, growled with unrepentant lust. Your eyes cast wide, the length of him stretching you mercilessly while he thrust in and out. His villainous face claiming your entire consciousness as he used your body to his pleasure, decadent facial expressions, and damnable sounds he was delivering straight to your right ear.

“You feel unimaginably perfect” Benedict groaned, your moans joining in alongside his.

Hands grasping for silk to hold onto, you longed for your own release, grinding your hips back against Benedict’s. His movements became more ferocious, keeping up with the sounds you were making. Frenetic energy began to move through your body, your ravenous thirst for him finally quenched. Every muscle in your body engaged in vivid contortion, Benedict pressing into you as deeply as he possibly could before his own body found its own powerful release.

Covered in sweat and honey, you laid tangled together for a moment before Benedict recalled your wrists and ankles were tied. He chuckled with giddiness, sitting up to admire his knots.

“You look fantastic like this, perhaps we should do this more often” He suggested sweetly. His thumb caressed the side of your face, your panting, tired body unable to give a response. Benedict littered your face and neck with loving pecks.

“We could be one person and I still would never be close enough to you. No amount of time with you will ever satisfy me. You are the centre of my world” Benedict whispered gently. Every day you were reminded of the intoxicants his poetic mind dabbled into every sweet thing he said to you.

In another instant, Benedict had sprung from the bed, running downstairs. You laughed, thinking he must be returning with some of the food the housekeeper had left strewn about his romantically planned afternoon. Instead, Benedict returned with a new canvas and his implements. Your mouth fell open all on its own, blinking furiously in his direction as he set himself up off the side of the bed.

“If you could just stay there, like that, that’d be great!” Benedict’s grin, excruciatingly exquisite, and concocting. He held himself with such pride in his agendum, cockiness seemed to fill the room in a potent manner.

“BENEDICT!?” You squealed, tugging frantically on his bindings, your laughter filled with rich resolve.

--------------------

tagging: @cringycat24 // @blckbarbiedoll // @freyagallileaevans // @junkie05 // @rosabeetroot // @flamewriterr //

If you'd like to be added to this tag list, please let me know!

[earthtooz]

earth do you have any spare alhaitham thoughts 🥺 thinking ab him a little extra hard tonight 😵

nothing but fluff, reader and al-haitham are engaged, so much banter.

"What do you think about inviting Nahida to our wedding?"

Al-Haitham looks at you incredulously, blinking slowly to register your question. You know a lengthy discussion is imminent when he uncrosses his leg, a habit of his whenever he needs to prepare for a conversation that requires most of his attention.

"You don't mean Lesser Lord Kusanali, do you?" He asks and you nod, as if it is typical to invite a god to one's wedding. "Dear, do you understand what you are asking right now?"

"I do," you sit down beside him, Zaytun peach in one hand and a small knife in the other, cutting up slices that you feed him.

"Then do you realise how ludicrous your question is?"

"I think you are overcomplicating it."

His book snaps shut. "Am I? Or is it appropriate because you just suggested inviting an archon to our very ordinary wedding?"

"You still think you're ordinary after overthrowing a corrupt government and being promoted by said archon?"

"You're crazy," Al-Haitham murmurs, shaking his head with an affectionate smile, one that he always likes to conceal by pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You poke his side gently. "Then we are cut from the same cloth."

"That does not diminish your madness."

Still, you persist. "Well, you haven't said anything in response to my suggestion."

"I called you crazy."

"You haven't said anything I want to hear."

Once again, he sighs, but the noise is too airy to hold any true malice. "Even if I reject your idea, you would personally go to the Sanctuary of Surasthana and deliver the invite yourself."

Instead of answering, you merely feed him another slice of the Zaytun peach, smile growing more and more mischievous.

There is a reason Al-Haitham wants to spend the rest of his life with you. The bouts of delightful juvenility paints endless blotches of colour on his plain canvas, carving a certain feeling of warmth and admiration in his chest that no one else has managed to recreate.

No one compares to you, and he's certain no one ever will because even after all these years of knowing and loving you, every moment he spends with you is as priceless as divine knowledge. Even when you ask ridiculous questions that perplex him greatly.

"How do you even deliver messages to the Sanctuary of Surasthana?" You wonder.

A kiss to your temple halts your thinking. "Let's find out another time. How did this idea of inviting Nahida spring about?"

You shrug. "I was merely thinking back. She's always been so thoughtful and kind to her subjects, even when the Akademiya hid her from us. Then the idea of inviting her made itself quite at home."

"I see," he hums. "Ever so thoughtful."

"Maybe it's a good omen for our partnership to invite an archon. She won't have to bring a present, her presence alone is enough."

Al-Haitham huffs. "My faith in our relationship exceeds that of a good omen, but I agree."

"Aww, you love me that much?"

"Do you still doubt me?"

"Still?" You parrot. "Darling, I've never doubted you."

"I'd like to contest that. Remember when you were vehemently against me resigning as the Acting Grand Sage?"

You feed him another slice. "It gave me bragging rights! Who else could claim that their hot boyfriend-now-fiancé was the Grand Sage?"

"So you prefer when I'm away at the Akademiya working tirelessly from dawn to dusk?"

"Well, no," you set the knife and pit of the peach down before throwing your arms around his neck, pressing yourself close to him. "I prefer having you all to myself."

Al-Haitham huffs triumphantly and you stay pressed close to him for a while, watching as he returns to his novel. He flips back to his exact page despite the lack of a bookmark.

"I'll be sure to send the invite to Nahida tomorrow."

"Alright."

Two days later, you wake to a message written in beautifully precise handwriting on Al-Haitham's blackboard.

'Can Wanderer be invited too? - Nahida'

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[hees-mine]

More Loser virgin heeseung thoughts

NSFW MDNI hard thought/Drabble

Loser virgin hee: who nearly loses his fucking mind cause he must be dreaming someone must be playing tricks on him. There’s no way that you’re actually taking video requests from your viewers, but no matter how many times he refreshes your page, the options still lingers, a blue button waiting to be clicked on with the price tag reading an amount he doesn’t even pay attention to before he clicks pay.

Loser virgin hee: who sends back to back requests for you to do a blowjob pov, and missionary pov with a bigger dildo so he can really get immersed and imagine it’s him and of course, a doggystyle pov. He loves seeing your pretty little hole getting stuffed from behind.

Loser virgin hee: who, when he receives said requested content, will thank you over and over again even though he knows you’ll never see it, but still he’s grateful for these works of art, a perfect canvas for him to paint in his pearly white.

Loser virgin hee: will cherish the fuck out of those videos, religiously busting a nut to each one every single day. He thinks the amount he’s cum in the last week is probably not healthy, but he can’t stop as he watches you fuck yourself with a new dildo, one much closer to his size.

Loser virgin hee: who can’t stop requesting videos of you, and he doesn’t know what’s dryer, his balls, or his bank account, but that doesn’t matter when he gets a notification that you’re live. He tuned in immediately, ready for a night of endless pleasure. He’s cum so many times in just a few minutes that the overstimulation makes him feel like crying, but he just can’t stop himself when it comes to you.

Loser virgin hee: who at three am is so sleepy but so horny that he pulls back his blankets and his sweats along with boxers to snap a dick pick and send it to you with the caption. “I’m so hard for you, wish I could feel your sweet wet pussy gushing and squeezing around my thick cock, bet it’d feel so much better than that stupid dildo” In his tired brain, he hits the send button, not thinking much of it until he sees a response like a real response, not the automated ones he’s used to. “Hmm, I bet it would 👅💦”

Loser virgin hee: who shoots up from his laying position. Suddenly, he’s not tired anymore, and his shaky hands send a text back. “I’d do you so good, beautiful. You’re so perfect. You deserve everything.” he feels his heart race, waiting for your response. He’s ridiculously nervous yet horny at the same time, which is a first for him, and he slowly tugs on his thick length till it’s fully erected, a bead of precum decorating his tip.

Loser virgin hee: that almost busts his load just from seeing your three dots typing. Your response makes his eyes roll in his head at just the thought. “What would you do to me?” “Take my time with you. Kiss every inch of your perfect body, prep your sweet little hole with my fingers make you cum on my face and my tongue before giving you my cock. I’d feed it in real slowly just to watch your pretty face while my thick cock fills you up, stroke every inch of your walls so deep till your begging for more, till you clamp and squeeze around me till you cum from how good I fuck you.”

Loser virgin hee: who would probably lose it if he knew you were rubbing your thighs together as you read his text. You didn’t usually text with your clients, but since he was your highest paying one, you made an exception. You’re not disappointed, especially when he sends you a video moaning your name as he strokes his cock. It’s thick, long, and veiny, and the drop of precum he spreads on his shaft makes your mouth water. When he cums, shaking while whimpering your name, you feel like you should be the one paying for personal videos of him cause seeing his cum dripping down his throbbing shaft was definitely a sight to see.

Loser virgin hee: who feels as if time has stopped when you tell him. “That was so hot you deserve a reward. How about we video call?” The speed to which he replies is lightning fast, and the next thing you know, he’s setting up a time to call you. This is by far the best night of his life, and he sleeps soundly, but this time, it’s not from the back-to-back orgasms.

Link to Patreon!

[ankol-heap]

» in a room full of art, he'd rather look at you; itoshi rin x gn!reader

synopsis; itoshi rin is failing his art class. in order to graduate his senior year of high school, he needs to pass the class with at least a b grade. you're assigned to tutor the hot-headed soccer athlete—kind and eccentric, you throw rin's entire world off axis.

a/n; my first post on here! this is set after sae abandons rin, but he still goes to school. enter stage left, front and center—asshole, but very much in need of some love, itoshi rin!

word count: 5.0 k words | now playing every breath you take, by the police

itoshi rin didn't have any friends. it's a fact all his teachers know by now. he's a stoic student, one that doesn't participate in group projects and eats his lunch alone in the library. normally, this type of behavior exhibited by students should have been noticed by his teachers and counselors. but rin was seemingly well behaved, and he had straight a's in most of his classes—so nobody took notice of him. he felt like a ghost, drifting through the walls of his high school without a single person by his side. it was his first day of senior year, and itoshi rin had no expectations for this year.

the phantom ache in his chest is harder to ignore nowadays. he doesn't realize he's been spacing out again until the bell rings, signaling the start of the next class period. rin is snapped violently out of his daze. he glances at the blank canvas in front of him before realizing he's spent the past fifty five minutes doing absolutely nothing. the students around him file out of the room—chatting and laughing as he stands there, a bit dumbfounded with how this class seemed to suck the life out of him.

when itoshi rin was little, he loved drawing. his imagination would run wild, and sometimes—he couldn't always act out the magnificent battles he wanted his toys to perform. dragons and princes and volcanos—his medium of choice used to be these scratchy crayons his brother, sae, would get for rin from the corner store. rin remembers how his parents had to force him to put his crayons down just to make him eat dinner. and now, he can't even manage to put a single mark on a canvas.

during his teacher's instructions at the beginning of class, he was, quite vaguely told at that, to use whatever colors and styles he wanted to on a 12 by 12 canvas to reflect his soul. bitterly, rin thinks his canvas reflects him perfectly. he'll turn this in tomorrow, he decides. a blank canvas—no feelings, no purpose, nothing. just like him.

he'll take the shitty grade and move on with his life. rin wonders if there's even a language that exists to put his feelings into something other people can comprehend. he doesn't think there is. if he wants anyone to understand how he feels, they'll have to tear his ribs out one by one to reach the barely alive beat lying inside.

itoshi rin is seventeen years old when he falls in love.

"do you need some help cleaning up?"

rin glances away from his blank canvas, looking up to meet whomever it is speaking. the class is empty now. his art teacher is busying herself in the back of the classroom, unboxing a new pack of paintbrushes when rin swallows the lump in his throat.

"i'm fine,"

your smile is hesitant. understanding, almost, as you look at rin's canvas and the tubes of unopened acrylic paint surrounding him. the window panes hanging high towards the ceiling welcome in the rising sun outside, and rin can see the light shimmering in your eyes—glittering shards of gold gleam like morning stars in your irises as you wordlessly pick up the neglected paint and brushes on his desk—carrying them over to the back of the classroom and putting them away as rin watches silently.

slowly, he picks up his own canvas—and he stares at his classmates' drying ones with an almost envious kind of sadness as he places his untouched canvas beside theirs. where they had explosions of colors, reds and yellows and greens and blues blending and combining into the most wonderful art—rin didn't. he had nothing.

rin turns around to where he'd seen you last in the back of the classroom, before clearing his throat. he doesn't lift his gaze from the tiled floor beneath him, pressing his hand flat against the surface of a nearby table to steady himself before speaking up

"thanks..." he begins, but his voice trails off when he realizes you've already left.

—

rin was sitting in english class when he heard your voice again. to be completely honest, he had no idea you were in this class. rin didn't talk to anyone in all of his classes, so hearing the sound of your voice was a surprise. and where he sat in the back of the classroom, you sat towards the front. you're asking the teacher a question on last night's homework, and rin takes his chance to watch you freely.

you have a tote bag slung over your shoulder. there's a landscape painted on it, with little pins placed all over. you have your hair down today compared to the updo you wore yesterday. it's only when you turn towards your seat that rin finally makes eye contact with you.

time slows, and the conversation around rin drowns out as if he's ducked his head underwater. his brain is nothing but white static for that one second you look into his eyes.

actually, you didn't even hold his gaze for a full second, it was more like a fraction of one—but rin's heart rate didn't calm until the bell rang, and he was the first student out the door. he left class that day with clammy palms and pink-tinted cheeks.

rin didn't have art class today, but he was called down regardless during study hall. his art teacher was an old woman with a wrinkly smile who always wore colorful cardigans. rin enters the room, moving through the empty desks and chairs before he stops in front of her with a quiet greeting.

"rin! it's so nice of you to come so quickly, students aren't usually so courteous! please have a seat," she says warmly, and rin eyes the blank canvas—his blank canvas—laying beside her on the desk.

rin takes a seat, fading in and out of the conversation as she talks. he already knew what to expect, and of course, he was right. akamatsu sensei had the type of voice rin imagines story tellers have, or lullaby singers do. she tells him that she's having trouble seeing signs of progress in his art and wanted him to be doing better. but her last sentence is what catches rin off gaurd. this he did not predict.

"a tutor?"

akamatsu sensei nods her head slowly, folding her hands in her lap at rin's apprehensive expression. she watches his delicate brows pinch together in discomfort, soft lips pulled into a small frown filled with silent frustration. rin didn't understand why he had to get another person to tutor him—he thought art was subjective.

"i promise you, rin, i have just the perfect person in mind. they're my best student—i think if anyone can get your imagination flowing again, it's them."

—

akamatsu sensei introduces you and rin to each other the following morning—and rin's learns that your name is y/n. he repeats it in his head a few times, committing it to memory before you speak his name in the sweetest voice he'll ever have the pleasure of hearing.

"rin-san, i think we're going to get along well! we can sit together in class and work on assignments with each other, but we'll also have to meet after school. what days are you free?" you question, and rin's heart positively plummets to his feet when you grab his hand and lead him towards his seat—you occupy the usually empty chair beside him, and he follows your lead.

"that's fine. i'm free every friday, every other day of the week i have football practice."

rin's hands clutch his knees under his desk when you pull your hand out of his, a fruitless attempt to try and calm himself after you so casually held his hand. your fingers curved around his perfectly—and while the gesture might not have meant anything to you, it meant so much to rin. he doesn't hold hands, he can't even hold a conversation—but you're bubbly and bright in a way that has him submitting in one second flat.

"football? that sounds like fun! i'm sorry, i'm not very well versed with sports. do you like it?" you ask, organizing the paints in front of you as rin nods wordlessly, staring at the gentle manner in which you treat the art materials. you smile at his confirmation, grabbing a tube of a radiant midnight blue and placing a dollop of it on rin's blank canvas with a grin

"when we're in doubt, it's like our minds subconsciously pull away. they shut down and sorta refuse to do anything, right? i want to push you out of your comfort zone and give you a blue canvas to work with rather than a white one. we'll see what you do with that, okay?"

rin nods, fingers moving to take the paintbrush you hand him before he turns to the awaiting paint in front of him. his brushstrokes are slow and a little messy, but five minutes later—the canvas is entirely blue.

"what do you see?" you question softly as rin stares at his canvas. he stays silent for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, and then—

"i don't see anything."

rin's inner turmoil is a storm. was he supposed to be seeing something? all he sees is blue. there's nothing coming to his mind, no connection being made—his bites the inside of his cheek, angry at himself and his clear lack of creativity.

"that's okay. let's think together, okay? what do you think of when you think of the color blue? it can be the simplest thing of all, rin-san. anything at all," you assure, gently scooting your chair closer to his as he nods, clenching his jaw as he thinks. blue. blue. blue. what the hell is blue?

"the sky."

you're silent a for a few moments before he hears it. it's soft and muffled with the back of your hand, but you're laughing at him. his cheeks burn in an instant, and his lips transform into a scowl immediately

"whatever, i know it's stupid—"

"no, no! i was thinking the same thing, that's why i laughed! now, the sky is a painting all in its own! think about it—it's orange and pink during sunrise, like a fruity drink on the beach. it can be a misty, pale haze during snow storms. but, i want you to think of a time you saw the sky like this—an inky void, like a dark blue veil's been put over the world. can you do that?"

rin doesn't respond. he stares at the sea of blue in front of him—blue blue blue.

"...sometimes, football practice gets cut short on rainy days. the sky sorta looks like this blue on those days. dark. blurry—but it's still...i can see some stars. and the moon peaking out from behind the clouds, too. i guess this kind of looks like that."

rin's brows furrow together in concentration as he stares at the canvas after speaking. he turns away from it and towards you after another moment—and he's met with your gentle lips parted in awe. he blinks rapidly a few times to confirm the sight of your awe struck face in front of him is real, not something his imagination made up, before you break into a breathtaking smile.

"well then, let's get some black to add some darker shading to the sky! and some white—for the stars and moon...come on!"

—

itoshi rin is attentive. it's something you would come to learn soon enough. you're an avid artist—truly, it was your passion. rin can watch you scribble away in your sketchbook from where he sits in the back. english class is droning on, and for once, he's not paying attention.

you tilt your head over your notebook, staring at your drawing before you erase something and redraw it. rin watches the way your hair shifts and moves around you as you look at your sketchbook from different angles—perfecting your art. his lips twitch at the sight of your pout when the tip of your pencil breaks. you're restless, quickly sharpening it and continuing your drawing when the teacher's voice breaks him out of his daze.

"all right class, partner up! i'll let you chose your partners this time. please don't make me regret it," she sighs, and the excited chatter of the students quickly fills the once silent room.

rin straightens in his seat. he had absolutely no idea what the assignment was since he wasn't paying attention—but, right now, he didn't care. his eyes stayed glued on you, waiting to see who you would partner up with. rin has to crane his neck a bit as his classmates moved around and shifted seats—effectively blocking his view. once everyone settled down with their partners, rin was able to see you again.

and you're sitting by yourself.

rin doesn't know what urged him to walk towards you. he can hear his heart pounding—tugging him closer and closer towards where you sat. he swallows the lump in his throat, standing behind you silently before he taps your shoulder

you turn around, obviously not expecting him—because your eyes widen a bit when you see rin. and rin just...stares. he doesn't say anything, and it's like the two of you were sucked into a bubble, separating you from everyone else—you both stare at each other, blinking blankly and staying absolutely silent

"do you want to—"

"are you—"

rin wants to crawl into a hole and die. he shakes his head, pressing his lips into a firm line before speaking again. the flush of embarrassment in your cheeks was making him feel flustered.

"sorry. i was asking if you wanted to be partners with me," he speaks. rin places an awkward palm on the nape of his neck, silently questioning where he got the sudden boost of confidence to approach you from, because it had suddenly, and very inconveniently, vanished into thin air—leaving him defenseless. you smile warmly at him, quickly moving over and beckoning to the open seat beside yours.

"yes! i'd love to be partners," you say, quickly closing your sketchbook and putting it away as he nods gratefully, taking the seat beside you.

"thank you," rin says. and then, it's quiet again. the tension is as thick as butter, and you look around awkwardly before laughing, nervously.

"so...do you know what we're supposed to be doing, rin-san?"

this was the first time you saw rin smile. and laugh. well, not laugh, per say. but he snorts, and it's almost as if he was surprised by his own reaction as he shakes his head with a soft grin.

"not a clue."

the rest of class consisted of the two of you leaning towards each other with bowed heads, you soft giggles and rin's low voice filling the void between you two.

—

itoshi rin has a friend.

this is what friends are, he decides. people who smile at you when they see you, people who help you with your homework and expect nothing in return. slowly, but surely, fall turned into winter, and winter turned into spring. friendship is a blossoming thing, he thinks. because it felt like every day that passed, you and rin became closer. like a knot tightening further and further—he was growing closer and closer to you.

your guidance is what rin needs. direction and kindness—you helped rin navigate his own mind through art, a language he could use to spill his heart's deepest desires. every stroke of his brush came straight from the core of his soul.

charcoal was your current medium of choice this friday afternoon. every harsh fingertip pressed into rin's paper and ever gentle brush of his knuckles against the page has its own meaning—its own purpose. his tongue is poked out in concentration, and you watch rin work quietly as the quiet sound of akamatsu sensei's record player filled the silence. rin thinks of the way your delicate fingers transverse and move when you make art, and he mimics your movements—your gentle voice reassuring him.

"beautiful," you breathe breathlessly, tentative hands carefully taking the paper rin hands you as you stare at the art piece he'd just created. a battle field—it's set up like a football field, but instead of players, there were towering presences instead. swords and shields, a storm in the background, long blades of grass and a constellation of stars—rin's spark and love for art had been rekindled.

"thank you, y/n. i...i couldn't have done any of this without you. you're the only reason i'm not failing right now," he says softly, his voice almost sheepish as your eyes flit towards his—welling with pride.

"i wish i could frame this! it's beautiful...akamatsu sensei is going to be so proud of you, rin-san! this talent has always been with you. i just got the wheels rolling. you're very talented, i hope you understand." you smile softly, your eyes crinkling with the motion as rin's heart rate spikes at the sight

"rin," he whispers, and you blink in confusion before he clarifies himself

"call me just rin, please."

"oh! okay, rin," you smile, the familiar flush returning to your cheeks as rin smiles softly. if he moves even an inch closer to you, his knee will bump against yours under the table. rin is suddenly hyper aware of the space between you two. the music playing in the back ground fades to nothing, just like the world did, when rin stares at you. your eyes soften, and rin's positive his heart is going to burst right out of his chest and into your lap.

friends don't want to kiss their friends. the realization is chilling, and rin's eyes dart towards your lips for a split second—he couldn't stop himself, and the sight makes his breath hitch. soft, pink, plump—he wants to kiss you. rin really wants to kiss you.

the screeching sound of his chair against the floor shatters the serene moment of peace. you blink rapidly from the loud interruption as rin wordlessly picks his bag off the floor, slinging it over his shoulder in a single, fluid motion before exiting the classroom. you're left stunned and alone, your smile falling as he leaves without saying goodbye,

alone again.

—

rin is not familiar with love, you have to understand this.

in his eyes—love was a transaction. a give or take scenario, and if you can't give something useful—you get your heart trampled on. a certain brother taught rin that. he leaves school that day sullen and empty, his heart physically hurting in his chest as he walked home.

rin started ignoring you after that day. he didn't show up to your after school tutoring sessions on friday, he stopped turning towards you when your english teacher told the class to partner up—and your seat in art class beside him was now occupied by his backpack, a clear message telling you he didn't want you sitting near him.

you have to understand—rin didn't have anything to give. he'd taken your kindness, your love, your guidance—but what did he have to offer? he's not very gentle, and as graceful as his movements may be, he can't always control the bite in his tongue. and he's sensitive. his humor borderlines between dry and downright crude. and he's not used to having a friend, forget a lover—so, itoshi rin will ignore you. he will love you from afar, but he won't so much as glance in your direction anymore. because he cares too much, and rin thinks you deserve better. he doesn't thrive like you do, he destroys. and he's certainly not your mess to clean up.

"y/n,"

you glance away from rin's retreating figure. once again, he didn't bother to look at you all day or say goodbye—he simply left class. akamatsu sensei's voice pulls you away from rin as you quickly approach her desk, bowing your head in greeting.

"sensei," you greet with a weary smile as her gaze softens. she hands you a slip of paper, her voice gentle as she speaks

"rin has been leaving class far too quickly for me to catch up with! would you be a dear and give this to him for me, please? it's a permission slip he must sign for our upcoming field trip,"

the words otsuka museum of art were printed neatly at the top. you'd been looking forward to this trip for months—you vaguely remember mentioning your excitement for it to rin at some point when he still spoke to you.

the otsuka museum of art scaled five floors, three underground and two above—of the richest art history ever. there were reportedly over a thousand paintings—masterpieces ranging from ancient times to the present day from all over the world. it was your dream to have your own art in a museum like the otsuka museum one day.

"okay! that's not a problem at all for, akamatsu sensei," you reply softly, bidding her goodbye as she waves enthusiastically to you. you manage a meek wave, offering a small smile as you exit the classroom.

this was your chance to talk to rin. determined to find him before he left school for the day, you move swiftly through the crowded hallways—keeping a firm grip on your tote bag and the slip of paper between your fingertips as you push open the front doors of the school

and there he is. his strides are slow and long as he walks on the sidewalk about a dozen meters away from you. your feet hit the pavement as you quickly make your way towards him. he doesn't look up from his path to the school's football field—his hands remain shoved deep in his pockets and completely unaware of your approaching steps

"rin! rin, wait!"

rin pauses mid step, and you watch every muscle in his back tense the moment your voice reached his ears. he swallows the lump forming in his throat, closing his eyes for a moment before reluctantly turning around. his eyes are round in an almost childlike manner as you approach him.

you take a deep breath before grabbing his hand—and he's startled for a moment before you place the field trip slip in his hand. he blinks down at it in confusion, squinting at the small text before they widen a bit in realization

"akamatsu sensei couldn't give it to you earlier, so, uh, she asked me to," you quickly say, wringing your hands together nervously as rin stays silent, blinking at the paper in his hand.

"i...i'd be really happy if you came. of course, it's a voluntary thing but..."

even though rin won't look at you, resorting to burning a hole through the paper slip in his hands again, you continue with your words.

"rin, i don't know if i did something wrong to upset you, or if i said something you didn't like—but...i'm sorry."

rin's jaw clenches, and a frown digs its way onto his face as he stares at you. he shakes his head as if to say no, and just when he opens his mouth to say something—a loud voice comes barreling your way.

"itoshi! you're late! on the field, now!"

rin's coach's voice is booming and demanding of attention—and you're startled enough to flinch. rin exhales sharply through his nose, a vein threatening to pop on his forehead as he fights to keep himself from cursing out his coach, something he'd done many times before, in front of you.

"...we'll talk another time, all right?"

he doesn't seem to want to leave until he gets your confirmation, and you quickly nod

"i...okay."

he frowns at your hesitance, taking a half hearted step back, sparing you one last glance, before walking away. his shoulders are slumping just the slightest bit with defeat, and you don't have the strength to keep watching. you begin the walk home, thoughts scattered and heart hurt.

—

thankfully, rin did show up the day of the trip.

your breath hitched when you saw him board the bus—his dark, inky strands mused from the wind outside as he huffed, handing akamatsu sensei his field trip form before he turned towards the open seats. yes, there was one right beside you—but rin took the seat on the other side of the aisle.

doing this, he kept himself both near you and faraway—you heart sinks at the silent rejection. you spend the bus ride sketching in your notebook, trying your best to not look at rin.

—

you fell asleep on the two hour drive there. rin thinks you look a lot like an angel when you sleep. your face is composed entirely of peace. your sketchbook lays idly in your lap, and rin frowns when he notices it's slipping from your grasp.

he waits for the bus to approach a red light before slipping into the vacant spot beside you. he grabs your sketchbook, prepared to close it and put it safely away into your tote bag, when he sees what you were drawing

it was him.

—

everyone arrives to the museum after another fifteen minutes. and after going through security, your classmates and akamatsu sensei stand in the foyer—buzzing with excitement. you leave the group the second you're given the green light. everyone is given ninety minutes to explore the museum on their own before you all have to regroup and grab lunch. you slip away as quietly as you can, moving through the crowd of people in search of some much needed solitude.

you let out a breath of relief once you escape rin's presence. now, you can't see him at all—all you can see is the hundreds of art pieces and hallways waiting to be explored. they beckon you forward and call your name. your first step is hesitant as you remember how much you wanted to explore this beautiful building with rin just a month ago, but you take it anyway.

you move through the museum slowly, allowing your body to sink into the moment and absorb the entirely new world around you. the domed ceilings themselves have art painted on them, and you twirl and waltz through the halls, taking it all in.

your heartbeat calms. your nerves, fears, sadness—it fades to background noise as you take it all in.

unbeknownst to you, rin follows you the entire time.

his movements are precise and elegant. he can duck behind a nearby family or statue the moment he anticipates your gaze nearing his vicinity. he keeps a healthy distance, his eyes never leaving your form.

there's a soft smile on your face as you explore the museum. rin can't help but watch the way you excitedly chat to the security guards posted by the arts and explain each piece's history. he watches your animated gestures to the enormous structures as you explain the myths and stories behind them.

you're far too kind for this world. truthfully, rin thinks your heart is bigger than the entire museum—bigger than the entire world, really. you give, and you give, and you give—but you don't ask for anything in return. you're selfless—offering your sweet smiles to passerby’s and dorky art facts to anyone willing to hear.

rin would soon learn the love you offered was unconditional.

you're moving from exhibit to exhibit, before you finally enter an empty one. he stands by the entrance where your back is facing him. rin is nervous beyond belief—but he takes the step inside, anyway. you don't notice him at first, too busy staring at a painting the same height as you with a feverish type of awe.

he steps beside you, not meeting your gaze as he peers up at the painting. a man and a woman sit at a piano, playing together in harmony. they're in a ballroom of some sort, both dressed in formal wear. rin can tell they're in love with the way they look at each other.

"i'm sorry."

rin can feel you go rigid beside him—he can hear the silent hitch in your breath as you keep your gaze glued to the painting, your fingers tensing at your sides as rin looks away from the painting, turning towards you.

he takes a moment to admire you. your lips, your lashes, the slope of your nose and the curve of your neck—before speaking

"i'm not good with my feelings. i push people away before they get to close, but it was like you slipped through the gaps—i...thought i'd hurt you if i stayed. but i hurt you by leaving. i like you, y/n. i like you more than any person i've ever known—i-i think i love you,"

the words fall from his lips in a broken whisper, and he wants to reach out and play with your fingers—have something to fidget with as he awaits your response. he wasn't going to shy away from admitting his feelings anymore, that wasn't rin. the only reason he messed up with you the first time was because he's never been in love before. but, he was willing to learn everything about it with you—he didn't want to do it with anyone else.

his eyes are glazed with unshed tears, because not once, not ever—has itoshi rin so clearly expressed his heart to another person.

this moment would forever be engraved into his heart, brain, and soul—but the sight of your face when you finally look at him steals the air from his lungs.

your lip trembles in disbelief for a moment, tears of joy springing from your eyes as you laugh—the sound a melody all in its own to rin's ears as you smile with all your teeth.

his mouth slots over yours a moment later. soft and oh so sweet—itoshi rin's kiss was like pressing your mouth against the petal of a flower. his hands cradle your face, his breathing coming out uneven and quick—he kisses you hard, and you laugh into his mouth as your hands wrap around his neck. he tugs you infinitely closer, molding his form against yours.

"i love you too, itoshi rin..!"

rin's eyes crinkle with a rare show of genuine joy. his eyes don't leave yours as he watches your thumb gently caress his cheek. because in a room full of art—itoshi rin would rather look at you.

[fawnwilde]

Taboo I gratitude .𖥔 ݁ ˖

dutch van der linde x reader

◃◃ [chapters] ▹▹

rating: explicit (18+)

You wake up in a camp surrounded by outlaws. but they're really not as bad as you feared.

Especially the gangs leader, dutch van der linde, who inspires new desires in you...

content warning: f reader, smut MDNI, inexperienced reader, older man younger woman, v fingering, cowgirl position, this is filthy and my ancestors r frowning up at me

word count: 6.5k

You wake up in an unfamiliar place.

Canvas walls surround you, objects littered around as if this was someone's home, crammed into a small space. A blanket covers you, warmer and softer than anything you’ve ever owned.

You move feebly, trying to wake up properly, when a twinge of pain erupts in your shoulder and bicep.

Gasping, you sit up, further aggravating your wound and panicking you further.

You're not tied up, but you could still be a prisoner. For all you know, outside this tent is an army of O'driscolls.

Fear engulfs you, and you frantically search your person for your blade.

“You're awake!”

Startled, you flinch and look up at the source of the voice.

A young woman sits across the room, a closed book in her hands. She’s pretty, and her face glows as she smiles warmly, rising and crossing the small space swiftly to sit at your side.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, looking over you but not touching, noticing your shaky breaths and wide eyed stare.

You go to speak, but your throat feels like it is coated with sand, and you wheeze out a breath. The woman grabs a tin cup and brings it to your lips, smiling reassuringly when you give her a questioning look.

“It's water, don't worry.” She takes a sip herself, proving it to be fine.

She holds it to your mouth, which you’re grateful for, as your arm burns with even the slightest movement. When the cup is drained, she puts it down, and turns back to you with her kind smile.

“I'm Mary-Beth.” She introduces herself, “What's your name?”

You shrug, “Ain't got one.”

“Oh.” Mary-Beth says sadly, “You haven't got any people, do you? You’re alone?”

“Yeah. Have been for a while.”

Mary-Beth nods understandingly, “Can I check your bandage? I think you may have pulled a stitch.”

You hesitate, but nod, deciding the woman has not given you any reason to see her as a threat. Her voice is calming, gentle like a breeze, and her eyes hold no malice.

But you’ve fallen for honeyed traps before, and there's a quill on the table beside you that you could use as a weapon if she tries anything.

As Mary-Beth begins to deftly remove your bandage, you mentally take stock of the room.

Books and papers are littered about, an unlit lantern sits on top of one of the many crates, a few bullets discarded around it. A strange object is in the centre of the room, which you stare at warily.

You’re startled when you hear voices outside the tent. They’re deep and masculine, talking too lowly to make out their words.

Mary-Beth notices, laying a comforting hand over your clenched one, “It's okay. Just Arthur and Dutch, they’re not gonna hurt you.”

You eye her sceptically, as the canvas walls shift and a man enters.

He's tall and broad, sandy hair below a weathered cowboy hat. His eyes are the colour of spring water, blue with hints of green. He's got a handsome face, that softens when he sees you.

“You’re awake.” He says.

You recognise his voice, and you realise now he is one of the men you helped in the O'driscoll camp.

“It's you.” You murmur, feeling relieved at a slightly familiar face, but confused as to why he's here. And where here is.

“Yeah, it's me.” Arthur sighs, his face stormy as his eyes shift to the bloody bandage Mary-Beth removes from your arm.

You look down at your wound, bile rising as you survey the reddened flesh surrounding a deep wound. Though it's bleeding, it's clean, and a few stitches hold the flesh together

“I'm sorry about that.” Arthur mumbles, avoiding your eyes.

You furrow your brows, “You’re sorry about what?”

“You’re hurt. And it's because you took a bullet meant for me.”

Nodding, you remember such events. An O'driscoll had sprung from the shadows, gun aimed at the man you know now as Arthur. You hadn't thought before you jumped forward, shielding him as you raised your own gun.

It was pure luck that you were only shot in the arm, and in your non-dominant one at that. You didn't even notice it at first, focused on killing the O'driscoll.

But it was agony once the man was down. You fled like a deer, no destination in mind, just needing to get Bo and get the hell out of dodge.

Your memories run out at that point.

“You got a name?” Arthur asks.

“She doesn't.” Mary-Beth explains to him, noticing your far away look.

You itch with the desire to ask questions. Who are these people? How did you get here? Where’s Bo? The last question makes you agitated, and as soon as Mary-Beth ties off your bandage you are rising out of the bed.

“Where's Bo?” You demand, rising from the bed on shaky legs. Arthur immediately grabs your uninjured arm, balancing you.

“Where's what?”

“Bo! My horse.” You sob, growing shaky with the fear that something's happened to him.

The last thing you remember is holding onto him for dear life as he gets you away from danger, falling in and out of consciousness as you grip onto his mane.

What if Bo is still out there? What if he got injured? You don't know these people, what if they hurt him?

“He's fine, he's fine, don't worry.” Arthur comforts, and you relax slightly.

“Can I see him?”

“Of course you can.” He says, voice soft in what you can assume is empathy, “Lemme bring you to him. Mary-Beth, can you grab the Miss some more morphine from Strauss?”

“Of course.” Mary-Beth says, patting your arm gently as she leaves.

“Morphine? What's that?” You ask, confused and scared. But Arthur soothes his hand over your uninjured arm, awkwardly but it's comforting nonetheless.

“Just something' to help with the pain.” He explains, “Now let's go see to yer horse.”

Arthur leads you out of the tent. You’re taken aback by the camp you’re in. It's tidy and lively, a nice atmosphere permeating from the people and nature.

A few people look over at you, and you shrink. But they’re expressions aren't unkind, some pitying but some offering smiles. A slender, dark skinned man goes as far as to offer you a good morning, which you return weakly.

Arthur stops just outside the main area of camp, releasing your arm.

“I need to talk to our cook about getting you something to eat, would you mind staying here a second while I grab him?” Arthur asks apologetically, “I wouldn't leave ya if it weren't necessary, but he's already got a bottle open and he won't be conscious next time I see him.”

You nod weakly as you lean against a tree stump, bracing your weight against it.

Arthur thanks you, walking over to a stout man taking a swig from a bottle. He grows annoyed as Arthur calls out to him, and you avert your eyes.

Across camp, you spot a few horses mingling about amongst some sparse trees.

You beam when you see a familiar stallion.

“Bo!” You call out, stumbling forwards a little to get to him.

Bo’s head snaps to the side, and he starts neighing and huffing when he sees you.

The man cleaning the horses manages to jump out of the way just in time before Bo takes off running, sprinting over to you. The camp goers watch with wide eyes as the horse that dwarfed Arthur and Charles sprints to the injured girl, before stopping and nuzzling her gently.

He noses at your injured arm, and you pat his neck affectionately. His snorts and your shushes act as nonverbal communication between you and your bonded steed, comforting each other in this strange and uncertain situation.

You rub at Bo’s nose as the man walks over from the horses. He watches in amazement, looking between you and the horse. He does not seem threatening, but you look at him in your peripheral vision, unnerved by his staring.

Noticing you eyeing him, he flushes, stammering out an apology, “Sorry. M-mighty fine horse you've got there, miss!”

“Thanks.” You smile as you look up at the horse in question, running your fingers through his mane, “Hope he hadn't been too much trouble for you, he's not used to being in one place for too long.”

“Oh he's, uh, he's been fine. He's a bit rowdy, wouldn't let me brush him or nothin, but he ain't gone nowhere or caused a ruckus. He eats hay like it's no one's business.”

“Yeah, he's a greedy boy.” You laugh.

The man joins you, though quietly. “Oh! I’m Kieran, by the way!” He introduces himself.

“Hi, Kieran.” You smile.

“They didn't tell me your name.”

“Ain't got one.”

“Oh.” Kieran frowns, but you’re surprised to see him looking sympathetic rather than confused.

You rub Bo’s neck, “But this guy is Bo. So you can call me Bo’s human, if you want.”

“Oh, that isn't a nice enough way of referring to a lady, miss. Especially not such a pretty one.” Kieran laughs, blushing slightly and clearing his throat, “And I don't think Bo would take too kindly to that. I'm already on thin ice after trying to brush him this morning.”

Bo huffs, like he was agreeing, and you chuckle.

Someone groans nearby.

“You annoying the nice lady, O’driscoll?” A voice drawls.

Kieran stiffens, his face dropping, “I told you, ain't no O'driscoll, mister.”

You narrow your eyes, looking from Kieran to the new man, who wanders over from where he was leaning against a tree. He's greasy looking, with beady eyes and a handlebar moustache.

He's one of the other men you helped, but he isn't as welcoming as Arthur.

You look back at Kieran, “O'driscoll, huh? O’driscolls took my home and tried to kill me years ago. They’re why I don't have a home.”

Kieran swallows, face dropping further, a frown appearing on his lips.

But you shrug.

“I wouldn't have thought you were one.” You say, “I've been around them long enough to know an O’driscoll from a mile away. Nothing about you seems like one to me, I ain't got a problem with you.”

Kieran visibly relaxes, smiling brightly, “Well, I'm real glad about that.”

Micah groans, agitating you both further.

“She ain't gonna fuck you, O’driscoll, so stop slobberin.”

You furrow your eyebrows at the mustached man, as Kieran goes bright red, “I ain't- I'm not- I'm just tryna be nice!”

“What the hell is going on here?” Arthur calls, appearing at your side, “I leave her alone for five minutes and you two creeps swarm her like flees to a cat.”

“Mr Morgan, I swear I was just tryna talk to her about her horse.” Kieran sighs.

“Kieran ain't done nothing.” You say to Arthur, before nudging Bo, “Bo, go with Kieran.”

Bo huffs, and you push his side. He's three times your size, but he lets you manoeuvre him in Kieran's direction. The ex-O’driscoll watches with wide eyes, before Bo nudges him with his nose, pushing him in the direction of the hay bales.

The two of them leave, leaving you, Arthur and Micah.

“So what's your excuse, Micah?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms.

“I'm just tryna be friendly to the woman who saved us.” Micah smirks, looking you up and down, “And what a woman she is.”

“Alright, enough of that.” Arthur takes your uninjured arm, leading you away from the other man, ignoring his annoyed huff.

“C’mon, Dutch’s been wanting to meet you.”

Arthur leads you through the camp, to a table where two older men sit, talking quietly amongst themselves, sipping coffee while they observe the camp around them.

They look like opposites of each other. One is dressed in dark, luxurious clothes, with raven coloured hair and a perfectly maintained moustache. His golden rings glint against the evening sun as he gestures around him. The other has silver hair, wearing lighter, more worn clothes. His eyes are dark and warm, especially when they lock on you.

He says something to his companion, and the two stand as you arrive at the table.

“Miss.” The dark haired man greets.

A steaming bowl of stew waits for you at the table, and Arthur keeps his hand on your arm as you sit. You feel awkward at all the coddling you’re receiving from everyone, feeling like a bird with a broken wing.

The three men sit as you look over the table, eying the food.

“That's yours, you can eat.” Arthur encourages, pushing the bowl closer to you.

The other men nod as you look between them. Hesitantly, you pick up the spoon and begin eating. After the first unsure spoonful, you dig in, your hunger overtaking your insecurity.

The silver haired man smiles warmly at your eagerness, while Arthur chuckles gently, “I think this is the first time someone has eaten Pearson stew so happily.”

You hear the other men laugh, but you’re too focused on eating to pay attention to it.

When the bowl is empty, you clear your throat and wipe your mouth, “Thank you.”

“Such nice manners for a wild woman.” The dark haired man comments, “You’re welcome, miss.”

Arthur takes the empty bowl away, and you fidget with your nails, blinking down at the table.

“Now, I think introductions are in order.” The dark haired man says, “My name is Dutch Van Der Linde, my friend here is Hosea Matthews.”

“We’re glad you’re up and moving, dear.” Hosea says softly, “You gave us quite a scare.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You've got nothing to apologise for, miss…”

“I don't know my name.” You shrug, growing tired of having to explain this. You haven't spoken with anyone who wanted to know your name in months. You‘re half tempted to just make one up at this point.

Arthur returns, bringing with him a shawl that he offers you. You reach for it, and he helps you place it on your shoulders.

“Is there something we can call you? Perhaps a nickname?” Hosea asks, “What is it people refer to you as?”

“‘Girl’. Or ‘woman’. ‘Freak’, ‘you there’, 'bitch’...” You list off.

“Well we won't be calling you any of those, angel.” Dutch chuckles.

“You don't need to call me nothing, mister. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as you want me to.” You murmur, wanting to shrink into the floor.

You feel uneasy at the attention. Arthur looks at you with a guarded expression, Hosea looks at you with pity, and Dutch eyes you with a look you’re unused to.

“Do you have somewhere to go? A home, a family?” Hosea asks.

“No.”

“Then why are you so eager to leave?” Dutch asks, tilting his head to try to catch your eye. You look at him, and he looks at you, focused.

Once you stare into Dutch’s eyes, you find it impossible to look away. They’re dark, filled with an intensity you had only ever seen in predators in nature.

Yet you’re unafraid of him.

The intensity seems to come from a place of intelligence, from experience. He searches your soul for evidence of malintent. He's a black bear defending his territory, not one looking for a fight.

Dutch blinks, and the spell is broken. Whatever threat he was looking for, he did not find. His eyes became warm, and a smile appears on his face, surrounding his eyes with crinkles.

“You can stay as long as you want.” Dutch says, “Afterall, you helped our people out of a very bad situation. You’ve got friends here, angel.”

Hosea nods, offering you a smile. You return it, though not entirely convinced of the group's intentions yet. Arthur watches you from the wide, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Now, those clothes of yours have seen better days.” Dutch chuckles, rising from his chair, “Let’s find you something more warm.”

He offers you his arm, leading you back through the camp towards the large tent again.

“Who's tent is this? I feel bad taking it from them.” You murmur, fingers tapping nervously against the fine material of his shirt.

“Well you shouldn't. The man who’s letting you use it likes to think of himself as generous.” Dutch winks, and you huff out a laugh.

“Thank you, Mr Van Der Linde.”

“You’re very welcome.” He leads you inside, turning to call out to an older woman, asking her to find you some new clothes. You stand awkwardly, looking around the tent again.

“What is that thing?” You ask, nodding to the strange object.

“Ah!” Dutch exclaims, a beaming smile on his lips as he walks over to the contraption, “This, my dear, is a phonograph. It plays music, listen.”

With a couple swift movements, the phonograph comes to life. Just as Dutch said, music starts playing, slightly scratchy yet clearly melodic.

It puts a small smile on your lips, and Dutch puffs out his chest in pride at your reaction. He walks back over to your side, his hand finding your wait. Opening his mouth so say something, he hesitates as he looks into your eyes.

Your heart rate picks up, tilting your head curiously at him.

Someone enters the tent, and Dutch looks away. He nods at Mary-Beth, who comes over to your side with a sunny smile and a bundle of clothes in her arms.

“I'll leave you in Miss Gaskill’s care.” Dutch murmurs, his hand lingering on your waist before he steps back, “I’ll see you later, angel.”

He leaves you confused, but Mary-Beth steals your attention away. She’s very eager to dress you up, and you smile as her kind energy lights up the room.

As the sun begins to set, the camp settles down with food and beers, chatting around the campfire or retiring for the night.

You have washed and changed your clothes. Mary-Beth styled an old skirt and blouse for you. The skirt was a bit short and the blouse was too large, but you were grateful to be in something other than your raggedy dress you'd been wearing for just under a week.

Another girl named Tilly brought you water to wash, and helped you clean the dirt off of your skin and out of your hair. She talked to you the whole time, complaining about a woman named Miss Grimshaw. While you didn't respond, she was content with your hums of acknowledgment, and it was nice getting clean and being treated like a normal person.

Once clean and warm in your new, borrowed clothes, you felt ten pounds lighter, and followed the women as they led you to the campfire. A few others mingle about, but you sigh in relief seeing that there were far fewer about now that the sun had set.

You slightly wish you could be left alone to lick your wounds, disappearing back into the woods with Bo at your side.

Not that these people aren't nice. In fact, they happen to be the kindest people you have interacted with in months. You’re just unused to being surrounded by so many people, especially by people who actually see you. You've spent your days wandering the world like a spectre, far more comfortable in the presence of animals than people.

Maybe you could get used to being around other people. But you wanted the option to leave, in case the other shoe drops and these people turn out to be just another cruel gang of outlaws.

Mary-Beth sits you at the fire, leaving you to grab you both some supper. Nearby, a man sits in the ground with a guitar in his lap, his eyes closed as he strums a simple tune.

The soft notes he plays transfix you, and you find yourself hypnotised by the music, the world falling away around you. The man looks at you, a smile on his lips at the sight of you enjoying his music. For a moment, you’re completely entranced.

New voices startle you, and you look up to find an older man with a bushy beard settling down around the fire.

“Evening, miss.” He says.

“Hello.” You greet in return.

“Glad to see you're alright. Old Dutch was mighty concerned about ya.” He rambles, opening a beer and nodding at you with a grin, “The name’s Uncle by the way.”

“Uncle?”

“Yup. At least, that's what everyone knows me as. I reckon we're alike, you and me, both got names that are no-one's business.”

You don't bother correcting him that you don't know your name, or asking you how he knew you didn't know your name, so instead you smile and nod.

Mary-Beth returns alongside a blonde woman, who raises an eyebrow at Uncle’s statement, “You ain't even got a name?” She comments as she takes a swig from her beer.

“Karen, be nice.” Mary-Beth chides as she sits beside you, handing you a bowl of familiar stew, “She doesn't remember it, poor thing.”

“What are we supposed to call you, then?” Karen inquires.

You shrug, “Whatever you like. People call me whatever they want, don't matter much to me. Dutch seems to like calling me angel, for some reason.”

Karen's eyes widen at that, as the guitarist hums contemplatively, “Mm, you are an angel. A guardian angel, saving the men like that. Muy valiente, cariño.”

Though his words are lost on you, they sound as melodic as the music he plays, and you nod in thanks, tapping your fingers on the rim of the bowl in your hands.

“How long are you planning on staying with us?” Uncle asks.

“I don't know, as long as it takes for my arm to heal, I guess.”

“Dutch seems real keen on keeping ya.” Karen says around her bottle, before promptly being elbowed by Mary-Beth.

“Well it's not every day an outlaw gets to save a damsel in distress.” Uncle chuckles.

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“He was the one who found you in the woods.” Uncle explains, “You were in a real bad state, saw it myself. Dutch came in like one of those fancy knights from Mary-Beth’s books, carrying you through camp all bloodied. I was real surprised he was willing to get blood on his fancy clothes.”

You stare at him, surprised to find out it was Dutch who rescued you. He hadn't mentioned it, which you thought he would, being the proud and enigmatic man he was. Surely he would boast about it,

Feeling eyes on you, you turn your head to find Dutch watching you from afar. He’s sat beside Hosea, who talks to him not residing his friends attention is elsewhere.

Dutch has that look in his eyes again. Dark and pensive, and though you feel you should be fearful, different emotions plague your system. Pleasant emotions, your heart rate increasing and your stomach fluttering.

But he turns away as Hosea asks him a question, and the spell is broken.

You excuse yourself from the conversation, taking your bowl to Pearson before heading back to Dutch’s tent. Sleep should help quell the sudden desires you feel.

But sleep does not come easily.

You can see Dutch’s eyes in your imagination, watching from the dark corners of dormant spaces. Thoughts spiral around your mind,

Huffing, you run your hands over your face, your bandage tightening before snapping. You sigh further as you sit up, looking down at the loose wrappings.

You try to retie your bandage, your frustration building when it unravels again. So much for being independent.

Someone clears their throat, and you turn your head to see Dutch standing at the entrance, offering you a smile as he gestures to your attempts, “Would you like some help?”

You hesitate, but nod.

He moves to sit beside you on the bed, looking over your work before turning you around, your back to him as he expertly winds the bandage around your upper arm, tying it at the back and tucking the edge away.

“There you go.” Dutch murmurs.

Why is his voice so entrancing?

His close proximity makes goosebumps erupt along your exposed flesh. But it's not unpleasant. In fact, you seek out his warmth, leaning against him as he works. You briefly worry that he can feel your racing heart through your ribs.

Dutch smooths his hands over your arm, ensuring the bandage is secure. His touch sends shivers through you, bolts of lightning with every brush of his warm, calloused skin against yours.

You lean into it, humming appreciatively.

Dutch hums too, his fingers travelling from your upper arm to your wrist, rubbing his thumb over your pulse point. He watches your profile, looking for any sign of discomfort.

Finding none, he brings your wrist upwards, pressing his lips to your skin. You gasp, unsure but intrigued by his action, melting against his front.

“My apologies if this is forward…” Dutch murmurs, though there's no real apology in his tone, “I've been finding myself thinking of you far too often since finding you in the woods. My strange treasure.”

He presses a kiss to your palm, “It's not every day a beauty like yours falls into my lap, please forgive my desire to indulge.”

You look at him over your shoulder, biting your lip as you look over his face. His eyes move from your hand to your eyes, his gaze appraising like he was looking at something magnificent.

“Such a pretty thing.” Dutch drawls, his other hand circling around your waist, making you jolt, “Hmm… you ain't done nothing like this before, have you, angel?”

“No…” You whisper.

You vaguely understood this attention, even though you have never experienced something like this before. In your years in the wild, you had stumbled upon enough passionate lovers in isolated fields, and found the odd O’driscoll having his way with a working girl. You had seen enough to not be completely clueless.

But you'd never been touched.

Even in your wildest dreams did you imagine the first man to do so, and to do so so reverently, would be a powerful gang leader. What had you gotten yourself into.

Dutch hums at your revelation, softening his movements, caressing your arms and waist in slow movements.

“Would you like me to make you feel good?” He asks, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, “Show how much I appreciate your selfless act of saving my men from certain death?”

“I feel like I should be the one showing gratitude.” You mutter, “You saved my life.”

Dutch hums, kissing the skin below your ear, “We can find ways to thank one another.”

Deftly, his fingers begin travelling along your body, caressing your bare and clothed skin. You squirm against him, unsure if you are trying to escape his attention or encourage him.

A gasp escapes you as you feel one of his large hands slip below your skirt, the cold of his rings cooling the heated flesh of your thighs. and you keen as they come in contact with your most intimate place.

His rough fingers drag through your slit, and you hold your breath for fear of making a noise that will surely wake the entire camp. Dutch groans, pressing his face against your hair as he feels how wet you've become.

His fingers move upwards until they find your clit, a small bundle of heaven you had only explored by yourself in moments of desperation. He plays with it expertly, skilled fingertips circling and rubbing at it until you feel yourself shaking.

You turn your head to look at him, seeking out comfort in his dark eyes. He hushes you, pressing his lips to yours.

It's clumsy on your end. You've never been kissed, and your lips are hesitant against his confident ones. Dutch brings a hand up, cupping your jaw as he urges you on with his lips. You begin to move your own, moaning against him as his tongue requests

You really like kissing, you soon discover, finding yourself quickly becoming addicted. You turn in his arms, pressing yourself against him as you indulge in his lips.

The two of you manoeuvre yourselves until you sit on Dutch's lap, thighs bracketing his own as your hands wind into his hair, holding his head still to have your fill of his kisses.

Dutch groans against you, enjoying the feeling of you taking control, his hands rubbing up and down your back.

He sinks back into the cot, body relaxing as he surrenders to your exploration.

You’re uncomfortably wet, the early caress of his fingers combined with your kissing making you drench his waist below you. Squirming against him, you gasp when you feel something hard below you.

Separating from his lips, you take in the sight of the powerful man below you.

Dutch reclines against the cot, looking up at you with hungry eyes.

His hands move from your lower back to your hips, then upwards. His deft fingers play with the ties of your shirt, and he looks up at you with a raise eyebrow, “May I?”

“Yes.” You say confidently, though unsure as to what he wants.

Dutch unties the knots that keep your shirt closed. It's far too big for you, and when loose, it drops and exposes your breasts to the air.

Your hands twitch against his chest, fighting the urge to cover your skin from his eyes. Dutch groans, pupils dilating as he admires the slopes of your breasts and raised nipples.

His hands travel gently over the soft skin of your breasts, to the skirt bunched up at your waist, to the meat of your thighs, groping and caressing greedily.

Your own fingers move to the buttons of his vest, and he grins up at you, eager. Opening his vest and shirt, you eye him with flushing cheeks. His torso is firm from years of gunslinging and lawless labour, skin slightly tan from the summer sun. Taut muscles and dark thatches of hair you desire to run your fingers through.

He urges you to do so, taking your smaller hands in his to place them on his sides, Copying his own actions, you run your own hands over his exposed chest, exploring the firm skin and the dark wiry hair. Your fingers follow the hair's natural line as it travels down until it disappears into his slacks.

A bulge has formed there, pressing against the fabric aggressively. You know from the horrid O'driscolls and the drunken farmers you often stole from that this meant that he was aroused, but what lay below is a mystery to you.

“Are you alright, angel?”

You look up and meet Dutch’s eyes, finding them soft yet still hungry.

“I’ve never…”

“That's alright, darling. Take your time.” He soothes, caressing your sides, “But, we also don't have to go any further than this. You hold the cards here, my beautiful girl.”

You smile a little bit, feeling some of the tension in your body dissipate.

And you shock him when you cup his solid bulge.

Dutch groans and his hips buck, surprised by your action and quick to apologise for his initial reaction. You bite your lip, rubbing your palm over it. The action makes Dutch sigh softly, his fingers clenching against your waist as he looks down at your fingers.

You play with the edge of his trousers, “Can I…?”

“Of course.”

Slowly, you undo his pants, revealing his lack of underwear. You raise an eyebrow, and he chuckles.

“It's real warm this time of year.” Dutch explains, “Makes this easier, too.”

“Were you planning this?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I only hoped… I'm only human, sweet thing.”

You blush, moving your eyes back to his lower half. Tugging his slacks down, his uncovered erection springs free. Your eyes widen, taking in the solid length of it.

It’s as long as your hand, and reasonably wide. Having nothing to reference to it, you find it quite nice. Whether it's bigger than average you can only guess, but it’s certainly not disappointing to your virgin eyes.

“Do I please you, my lady?” Dutch smirks, his hands moving back down to your bare thighs, pinching you as you stare for too long.

You huff, leaning forward to kiss him again, far too obsessed with doing it. He doesn't complain, sighing happily against your lips and wrapping his large hand in your hair.

As you lean over him, you can feel him poke against your stomach. Sitting up a bit, you look down at it, shuffling forward until it presses against your clothed stomach.

Seeing how much of it could go inside you, your eyes widen.

“That thing’s never gonna fit in me.”

Dutch laughs, shaking his head slightly, running his hand over your cheek, “Don't worry, angel. It will. But we’re not gonna force it. I'm gonna make sure you feel good.”

You hum, leaning into his palm. He soothes your flushed skin, tracing his fingers over the apple of your cheeks down to your jaw. You adjust yourself on top of him, trying to figure out how best to do this.

Dutch notices your fumbling, “Need help?”

You smile, nodding.

“Show me.”

He obliges, moving his hands to your hips firmly and lifting you up. You follow his guidance, moving forward to hover over his lap.

A gasp escaped you when you feel his tip against you. It's hot, incredibly hard and slightly damp. Dutch moves you gently, rocking you over it. When it catches your clit, you shudder, keening and moving automatically as you search out more of that delicious feeling.

“Such a good girl.” Dutch breathes, “That’s it sweetheart, take it easy. We ain’t in no rush.”

You rock against him, letting the rip catch your entrance. You squirm as you feel the first two inches slide in and out of you, easily due to how you’re practically dripping.

The sensations are unusual, but far from unpleasant.

Bracing a hand on his stomach, you sink further, stifling a moan as more pleasure emerges the longer you girate.

Soon enough, you’re taking enough of him to feel him pressing against something sensitive inside you. It shocks you at first, but then you begin searching for it, releasing sharp moans every time you drop and feel the ecstasy rise, your whole body riding waves of pleasure.

You can hear Dutch's breath quickening, and you open your eyes. You didn't even realise you shut them, but when you blink away the bleariness and look down at Mr Van Der Linde, you moan at the sight of him.

Dutch’s skin glistens in the low light, his chest and neck flushed. His chest heaves as he groans and grunts, releasing praises with every breath. “So tight.” “Keep going, baby, you’re doing so well.” “Good fucking girl.” His head is thrown back, neck exposed and eyes fluttering closed.

You keep rocking, trying to keep pace while you lean forward and kiss his throat.

Dutch groans loudly at that, his arms wrap around you to keep you in place. His hips buck, his restraint fraying. His need for release is growing too strong for him to handle.

“I need fuck you now, baby, would you let me?” He bites out.

You murmur out an ‘mhm’ into his neck, head too gone to really respond, but knowing that you want him to have his way with you now.

At your affirmation, Dutch grips you to his chest, feet planting on the bed as he begins thrusting upwards. You release a series of moans and whines as he fucks up into you, hips slapping against yours.

He’s strong, fucking with short and hard thrusts that shake you. You grasp onto him for dear life, surrendering fully to the feeling.

Your body tightens, a feeling deep in your abdomen grows, like a string pulled too taut and ready to snap.

“D-dutch, feels weird…” You gasp out, burying your face in his neck.

“That's it, cum for me, angel. Give it to me.” Dutch commands, huffing into your ear as he grips onto your hips and slams you down on him as he thrusts up even harder than before. He tip of him repeatedly bullies the sweet spot inside of you, and you see stars.

The string snaps inside you, and you're blinded by pleasure. You cum with a cry of his name, tears swimming in your vision as you shake and leak all over him.

Dutch’s pace stutters, murmuring continuous “fuck, fuck, fuck”s into your ear.

Swiftly, he turns you over, lying you both on your sides as he pulls out. He fists himself fast in between your bodies, exclaiming as he jolts and warm spurts of his release hit your stomach.

“Fuck, so good…” Dutch sighs, nosing at your face as he pumps himself lazily, staining both of you with every drop of his seed.

You breathe heavily, coming down from the high. You lie boneless beside him, his eyes half closed as he watches your face with parted lips.

Sleep creeps up on you, and you almost get pulled under until you hear Dutch shift. His presence leaves the bed and you wonder if he's leaving you all alone.

But he returns after a second, a cool rag caressing your belly and cleaning you of his spend, before cleaning over your sensitive cunt. You shiver and he chuckles, wiping the rag over your sweaty skin before putting it away.

He wraps his arms around you, moving you to lie on his chest.

Sighing contentedly, you relax against his solid warmth, and fall into the most peaceful sleep of your life.

As the morning birds wake you, you stretch out on the soft bed.

You search blindly for Dutch, eyebrows furrowing when you come up empty handed.

Opening your eyes, you look around the room. It's unchanged. You don't know what you expected, but you thought the world would be different after the new sensations you experienced last night.

But alas, the world is still the same.

Standing, you fix your clothes, smiling when you see that Dutch buttoned your shirt to protect your modesty and put your socks back on your feet to keep you warm. For a man who seemed so strong, capable of immeasurable violence, he seemed insistent on treating you with the kindness you had never dreamed of receiving.

Dutch's phonograph plays gentle music, and you can see his silhouette, standing outside the canvas door. You exit, finding him smoking a cigar as he watches over camp. He's less put together than you were used to seeing him, and your chest flutters knowing you're the cause of that.

Coming to his side, you awkwardly hover next to him, wondering what you do now. Do you greet him casually? Do you take his hand in yours?

Noticing you beside him, Dutch smiles, answering your unspoken questions by swiftly taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Some of the others look over, curious but not a bit shocked.

Smiling, hold onto his hand, leaning into him as the two of you watch over camp.

Maybe you will stick around, just for a little while.

AN/ need that crazy moustache man ugh. hope you enjoyed this! also thank u for 100 followers that's crazy xoxo

fic taglist: @warmsideofthepillow03 @sammymcsamerson @m1stea @iamaunknownsecret @love-you-louise @vanpan8 @6esi @idcmannn @pumpkin-toffee @littlebirdgot @ripvanwinkleee

[bunnwich]

Rituals☁️(Leona x Reader)

Leona is low on spoons after the Tamashina-Mina tournament and needs some attention. Also what better way for him to sneakily court his favorite creature?

Curated from my 200k+ words Leona x Yuu fic

Characters: Leona Kingscholar x Yuu!Reader (GN. No physical description for Yuu. Yuu knows massage therapy.)

Words: 3k, 3rd person

Notes: I saw a meme the other day about how: “Liberalism leaves people’s bodies when mental health starts to affect someone’s hygiene” and I thought of how the fandom used to treat Leona. Also, I really wanted to make the “he uses you as a pillow” cliche not icky. 

Tagging: @comingyourlugubriousness @nammanarin @twst-the-night-away @twstinginthewind @ephemii @the-monday-witch @anevilbunnyinthehat @stagefullofsilly @theshipthatneversetsail @patrioticarcreactor @ice-cweam-sod4 @beaniz @the-nightingales-song @efsstash @cyn-write @porcelain-animatronic @lowcallyfruity @bestmannequin2018 @h0rr0r-10ver-69

-

It was baffling enough of a request that Leona Kingscholar invited Yuu to his home, but even more so was the thing he asked of them now.

“What? Am I your servant now, too?”

“No, course not.” He seemed deeply offended at this implication, nostrils flaring in indignance while his ears flopped backward against his hair. “I’m…askin’ you.” His ears flipped back up as he took a step closer, awaiting their response.

“Wait. You're serious…?” Yuu asked with a crinkle of their nose.

“Please…?” The word was barely audible, the man’s green-eyed stare never breaking from theirs. “If you’d be so kind…” He smirked, putting on an air, propping a hand on his hip. It was a warm day at the palace and he donned a pair of loose linen pants and a matching cream-colored tank top, all embroidered with gold.

Yuu swayed their head back and forth while they considered the idea, unimpressed by the sudden “princely” act. What was he up to? They gazed down at the object in their hand as if it held the answer. Well, it wasn’t often that they heard that word from Leona Kingscholar. “Fine, okay.” 

Was it really such a big deal, brushing his hair?

–

The hammock below the two of them swayed with both their weights as they sat face to face, each teetering on each edge of the colorful canvas. Late afternoon light filtered through the stained glass over all the greenery of the palace gardens, gilding everything it touched. 

Sighing, Yuu made another move, leaning forward to grab another section of the dark waves from the man’s shoulder. They hadn’t even ended up using the brush much so far. The only thing it had been good for was hitting the man when he talked back. 

“Well, the good news is…I got most of it.”

On their way here, Yuu grabbed their bag, bringing it with them to the gardens. Luckily, they kept a few favorites with them at all times. A small vial of rosehip oil; that would work. It could be used for both skin and hair in a pinch. Removing the dropper from the bottle they dripped some more into their palms, rubbing them together before applying it to the end of the man’s loose curls.

“Stinks.”

Yuu couldn’t help but roll their eyes at him. “It’s just rose. It’s nothing compared to that eye-watering cologne you bathe in every day. They sighed, working it through his thick tresses in the silence, pulling it all through to the ends of each section. “...I shouldn’t really be brushing it when it’s all tangled like this, you know.”

“Tch, I know that,” He said indignantly, his lips pressing into a small pout, eyes downcast to watch them work. “Everyone just assumes my hair is like my brother’s…”

They pressed their lips together. “Hmph. Then do it yourself, next time, huh? ” Letting out a huff, they released the bushel of soft curls, the dark curtain falling over Leona's neck. His hair honestly wasn’t as bad as he had made it seem. It just needed some moisture and careful detangling.

“Naw, why would I…when you’re already doing it for me.” The man reclined forward, propping his elbow on the canvas. “Mmm.” He watched them move on to the next section, meticulously separating the frizz and smoothing it over with the oil. Releasing a small sound in his throat,  he stared up at them with lethargic eyes, seemingly in a trance. 

Yuu shook their head at his comment, knowing that secretly he was just eating up the attention.  Keeping their eyes down on their work, they were careful not to pull too hard on his strands.

Leona muttered something as his lids fell completely closed, the end of his tail tapping on the edge of the hammock by their knee. A steady drumbeat.

They took their time with the rest, with only the noise of a few birds calling and Leona’s occasional sigh or grumble. It wasn’t long before, their lids lulled down too. It was relaxing in a way, quietly detangling someone’s hair.

Every once and a while their eyes flitted to the man’s face, catching the little twitch of the corner of his lips. After Yuu was done the detangling, they pulled two equal parts of the bottom sections forward, trying their best to get them even. They stuck their tongue out while they focused, before braiding them as neatly as they could manage, in the way he normally wore them. 

“There, you look more like yourself...” Yuu shrugged when they were done, tugging on one of the braids, and making sure the man wasn’t actually asleep.  “Better?” They crossed their arms, raising a brow over at him.

“Yeah.” The man opened his eyes slightly, the edge of his mouth falling into a crooked, but satisfied smile. “You did good.” His voice crackled just like the way a warm fire would. Like the bonfires at Savanclaw. He may have been sincere, but everything Leona said was always dipped in just a little bit of patronization.

Yuu palmed him on the forehead, pushing his face away slightly before letting their fingers drift up to his scalp, moving some of the hair out of his face.

“Hm?” He questioned, shifting slightly, turning his head to look up at what they were doing.

“Are you uh- still having those headaches?” They began to work their finger into his crown, between his twitching ears, pressing gently down on a few familiar pressure points. “I have to tell you, I’m the best.”

“I always have a headache when you're around.”  He sat up erect, suddenly seeming full of energy, grabbing their calves and yanking them closer to him, practically into his lap. He kept going until the backs of their legs were hooked over his thighs. He chuckled in delight at their bewildered deer-in-headlights reaction. 

Yuu froze at his boldness, pressing their lips together into a pout as they stared up at him with blinking eyes. 

“Don’t be all shy, now. Prove it. I think I got a big one coming on.” He purred at them.

Still playing, hm? “Hmph.” They huffed out a breath at his shenanigans.

Leona didn’t let them get far though, keeping his lock around their ankles, leaning over to study their reaction. “Feel free to say no.” He released them, holding his hands up innocently. “...If you’re not up to the task that is.” A bit of his white fangs gleamed as his sneer widened, leering at them through his dark lashes.

“You-” Yuu stuttered, resigning themselves. They were falling for it. This is what Leona was best at: pushing others into “proving themselves” by gently prodding them from their comfort zone.

“Fine.” Saying nothing more, they only lifted their hands to evaluate him once more, taking in a breath before tracing their fingers down the sides of his muscular neck. 

Ah, the man seemed a bit surprised to see them agree, but he quickly masked it with another smug smile as he lifted his jaw to accommodate them.

Leona’s skin was much warmer than theirs and surprisingly smooth, his excited pulse fluttering under their fingers. “Hm. You are tense.” They muttered aloud, pressing their thumb into one of the hard muscles there. “That hurt?”

“Ack, what do you think? Beast…” He hissed, his ears lowering slightly, grabbing their wrist to stop them.

Yuu smirked, most people didn’t expect that kind of strength from them…until they gave them a chance to prove it. “Sheesh, sorry you big baby. I was just askin’.” They rolled their eyes and swatted his nosy hand away. This allowed them to focus again, laying their palms on both of his broad shoulders. 

They could see it clearly now, his shoulders were rounded forward, and his left side was higher–signaling to them he probably held more tension there.

The man was studying them again, one grumpy eye barely open. 

Yuu chuckled, no one expects how much it hurts. Though as much as they enjoyed hurting the man, they went in softer this time, gently kneading his shoulders and neck, before they bothered to poke him anymore. As they worked closer to his jaw, they became enveloped in his signature smell. Traces of cinnamon, hints of orange, and star anise lingered on their fingertips as they explored his exposed skin, taking care to not pull on the golden necklace that hung from his neck.

“How…did you know?” Leona asked through a groan.

 They had hit the right spot.

“The way you walk, for one. You know, with your head forward. For royalty…your posture is terrible, you know. You heard Vil. Anyways, I can just tell by feeling most of the time.” Yuu added, continuing to work on the tightest areas first.

“Tch, you’re one to talk,” He said through his groans, brown ears flopping to the sides as he began to relax into their skilled touch. “...I recall us both getting reamed by Schoenheit at those practices.”

“Hey, I’m not the one on trial here. You asked for my expert opinion.” They continued, reaching around to the back of the man’s neck to rub circles in the base of his skull, moving up into his thick hair.

Leona made a rumbling noise in his chest at this, letting his head nod forward until he went completely limp in their hands. Somewhere, between the ticks of both their breaths, he had slumped his whole weight on them. A whole lion in their lap.

“Mmm.” He nuzzled his forehead against Yuu's shoulder, moving his hand from their calf up onto their arm, running a finger across the loose thread of their sleeve.

Yuu tensed, the man’s warm breath tickling their neck. It felt a little surreal to think such a powerful mage lay against them now like an oversized house cat. It was sort of an honor that he felt so relaxed around them. Sort of. 

They shook their head, trying not to giggle, and straightened their back to accommodate the new weight. Yuu kept on working as if nothing had changed, ignoring the fluttering in their guts that his soft breaths over their cheeks stirred. 

After they finished with his scalp, they worked back down to his shoulders, grabbing both of them and twisting them to one side, signaling wordlessly for the man to turn around for them. The hammock squeaked as he rearranged himself and Yuu pulled his head down into the center of their lap.  

Some people they had worked on, like Jack, could never fully relax for them, no matter how many times they reminded him to. However, the oxymoron of man before them seemed to have no problem flopping over like a sleepy kitten, ready to be petted. 

Going by cat behavior, he had shown them his belly, a small sliver peeking from the edge of his top. Now, with a completely malleable lion in their lap, Yuu couldn’t help but smile. He was totally at their mercy, moving whichever way they pulled him.

Their fingers made their way up and down his neck shoulders and even a bit of his chest, respecting the barrier of his tunic's low neckline.

Every once in a while, Leona’s lips tumbled open with a deep rumbling sigh of relief, pressing himself in their touch with each stroke, seeming to crave more and more. Their face grew hot, some part of this felt…too intimate. No, no. It was just a massage, but the man’s touch-starved reactions were becoming harder and harder to ignore.

 It was only when Yuu’s fingers reached up to his jaw did Leona open his eyes once more.

As their fingertips settled on the sides of his face, his shoulders went stiff under their care, Leona’s pulse ramping up for the first time during the massage.  His jaw tightened as they brought their fingers up to the temples of his grimacing face, trying to soothe him. 

He couldn’t be nervous now, could he?

“You…hold a lot of tension in your face too,”  They said calmly, urging his head to the right side, “Especially your…jaw.” They moved down to press their thumb into his cheek, easily finding the small, rigid muscle on the left side of his face.

The man grunted, “Easy.” 

Yuu shook their head again and eased up some. “...Just breathe.” They sighed, rolling their eyes as they massaged his jaw. “That right there is probably a big culprit of your headaches, you know.”

“Hmm,” He replied thoughtfully, his face softening some at their more gentle method. 

Their fingers worked each side of his face some more, then trailed slowly up his nose, rubbing circles across his sinuses. When they made their way up to his “third eye” area they rubbed extra hard to make a point, trying to get him to relax once more. “Sorry, just trying smooth out that permanent wrinkle you got there…”

Leona scoffed, dipping his head back into their touch, and closing his eyes shut again. “Tch, yeah well, every time I come home to visit it ages me five years, so...” He chuckled.

Yuu let out a light chuckle too, taking the strokes they made on the man’s cheeks upward and into his hairline, brushing against his scar a few times.

Leona’s forehead creased, an uncommon expression gracing his usually stern or sarcastic face. His broad nose curled in discomfort and they could see his eyes flicker anxiously under his lids. He was even holding his breath.

“Hey…Just breathe I told you!” They repeated with another soft laugh. “It helps with circulation.”

“Mmph.” The man said nothing and grunted at them before exhaling loudly. They would have thought they were doing something painful to him by his expressions.

Yuu tilted their head, realizing exactly what this was all about. They cupped their palms around his cheeks before dragging the stroke up, one of their fingertips running over the edge of his scar again to test the theory. 

The skin was dryer there and slightly raised. It created extra pull whenever they went over it. But, besides that…it was no different than any other part of his face. The Leona Kingscholar couldn’t be self-conscious, could he? No one ever really commented on it, and it surely did nothing but, to quote Rook: add to his “handsome and rugged charisma.”

But, the more they thought about it, they could understand why he was so dodgy about it. A memory like that, couldn’t have been pleasant.

The more times Yuu went over it they sensed a strange pull of energy from the area, like deep space. They were sure it was something the man had buried deep, so he could convince himself that he didn’t remember what actually happened anymore. 

Can’t remember every little scratch, he said once. How many people knew the real truth, they wondered. Or if there were any legends behind it in the palace.

“You don’t have ta’ touch it.” The man blurted out, trying to keep a straight face. His lips pressed together hard before he feigned a usual smug grin. “Though, I know that you’re a professional and all.”

“Wha-” Yuu almost wanted to roll their eyes at him for how dramatic he was being but, they didn’t. 

 “And- Why…would it bother me?” They asked casually, continuing the face massage as normal.

“Hmph.” Leona let out a huff, one side of his mouth arching upwards into a small smile. “I…see.” When he opened his eyes again, they were shiny, reflecting the tree tops around them. “Not many people have uh-”

 “Feel better?” Yuu lifted their hands from his face as they finished, saving him from the awkwardness of elaborating further. They had seen plenty enough to know how relieved he was at their response. That was enough.

“Mmhm.” He answered, clearing his throat before sitting up to face them again, the whole hammock groaning in response.  “....Thank ya.” He muttered, reaching behind to rub the back of his neck. “Much looser now-”

Leona sighed, eyebrows curving up over his eyes. Then, all at once his gaze snapped up to them, taking them in from head to toe. In one smooth movement, he let his body settle down against theirs, his strong shoulder pressing against them. 

Yuu’s heart hammered against his, mirroring the same fervid beat. No, this was more than just hair brushing. They hadn’t considered the implications until this moment, those of beastmen courtship and personal hygiene that they had read about. The concepts were often interlinked. Sacred.

A hug? No, he was just still just staring at them now, inches away, like a cat ready to pounce. The usual slits of his eyes were dark pools of space, reflecting back their own baffled expression. 

Yuu swallowed. They were so gridlocked by his intense stare, it was hard to speak or even breathe with him pressing them so firmly to the canvas hammock. He seemed at odds with something, his worn gaze downcast. “W-What…what’s wrong, Leona?” They whispered through an unsteady chuckle, managing to keep their head.

“Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.” He whispered, letting his weight sink further into them. There was a peaceful smile on his face as he reached up to grab a section of their hair from behind their ear, twisting it between his fingertips, tail flopping behind him lazily.

It felt like they were being chosen for something.

“Wha-” Their eyes widened, it took them a whole 30 seconds to realize the man was braiding the pieces together, calm and methodical, like when he was arranging his pieces on a chess board. Part of the plan. It was obvious Leona knew how to braid hair but it was…surreal to behold it.

When he was done the corner of his mouth turned up more, creasing a dimple into his cheek. His eyes fixated on the sight of his results, he was so…proud of his work.

Yuu didn’t even have time to speak before he turned his head away, lying his cheek on one side of their shoulder once more. He had done it so casually as if he had done it a hundred times before and would do it a hundred times more.

They understand why he did it, the two of them were…a matching set now.

He chose them. Their heart squeezed as the man draped his arms around their waist, locking them in place once more as something shifted between them.

 Leona’s cocky air had all but dissipated. “...Is this okay with ya?” He muttered so softly they almost missed it. He was asking permission, asking if they would accept him.

“Oh um…Y-yes.” They let their arms fall around his back, tugging on the end of his curls as they held him. Yes, he was getting way too comfortable, but it was their fault for allowing it, right? Yuu laid their head on his, letting him know for sure that: yes, it was okay.

“Hey, I know you're not falling asleep right now.” They grumbled playfully, tugging on his hair and furrowing their brow. Meanwhile, they curled their legs around his torso like a koala as he held them tight, making sure there was no space between them.

They knew it was all a lost cause. He had set the board how he wanted. He would not let them go again, and they didn’t want him to.

“Shh,” Leona mumbled into their shirt, inhaling deeply. “ You’ve been real workin’ lately hard, right? Rest wit’ me.”

“But I-” Yuu yawned, their eyes watering some as they did. The action had forced their eyes shut. The breeze also was not helping, rocking them both gently inside the hammock.  “Fine. But just for a little while.” They breathed out, their own shoulders finally relaxing. Yuu’s head slumped over to gently bob against Leona’s. 

“You win…this time.”

The man only chuckled at their admission of defeat, a warm note buzzing against their chest. 

The last thing they saw was the colored glass of the greenhouse, filtering in pink light through the serrated leaves of the palm trees.

Leona’s sighs of contentment traveled through their body, as his warm fingers kneaded into their back. 

--

[dollzites]

⏦ﾟ♡︎ “WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHY?”

୨ৎ pairing: boyfriend!seunghyun x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff! so fluff.. so cute :(

୨ৎ from myeong: hello! this is such a cute request and I’m so excited to share this with you! I hope you can enjoy it x

the familiar feeling of a warm and soft hand grabbed ahold of your own and your eyes opened immediately, turning to look over at your boyfriend seunghyun who had been smiling at you. “we’re here, my love.” his deep voice always sent shivers down your spine. always? well, you two haven’t been a couple for too long and this was only the third date but since knowing him and spending the time you already did with him, his voice was music to your eyes and you wanted to continue hearing it until the end of your days. giving him a small nod you fix your hair and outfit making sure everything looked good before opening the door and stepping out of the car. the museum he wanted to take you too was a few hours away from the city you both lived in and though you didn’t mind the drive at all, your feet were killing you. “isn’t this so exciting? I’m sorry about the drive sweetheart.. I hope you’ll be okay to walk around with me. if not I can give you my shoes or we can find a store nearby and I’ll buy you a new pair, hm?” that was exactly how seunghyun was, a sweet gentleman. many thought of him as weird or different but you didn’t see it. you saw him as kind, caring, funny, and so loving. he did a fantastic job at showing such a good side of himself that others weren’t exposed too. you were special that’s why you got to see this side of him.

as you both walk through the large glass doors hand in hand he pulls you closer to wrap an arm around your waist and starts pointing with his other hand, showing you a piece that he was a huge fan of. what he didn’t know is that you didn’t.. how should you say this? particularly care about art and the culture of it all. it was something that didn’t ever cross your mind and even though you were a fan of painting rocks or marbles to make them pop, it was nothing like what was here at the museum. your lips curled up into a gentle smile as you nodded and listened to him speak about the painting that was now in front of you both. “this one here? it’s a newer piece that I have become familiar with.. it’s called solitude and would you like to know why?” seunghyun didn’t give you a chance to answer but you were fine with it anyway and gave a slight head nod for him to continue, “this painting here serves as a mirror, reflecting our own experiences and emotions back at us. it’s reminding us that solitude is not a burden to bear but a canvas upon which we can paint our own narratives, find solace, and discover the depth of our own souls.” you stared at him in complete awe of everything he had just said. both hands found his and gave them a slight squeeze while you turned to take another look at the beautiful painting.

as the both of you continued to walk around he found a bench in front of another painting and gently pulled you to sit down next to him. “I don’t get it seunghyun. I don’t get art and just.. everything about it. what you had told me about the last art piece was beautiful but it seems they’re all so similar in that way.” he wasn’t upset with what you said because he knows not everything he likes you’ll like but he looks at you in shock, “y/n, my love, I know we’ll have different opinions on each subject but the beauty of art is through the deep meanings and how the artist creates them.” seunghyun paused for a moment and turned to look at you with a playful and cute smile across his soft lips that you wanted to kiss so badly but held yourself back for the obvious reasons. “focus on connecting deeply with your subject matter, exploring personal experiences and emotions. utilizing strong composition techniques and.. well considering color symbolism! it’s so important. you have to constantly refine your skills through practice and exploration while also being quite mindful of the message you want to convey to the viewer.” a warm tear rolled down your cheek and you felt like such a idiot for getting so emotional over something like this. his way of words and talking about art was so beautiful to you and all you could do was hope that this would be an everyday thing in the future for you both. his large warm hand reached up to wipe the tear away and he leaned in right after letting his lips meet yours in a sweet kiss before pulling away and turning to look back at the painting in front of you.

“another beautiful painting. I think this one.. fits the both of us quite well, what do you think?” as you stare deeply at the painting from what you could see it was a couple or what seemed to be a couple and all you could do was nod, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “I think it’s beautiful seunghyun, just like you are. thank you for bringing me here even if I don’t understand the art or the process of it all. you’ve shown me a different side of it and I respect that.” a deep chuckle comes from his throat and he kisses the top of your head while pulling you closer to him as he continues to stare at the beautiful painting in front of him. what he was thinking? how lucky he was to have you and art in his life. he wouldn’t ask for anything else.

[obsessedwhyyes]

The Learned Observer

Fic Request: Voyeurism

Summary: On a sleepless night, Gale notices the distinct sound of hushed voices outside his tent. It couldn't be you and Astarion… could it? When he decides to take a peek - to satisfy his scholarly curiosity, of course - he gets more than he bargained for.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2623 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader, implied Astarion x Gale x Fem!Reader Content: Gale's POV (first person), voyeurism, dry humping, handjob, public sex, male masturbation, a little bit of jealousy.

A/N: Gale, in my humble opinion, would not use the word, “cock.” I cannot express how hard it was to not use the word, "cock" in a smut fic. I frigging love that word. Anyways, writing entirely in Gale’s voice was honestly the most fun mini challenge I’ve set myself so far, and I would gladly do first person BG3 companion POVs again. Thank you, dear anon, for the request!

Another sleepless night.

The orb pulses beneath my skin, each throb a reminder of my predicament.

I implore my mind to wander to the events of our journey, to the challenges that lie ahead, in pursuit of a worthwhile distraction. But the orb’s hunger grows stronger, like a raging maelstrom, each tribute to its insistent pull a mere ripple against the tide of its endless consumption. Perhaps I should consult the others about–

… Voices drift from outside my tent before I can finish my thoughts. Curious.

Hushed laughter and whispered words. Astarion's distinctive timbre and… you.

The sound is soft, subtle - a quiet exchange. Yet, here I am, catching fragments of something private, something perhaps not intended for outside ears.

I shift, the faintest spark of curiosity pulling me from my solitude. It's innocent, surely - a late-night conversation, perhaps a shared joke. And yet, as the moments pass, I can't ignore the intimacy in your laughter, the way Astarion's voice drops to that silken murmur he reserves for his attempts at enticement.

Just a glance, I tell myself. Merely to understand what could be so amusing at this hour.

Slowly, carefully, I draw back a sliver of canvas, just enough to peek through.

My breath catches as my eyes adjust to the firelight outside. There, on the other side of the campfire, resting against a fallen log, you sit beside him, close - very close - your faces inches apart.

Your legs are entwined, and there’s an intensity in the way you look at each other. I’m taken aback by the hunger in the kiss that follows - one neither timid nor restrained. Your hands begin to explore each other with what I can only call fervour - the kind of urgency I hadn't known either of you possessed, let alone with each other. 

The way you move together speaks of raw desire rather than tender affection - this is clearly a new physical relationship.

When did this start? How did I miss the signs? Though perhaps I was too caught up in my own concerns to notice the lingering glances, the way you always seemed to find reasons to be near each other…

I tell myself it’s simple curiosity that keeps me here, observing. A certain academic interest, if you will. After all, Astarion has always been something of a hedonist - a man who indulges in his desires with a recklessness I sometimes envy, though rarely approve. But to see him like this - in action, as it were - offers a unique perspective on his character.

You murmur something I cannot make out, a teasing lilt in your voice, and Astarion laughs in that rakish, honeyed tone of his, as though thrilled to have you so wholly entranced. His hands grip your waist, and with a practised grace, he pulls you into his lap, the hem of your skirt spilling around you both. As his hands settle on your hips, you grind against what I can only assume to be a prominent hardness in his trousers, judging by the satisfied smirk on his face. 

You seem eager, pliant under his touch, responding in ways I confess I hadn’t thought you capable of - no, not like this. Not with him.

My heart hammers in my chest, a tension spreading through me that’s… increasingly difficult to ignore. And yet, I remind myself, this is mere observation, nothing more. A clinical exercise in understanding the intricacies of interpersonal attractions between a vampire and a mortal; the undercurrent of danger that befalls such an arrangement.

He holds you with a blend of confidence and entitlement that borders on decadent, his mouth at your neck, lips brushing against your skin with a maddening leisure that’s somehow indulgent and teasing all at once. His fangs linger there and, for a moment, my heart stops - surely he wouldn’t… Ah, no. No, he’s not feeding. He merely kisses your neck, fangs scraping lightly against your throat - close enough to tempt and tantalise. I see the goosebumps flare on your skin.

He whispers something low and unintelligible, and you let out a soft giggle, yielding in a way that speaks of trust - trust that’s he’s earned, somehow, despite his nature.

And then your hand drifts between you both, touching him through his trousers.

Gosh. I hadn’t thought you so bold.

Astarion’s body arches into your touch, his gaze darkening as he watches you with a hunger that’s both terrifying and… strangely beautiful. I find myself entranced, my breath shallow as I observe the way your fingers trace over him, the way he leans into you. The noise he makes when your fingers flex, squeezing him gently over the fabric… Gracious. 

There’s a strange, reluctant curiosity building within me. I should look away. I should grant you both the privacy you likely assume you have. And yet, my gaze remains fixed, drawn to the details of your encounter: the way his hands tighten on your waist, the way your breaths synchronise, the way he murmurs softly into your ear…

I am aware - painfully so - of the ache low in my body that has built with each passing moment, each glance, each touch. I am no stranger to restraint - I have spent years tempering my desires, sacrificing comforts in the pursuit of knowledge, of power. Yet, here, now, I feel that restraint begin to falter; to dissolve like ink in water, dispersing until it is all but unrecognisable. It has been so long, after all. So, so long.

When your hands move to the waistband of his trousers, my breath catches. Gods above, surely you won't, not out in the open... but yes. Yes, it seems you will.

When you pull him free, well - I’ve always wondered about vampire physiology, purely academically, of course. But the sight of him prompts rather less scholarly thoughts. He’s impressively endowed - perhaps it is wishful thinking to believe that this is but another gift of his condition. It’s fascinating how vampiric transformation affects every part of the body - he’s almost luminescent in the firelight, every inch of him perfect and unmarred. I notice the veins that trace along his length, faintly visible beneath his skin. He is, even now, a study in confidence, exuding a subtle power that one can only achieve when utterly comfortable in one’s own skin.

Your hand wraps around him, sliding up and down his length at a teasing pace, drawing forth a sound I have never heard our pale companion make - a soft, broken gasp, caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh. It sounds almost reluctant, as though he hadn’t meant for such a sound to slip past his lips. He twitches under your ministrations, and his grip on your hips tightens enough that there will surely be bruises tomorrow.

My fingers rest at my thigh, trembling ever so slightly. A small part of me - a remnant of reason, perhaps - tells me to pull back, to look away, to let this moment pass without surrendering to the need that has taken root within me. But my body, the traitorous thing it is, does not heed such commands. Instead, I find my hand drifting lower.

My fingers trace over the fabric of my trousers, over the aching hardness beneath. A gentle palming, barely enough to ease the tension that coils tighter with each passing moment as I watch the scene unfold.

Your hands elicit quiet murmurs from Astarion that grow deeper and more insistent with each passing moment. For a moment, the two of you share a look - one of conspiratorial mischief, perhaps - and then a soft, shared giggle, the sound mingling with the crackling of the fire. 

You're so utterly engrossed in him; so utterly unselfconscious.

You shift, a question in your eyes, and as he nods, giving his assent, you rise just enough to shift, positioning yourself over him. Your skirts drape around you both, providing a veneer of modesty, though there's no mistaking what follows when you sink yourself down on to him. The way your lips part in a gasp as he enters you, the way his head falls back with a victorious grin - it makes the tightness, the great ache between my legs, almost unbearable.

I find my hand slipping beneath my waistband.

Just a little relief, I tell myself. Just enough to ease this maddening tension.

There is a certain poetry to it, I suppose - this surrender to the pleasures of the flesh. I allow myself to imagine, as my hand finds the throbbing heat of my arousal, what it might feel to be in your place, to have someone look at me with that same confidence, to experience touch imbued with the certainty of one who knows precisely how to elicit pleasure - a knowledge gleaned from centuries, no doubt, of indulgence and conquest.

It’s enough to leave me aching for more than mere observation.

The fervour with which you move against him… it’s hypnotic, each roll of your hips drawing forth increasingly wanton sounds from you both. Astarion's carefully crafted demeanour gives way to something more roguish, a playful daring that glints in his eyes as you rise and fall and rise and fall on his length.

I find my hand instinctively matching your rhythm, every shift and motion, as though I, too, am bound to the undulating tempo that you and Astarion have created.

Gods… what must it be like to be him? To have someone so openly, eagerly drawn to you, meeting every touch with matching fervour? To hold someone close and feel their raw desire, the thrill of each laugh, each gasp, offered without hesitation? I wonder what it must be like to inspire such a response, to be desired so freely, without need for pretence or restraint?

With Mystra, I was ever the pursuer, striving tirelessly to earn even the barest hint of her approval, each moment together feeling like an examination I desperately hoped to pass. But Astarion… well. He needn't chase or convince. Despite his vampiric nature - or perhaps, in part, because of it - he is simply desired, freely given all that I once had to beg for. The inequity of it all would be rather poetic, if it weren't so personally vexing.

“A-ah!”

Your gasp cuts through my ruminations, pulling me back into the scene.

Astarion’s hand has slipped between you, guiding you to that final crescendo with a practised touch. The sight of it is utterly spellbinding: his fingers moving with a precision that speaks to centuries of experience, knowing just where to press, where to linger. The control he exercises over you is enviable, each movement of his hand coaxing you closer to that peak, his attention wholly focused on your reaction, even as your hips rock back and forth on his length with an increasingly frantic, unrestrained urgency.

The way your eyes roll back... Gosh.

The expression on your face, one of pure, unfiltered abandon, is a sight to behold.

Your body trembles as you reach your peak, and a sound - a cry, too loud in the stillness of the night - escapes your lips. Astarion’s palm clamps over your mouth, a futile attempt to muffle you in the throes of your climax. Though he hushes you, his expression suggests that he is not in the least bit concerned. In fact, he seems rather pleased - more than pleased, really. 

There’s a thrill in such a public display for him too, no doubt.

I swallow, the sound almost too loud, my heart pounding against my ribs as though it seeks to betray me. Astarion's head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to the shadows, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he has sensed me, that his attention has shifted from you to this invisible interloper, the scholar caught red-handed in his quiet act of voyeurism.

Could he... sense me here, lingering on the fringe of his private moment? Could he smell the stir of my own arousal, feel the faint tremor of my breath as I fight for composure? For several heartbeats, my hand freezes. I dare not even breathe.

But then his attentions return to you, and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

He brings his hands to your hips, holding them firmly in place as he drives himself upwards into you, deeper, with mounting desperation. It seems he seeks to chase his own release, content with the pleasure he has wrought you.

You respond eagerly, pressing closer, your own sounds growing louder, heedless of who might hear, and I can see that thrill in his face - the satisfaction of knowing he’s eliciting every reaction from you, drawing out each gasp, each shudder.

My hand glides hastily across my arousal, my own breathing growing ragged as I watch his control begin to slip. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips back in pure abandon.

In the final throes, he presses himself against you, buried firmly to the hilt. It’s almost animalistic, all thoughts, all calculated movements, making way for one singular goal: to empty himself into you, filling you with all he has to offer with breaths rugged and low. All composure is stripped, replaced with instinct and pure need.

I find my own movements quickening to match his pace, as though some invisible thread binds us all to this moment. My hand tightens as I lose myself in the same tempo, every sound from you both spurring me closer. The sight of his final shudder, the look of utter satisfaction crossing his face as he reaches that height, is enough to tip me over the edge.

For a heartbeat, the night seems to hold us all in perfect suspension - your quiet gasps, his satisfied murmurs, my own silent echo of shared pleasure - all woven together in this clandestine tableau.

Only then, as the euphoria begins to fade, does a most uncomfortable awareness creep in.

Gods above, what have I... A scholar of worldly acclaim, reduced to voyeur, caught up in base desires like some common... No. Best not to dwell on such things. Though I suspect sleep will prove rather elusive tonight, haunted by questions of propriety and... other matters.

With a groan, I roll onto my back, the orb’s steady throb now a minor annoyance compared to the tangled thoughts that flood my mind. Perhaps I can chalk this entire… incident up to fatigue, a wandering mind, even a fevered dream. Yes, that must be it. The product of a restless night and, possibly, a touch of indigestion. After all, who could believe that I, Gale of Waterdeep, would be brought so low as to... well, that.

As morning light spills across camp, I attempt a façade of normalcy, willing my cheeks to cool and my mind to settle. Just as I convince myself the night’s events were nothing more than a peculiar dream, Astarion sidles up, his expression one of leisurely amusement.

"Restless night, Gale?” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. His gaze is as sharp as his tone, a knowing glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist in the most uncomfortable way. "I thought I heard a... stirring from your tent."

The corner of his mouth quirks up in that infuriatingly smug way of his, and I nearly choke on my response. 

He knew. 

Astarion knew. 

I force a cough, pretending to inspect the morning sky.

"A dream," I reply a bit too quickly. "Perhaps the cheese at dinner was... overly ripe."

But Astarion merely chuckles, a wicked sound, before strolling away with a satisfied air. And as I watch him saunter off, I’m left to question just how much of the night was a dream - and how much, mortifyingly, was very, very real.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy @asterordinary

[brattyvox]

★ GALLY’S GIRL — MxF.

NAVIGATION — MASTERLIST // Inbox to be on Taglist!

Thomas has just arrived at the Glade, and only days after his arrival, a girl is introduced, and the first person who catches her eye is Gally.

GENRE ★ Fluff if you squint?

PAIRING ★ Fem reader x Gally

WARNINGS ★ Reader is implied to be injured, nothing serious though, Gally’s a bit of an asshole, reader kind of replaces Teresa? Idk, you’re Teresa in this case, reader is of age.

Word Count — 2.94k

My first ever fic on tumblr, lol.. i hope u guys like it :))

In the early dawn, the glade was alive with the hum of activity. Thomas, still new to the group, was already finding his place among the other boys. They moved together, each knowing their role in the daily routine that kept this place thriving. The scent of cooking fires mingled with the dew-laden grass as the sun began to peek over the towering walls that surrounded them.

The sky above was a canvas of pinks and oranges, the light dancing off the leaves of the trees that grew in an orderly fashion around the clearing. It was as if nature itself had laid out a path for them to follow, a silent guide in this otherwise mysterious world. The air was cool and fresh, hinting at the secrets the day would soon reveal.

Gally took a deep breath, feeling the tension that lingered just beneath the surface of everything. Everyone else seemed to ignore it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. He watched as the runners returned from their early morning laps, sweat shining on their skin, muscles flexing as they moved.

Suddenly, a low rumbling cut through the serenity of the glade. The boys paused in their tasks, heads tilting upwards as they listened. The sound grew louder, a grating intrusion in their peaceful world. It was the box, rising from the depths of the maze much sooner than expected. A flicker of unease passed over their faces. The box was here way too early.

"What is that?" Thomas asked. Newt being the only other person near him at the time dropped his tools and put his hand on his forehead.

"The box is coming back up but — it's way too early for them to be sending anyone…" He mumbled the last part. "But it can't be resources either… I think it's a person."

"What?" Thomas scoffed, walking over to where the song was coming from along with Newt and the rest of the glade. "Why would they send anyone if it's too early?"

“You’re asking me as if I know.” Newt folds his arms.

“Well, you’ve been here than me I would’ve thought-” Thomas paused when the sound grew louder, his voice was with a mix of curiosity and fear. The rumbling grew closer, the earth beneath their feet vibrating gently with each mechanical jolt.

The group gathered around the hole in the ground where the box normally emerged, their eyes fixed on the distant corner where the box would soon appear. The walls themselves seemed to be holding their breath in anticipation. The grinding noise grew louder, the metal beast rising from the earth with a shudder that sent a chill down Thomas's spine. The box emerged from the shadows.

Inside was…you? A girl?

Your eyes fluttered open, and you gasped for breath, the smells of metal and dust filling your nose as you took in the faces of the stunned group of boys. Your clothes were tattered, and your skin was riddled with dirt, but the look of shock on their faces wasn't for your appearance. It was because you were a girl, and you were sent way too early something they hadn't seen in a very, very long time.

The box shuddered to a halt. The door creaked open, revealing the cramped space you had been confined in. You backed into the corner, legs wobbly and unsteady from the journey. The group of boys parted, creating a pathway for Gally to walk through. Before he reached the box, Thomas stepped forward, hand outstretched to help you, but you shied away, eyes wide with fear and confusion.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, voice quiet to not alarm you. “None of us will.”

Thomas stared, feeling as if he recognized you but…it wasn't clicking. You were so out of place here, a stark contrast to the world of boys he'd known since he woke up in the glade with no memory. His mind raced, trying to piece together why you were here, what this meant. The glade had always been a place of order, of understanding their roles and sticking to the rules. Now, everything was off.

The other boys whispered among themselves, a mix of awe and suspicion. Gally's eyes narrowed, a scowl etching itself onto his features. He was the first to break the silence, his voice harsh and accusatory. "What is she doing here?"

“Do you really have to act like that right now? She’s clearly scared.” Thomas grumbled, very fed up with Gally at this point.

Alby, the leader of the glade, pushed through the crowd, his eyes never leaving yours. "Looks like she's been through a lot. Get her to the med hut.” His tone was gentle but firm, a stark contrast to Gally's aggression.

As Thomas helped you out of the box and to the medical hut with Gally, Alby, and Newt following close behind, your hand trembled in his, and he couldn't help but wonder what horrors you had faced. The glade was a harsh place, but it was their home, and the arrival of an outsider, especially a girl, was unprecedented. The whispers grew louder, questions and theories flying around like leaves in a storm. The glade's rhythm was disrupted, and the unease grew stronger with each step you took away from the box.

Once inside the medical hut, the other boys hovered around, eager to help, but you remained guarded. The healer, a gentle-hearted boy named Clint, began to examine you. His eyes searched yours, looking for signs of recognition or understanding. But you were a blank slate, a girl with no name and no memory of how you got here, like the rest. The stitches on your forehead, a stark reminder of your journey, stood out against your skin.

Gally's shadow loomed outside the hut, his suspicion thick enough to be felt through the walls. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and his jaw was set. "Why the hell did they send a girl," he spat. "What is this, some sort of prank? Ever since you got here, stuff started to go wrong. And now a girl is here."

Thomas felt his temper rising. He had seen enough fear in those first moments when he arrived to understand how you must feel. "It doesn’t matter how or where she came from, we can't just leave her to fend for herself," he countered, his voice firm but not confrontational. "We need to help her, find out who she is."

Newt, who had been quietly observing from the side, spoke up. "It's never been like this before, man. Girls aren't sent here." His eyes searched yours, filled with a curiosity that matched Thomas's.

Alby sighs and takes a seat next to you. "Do you know your name or where…where you came from?"

You looked around the small, makeshift medical area. "I-I don't know," you stammered, your voice cracking. "I don't remember anything."

The room fell silent, the weight of your words pressing down on them like a heavy blanket. The boys shared looks, a mix of concern and confusion. Alby's eyes softened. "We'll figure it out," he assured you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You're safe here."

"Thomas, Gally, watch her. I'm going to try and find something to get the dirt off of her. Make sure none of the other boys get to her. God knows what the hell they'll do. Newt, cmon." Alby sighs before walking out, Newt stopping next to Thomas.

“And make sure Gally doesn’t choke her out.” He whispers before finally leaving.

Thomas nods solemnly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you're okay." His voice is gentle, the first hint of kindness you've heard since you woke up in this strange place. You nod slightly, not trusting your voice to speak again. The other boys start to disperse, their whispers and stares still following you like a cloud of bees.

Once Alby is out of earshot, Gally turns to Thomas with a snarl. "I don't trust her," he says, his eyes flicking to you and then back to Thomas.

Thomas's grip tightens around the spear he's holding. "Gally, you're not — that's a stupid assumption to make, okay?"

"After you came here, shit started to spiral out of control and now we have a girl here? You think I'm stupid for assuming she could be a danger to us?!" Gally's voice raised slightly, your ears perking to his voice. His eyes landed on you, sighing and pulling Thomas away. "She doesn't know her name and she doesn't remember where she came from."

“You trusted me, didn’t you?”

“…That’s different.” Gally groans. “We don’t get sent girls.”

Thomas's gaze remained steady. "The point is we treat her like we would any newbie. Help her, keep her safe, and figure out what the hell is going on." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

Gally looked skeptical, but nodded begrudgingly. "Fine. But if she causes any trouble…" He left the threat hanging in the air, his eyes dark.

"I'm cold…" you mumble. Gally's face contorted.

"It's not even cold outside, how are you cold-?" Gally began, but was cut off by Thomas' gentle nudge.

"Let's get her a blanket, okay?" Thomas offered with a kind smile. You nodded, feeling a small spark of gratitude for his understanding. He left the hut and returned moments later with a warm, woolen blanket that smelled faintly of the glade's flora. Wrapping it around you, he sat down opposite, his eyes never leaving yours.

"What's your name?" he asked softly. The question was simple, but it held a world of meaning in this place where everything was a puzzle.

You searched your thoughts, but the fog was thick and heavy. "I-I don't know," you replied, your voice quivering. "They never told me."

Gally leaned against the wall. "Well, until you remember, your name is Greenie." His tone was not unkind, but it was firm, a reminder that until you had proven yourself, you were still a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

Thomas flinched at the term, but you just nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. "Ignore him, okay? I'm gonna check on Alby to see where he is with the stuff. Gally, be nice to her." He shot a look at Gally before exiting the medical hut, leaving you and Gally in an awkward silence.

Gally took a deep breath, his features softening slightly. "Look, I'm not trying to be an ass," he began, his voice gruff. "It's just that we don't get girls here, and the last thing we need is for you to mess up our routine. No kidding, you’re surrounded by boys who haven’t seen a girl in years. Who knows what the hell they’d do to you.”

You nodded, not knowing how to respond. The walls of the hut felt as if they were closing in on you, suffocating you with their unspoken questions and accusations. Your eyes searched the room, landing on the shelves filled with medical supplies and makeshift weapons. You felt utterly out of place, a wildflower in a field of thorns.

Gally's gaze softened, sensing your distress. "Look, I'm not saying you're gonna cause trouble, but we just need to be careful, alright?" He paused, his eyes searching yours for understanding. "Everything changes now, and we need to stick together."

"…What's your name?" you ask. The question felt strange on your lips, foreign and yet familiar at the same time. Gally's eyes narrowed, his arms still crossed.

"I told you; I don't trust you so I'm not tellin'," he replied curtly. "Until then, I'm kinda like your superior or whatever."

You tilted your head, even pouting. "That guy before kept saying Gally and Thomas but I don't know which one is which," you whispered. Gally's stance didn't change, but something in his eyes did, a flicker of something that wasn't quite anger or suspicion anymore.

"Fine," he huffed. "It's Gally." He pointed to Thomas' empty spot. "And that's Thomas. He's the one who brought you in here."

You studied him, the name 'Gally' echoing faintly in your mind like the distant chime of a bell. "Thank you, Gally."

He nodded curtly, still keeping his guard up. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm being harsh, but we've got a system here. It keeps us all alive, and we can't have anyone messing with it. Do you understand?"

You nodded, the warmth of the blanket beginning to seep into your bones. "Yes, you’ve…said that. I won't cause any trouble," you promised, your voice small and hopeful.

Gally sighed, his stance relaxing slightly. "Good."

You twiddled your thumbs, now avoiding eye contact. You still wanted to talk, but you didn't know about what. So, you started to ramble.

"So…what is this place? And — hlong have you been in here?" you asked, trying to piece together the puzzle of this strange place. Gally's eyes searched the room, as if looking for answers in the shadows.

"Too long," he murmured, his voice distant. "A couple of years, I think." He paused, considering his words. "It's hard to keep track of time when every day is the same. And no one really knows what this place is.”

The silence that followed was filled with the unspoken understanding of lives lived in a perpetual cycle of fear and survival. You could see the weariness in Gally's eyes, the weight of his responsibilities etched into the lines of his face. "What's it like outside this place?" you whispered, the curiosity burning like a tiny flame in the pit of your stomach.

Gally's expression darkened. "We don’t know. Like I said, we’ve been stuck in here for years." he said bluntly. "You should be worrying about what it’s like in here. Especially for a girl." His voice held a warning, a clear boundary you were not to cross. Yet, the curiosity grew stronger, the need to understand this world that was now your home.

"You seem to care a lot about me being a girl in here. So like, are you gonna protect me or something? Since it's too much for a girl like me?" You asked Gally, your voice a mix of hope and challenge.

Gally looked at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. Was she flirting with him? No, he’s just crazy. "I'm not saying that."

"Well, you're acting like because I'm a girl, I can't survive in here so does that mean you're gonna protect me, yes or no?" You questioned, your voice a little stronger than before.

Gally sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Look, it's not like that. It's just…-"

"Then what is it?" You push your hair out of your face, causing Gally to choke on his words.

"I-uh, I just-" He stammers before stopping. "Look, Thomas is the one who'll be looking after you."

"But why can't you?" You press, feeling a strange need to understand the dynamics of this place.

Gally's eyes harden. "Because Thomas is the nicest one of us all. He's the one who can handle…this." He gestures at you, his voice laced with something you can't quite pinpoint.

"But he's not the one saying I won't make it because I'm a girl. It's you. You seem to care a lot." You looked up at him, your eyes searching his, trying to understand the complex emotions that played across his face.

Gally's cheeks flushed slightly. "It's not that, it's just…" He trailed off, at a loss for words. "The glade isn't for the weak." His voice was gruff, but the way he said it suggested that he didn't believe you were weak, just different.

"Well, I'm not weak." you slide off the bed and walk over to him, the height difference between you stark. "I've survived whatever they put me through to get here. I can survive this."

Gally's jaw tightens, his eyes never leaving yours. "You might think you're strong, but the glade and the maze…it's not like anything you've ever faced. I mean, you won’t be going into the maze, anyway. We're all here for a reason, and none of us are weak. But we're also all we've got." His words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the precariousness of your situation.

You stand tall, the blanket falling from your shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere. And I'll do whatever it takes to survive." Your voice is steady, the resolve in it unmistakable. Gally stares at you, his expression unreadable.

"I guess we'll see," he says finally, turning away. "For now, you need to rest. We'll figure out your role once you're feeling better." His words are dismissive, but the tension in his shoulders suggests he's still processing what you've said.

You scoff and walk back over to the bed, sitting down and turning away from him. Gally notices the blanket on the floor, wondering if he should pick it up and give it to you or if he should let you stay cold. He wanted to leave it, but - ugh, he couldn't. He picks the blanket up and storms over, putting it around your shoulders. "Here," he says gruffly, his face a mask of frustration. "Don't get too comfortable, Greenie. We've got work to do and I'm not carrying you around."

You look up at him, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Thank you," you murmur, your eyes never leaving his. Gally clears his throat, uncomfortable under your gaze. He turns to leave, needing to get out of the room before he says something else stupid.

[pizzaapeteer]

Sucking isn’t always bad

Been thinking about Mechanic Mattheo, in which reader needs a little road help and in return offers a little roadhead.

A/n: also I am sleep deprived so apologizes if this has some minor mistakes, and Ty to my pookies @thatdammchickennugget @amongemeraldclouds 🤍

Warnings: NSFW 18+, fem! reader, throatfucking, semi public, swearing, hair pulling, degrading, i literally no shit all about cars 🙃 around 3k.

Sweltering heat blisters down on your skin, messing with your vision and increasing your frustration. You wipe your forehead, looking down at the hood of your car in confusion. You never should've trusted that dealer. The car was a piece of junk and now, thanks to them, you were stranded on the side of the road.

Dust kicks up, swirling on the desert road around the thick rubber of slowing tires, a car pulling over to a stop in front of yours. The ignition is killed, and a pair of dirt covered boots hit the ground, your head craning over your shoulder to see who's stopped. Prayers run through your mind in hopes of someone kind and actually useful, and they're answered a little too well. The air stills with an itching sensation that spikes your adrenaline as you gawk at the handsome specimen exiting his car. 

Jean-cladded burly thighs roll into view, revealing his intimidatingly tall frame that grows in his quick stretch. He's covered in an overlay of tattoos that decorate the sun-kissed canvas of his muscular arms. They constrict in his approach, moving to take a drag from the cigarette that hangs loose in his mouth, and you wonder how one can smoke those in the heats thick let alone wear black.

He walks with a relaxed stride, waving a friendly hand, his dark curls tousling by the movement. "Looking a little stuck there. Want a hand?"

Eyes that hold a deep brown search your face, determining the kind of person you are. He flickers them intensely down over your summer fit, drifting them back up, chuckling lightly at the black smudge of grease smeared across your forehead.

Mattheo had been enjoying the sweet tunes of his radio, strumming a hand against the heat of the steering wheel on his drive back into town. The smoke from his cigarette coolly inhaled into his lungs, his eyes flickering over the lane when they narrowed, zoning in on your bonnet popped up.

His eyes had taken your appearance in, wetting his lips in thought about whether he should pull over. Helping a gorgeous damsel was one of his favorite things and it seemed to be an often occurrence on the edge of town. Being a mechanic, he found people were pretty thoughtful in their payments, and the more he had gazed at you, the more the idea grew in seeing how you might help his pockets out. 

A hopeful and wishful grin bears on your face at his offer and his casual approach relaxes your posture. You lean against the edge of the hood, trying to appear nonchalant. "Oh please! You wouldn’t mind? I’ve been staring at this hunk of junk for the last 10 minutes, completely lost in what’s wrong."

His eyes soften, giving you a charming smile of his own, taking a step closer to inspect the inside of your car. Inhaling in the final smoke of his cigarette, he drops it, crushing it under the toe of his shoe. He hums in thought, a deep vibration that vertebrates like a car itself. His gaze flickers over to you momentarily before he begins to work, his eyes analyzing all areas searching for the fault.

Wiping your forehead, you fan your face huffing out a breathless laugh, "Sure is hot, huh?" you grin, making light conversation while he works. He hums in agreement, another low tone that makes your core ache. Your eyes drape admiringly over his biceps, that flex in his movements, watching the way his fingers fidget around the machine. 

Protruding veins probe at his skin under each flex and the dryness in your mouth thickens, overcome by a new sensation of heat. He straightens up, looking over at you, licking his lips subconsciously. "Could you grab something from my backseat? It’s a wrench." His words hold humour and a slightly degrading teasing tone, having noticed your puzzled look while you stand prettily doing nothing. 

Nodding eagerly, keen to be of assistance to this oh-so-fucking sexy god of a man, you move with a run in your step towards his black car. You peer over the backseat through the window and spot the metal wrench, bending down to grab it.

He calls out again. "And my water, if you don’t mind?" He turns to make sure you heard and watches delightfully, with greedy eyes at the sight before him.

Thighs that shine with sweat under the blazing sun, reflecting like an ethereal being. His eyes nearly pop out of his sockets at the way your ass hugs against the tight jean shorts, half of it falling out of the material. He rests his weight on the hood of the car, stretching his legs out as he takes his time in appreciating the ravishing view in front of him. The curve of your back bending so sensually as you reach further in to grab his water. Such a good little helper.

Fuck. He’s already thinking about how he’d like to help himself to something from you right now, a salvation that could only release him from the thirst his body was craving. He stifled a groan, knowing this was not the time to get hard. He watches, still amazed at the cute stupidity that you could have just opened the door, questioning the delectable actions before him. 

He graciously accepts the water from you, riveting in your adorable dazzling grin in the retrieval of it, and he downs half the bottle generously. “Thanks. I’m Mattheo by the way.” He lifts his fingers off the bottle in a playful wave, wanting to make sure you remember his name before he sends you on your merry way. Hopefully, with a little trade that leaves him just as satisfied with the hard work he’s putting in. 

Flashing a sweet grin back, you repeat the name over in your head, Mattheo. It fits him perfectly and you can’t help but get lost in the daydream as you watch the way he pours a little water over his head. The liquid seeps into his locks, darkening them. It helps to battle the intense heat that was becoming unbearing; the coolness refocusing his sinful thoughts aside to finish the job. His fingers grab the wrench from you with a boyish grin and he shakes his hair, wiping his hands on his cloth, cleaning them throughly before running his fingers through his hair.

Happy to have been of service, you gaze hypnotically as the water drips, sliding with slowness along the base of his Adam's apple, dipping beneath the covered barrier of his shirt. You know he can probably sense your gaze, but you don’t really care, you’re already thinking of ways to repay him. At the small clearing of his throat, you realize you never told him your own name. "Nice to meet you, I go by y/n." Smiling sweetly at his manners, you ask, "You do this often?"

His head turns as he leans in, tightening a part, smiling at your pretty name. "Likewise." A deep, flirtatious laugh ripples from him and he raises a brow charmingly. "What? Help out pretty girls?"

Easily flattered, a giggle unlike yourself slips out and you cringe inwardly, before leaning an elbow on the edge of your rental car, trying to reattempt some coolness. "Uh I mean fixing cars…. you seem to know a bit about them."

He finds your flustered expression a level of adorableness that makes his head imagine what you'd look like whining and begging for him and it’s clear his cock agrees as his pants stiffen. He bites his lips and closes the hood with a firm shut. "I’m a mechanic. But I’ve always known my way under a hood." He flashes a cheeky smile, watching to see how perceptive you can be at his innuendo.  

The reddening of your cheeks flush to match the crimson of the paint job, making his eyes gleam before he continues talking, becoming appreciative. "You got a nice car here despite the small adjustment, should continue to run smoothly." 

He walks past, brushing against you in his fascinated inspection of the vehicle. He opens the side door, looking at the vintage interior, exhaling a low whistle. "Damn, this is some quality leather." Even the view from behind is divine, toned back muscles roll back as he stretches his hands out, pressing his hands into the texture, rubbing his fingers along the groves of the seat. 

Lost in the way Mattheo admires the interior, you bite your lip, figuring out a way to keep him around a little longer. "You should lay on it. It's the most comfortable thing. I’ve taken many naps in it during my time away."

Finding your offer only kind and sweet, Mattheo doesn’t hesitate in stretching himself along the length of your backseat. His arms find comfort tucked under his head, and he closes his eyes, imagining taking a nap out away from the blizzard heat. He releases a content hum. His blissful relaxation is stalled with the fact you’re still looking at him from outside the car, and he opens his eyes. 

Your face tells him it all and he understands there's no need to hide the clear arousal protruding tight into his jeans with how your lips are pursed, practically salivating at the vision. His lips curl into a tantalizing grin and you raise a brow, reading his look all too well.

"Thanks for helping me out there. I'm so useless at cars, I totally suck with them." The exaggerated helplessness of your tone doesn't go unmissed by him watching you stepping forward in between his widened legs. "But I’m real good at sucking at other things."

His eyes glimmer with understanding, making him sit up with rapid speed and pull you down onto him. There’s no room for shyness when he connects your lips onto his, teeth clashing amid the hungry kiss. Mattheo works skilfully, he’s agile and through the same way he is with a car and it’s clear he knows his way around a woman. 

The confidence radiating off him doesn’t take you by surprise when his hands don't hesitate in tracing your body. Sturdy hands grope the outlines of your curves like they’ve caressed you a thousand times, sparks of heat left behind every touch. He shuffles, multitasking in his efforts to keep you busy while unbuckling his jeans, his pants practically bursting, having thought about this for the last twenty minutes.

His needy hands roam curving inwards, grabbing eagerly at your overspilling tits. He squeezes aggressively, the soft, supple flesh glistening with a sheen of sweat, releasing a low groan into your mouth. He’s enjoying the way your breathing heightens the feel of your chest rising against his palm and he continues grasping the back of your neck and guiding you down to where he needs you. 

"Good at sucking, you say? Don’t mind if you give me a tester first, yeah?" An amused smirk pulls brushing your lips and his hands push the crown of your head down with determined force, his hips lift sliding out of his trousers. 

You don’t hesitate in taking initiative, tugging hastily at his tight boxers, pulling your lip between your teeth in anticipation at the holy sight being revealed. The depths of your eyes lighten, glossing over him with a shine that matches the leaking pre cum dripping from the head of his cock. Eagerly your hand reaches, pumping the length of it, listening to the low husk of his breath, encouraging you in wanting to make him feel good. 

"Oh, fuck.." Mattheos' hips jut at the feeling of your luscious lips wrapping around the head of his tip, it's flushed as pink as his cheeks are under the heat of the car. His hands tangle deep into your strands, gripping at the roots to angle your head further down.

"Y-yeah -ah- that’s it. Come on a little deeper." Your feet slide on the gravel road, knees buckling out and fall onto the edge of the car, the indents pressing into your skin leaving behind a marking in your pleasurable help towards him. His cock guides inching further inwards, suffocating snuggly down your throat. You groan gagging on the thickness of his cock at the sudden brute force his hips exceed, your nails digging intently into his thighs.

"Oh yeah, Atta girl, that’s it." His praises make your legs melt like jelly and you squeeze them together, the sweat making them stick. You whine pathetically, happy to be pleasing him. Developing a rhythmic motion, your lips slide along his length, sucking with an eagerness that causes a multitude of deep groans. His hands push, enforcing your pace to speed up, listening to the sweet sound of the way your lips slurp around him.

He wipes your lips, collecting your drool and pulls you off momentarily, shoving his fingers inside your gasping mouth. "You’re making such a mess, can’t send the rental back dirty," he tuts with a delectable grin, watching with satisfaction as his fingers disappear down your throat, creating more spit. "Atta girl." 

Your mouth reacts to the depth of his fingers, gagging around them, feeling tears well in your eyes, and he retracts them, giving you a moment to breathe. "Good to know you’re not dehydrated." 

An impish smile graces his lips as he watches the way you continue onwards, grunting at the feeling of your hands gliding around his soaking cock. His length glistening drenched in a mix of pre-cum and your spit. Kissing hungrily along it, your tongue flattens, slurping up the taste of him. Your movements are relentless and rapid, pumping him with a tight grasp, ignoring the way the sun burns down on you and leaves dried tear stains on your face. 

"God fuck- you’re so eager to be helpful, aren’t you?" His cock twitches and his hips jut again, "You're just fucking lovin this...come on sweetheart, put your mouth back where it belongs." He helps guide your lips back on him, watching lustfully as his cock disappears around your wet lips.  

His cock twitches, throbbing under the sensations of your wet lips. "look so pretty with your cheeks full." His lidded eyes flutter trying to watch you take him, lost in the control of admiring how easily you’ve made him fall apart. The tight suction of your hollowed cheeks slurping makes his hips jut, "f-fuck fuck.." He groans, grasping the back of the headrest chair, thrusting his hips up to continue staying in the warmth of pleasure. 

Watching with ravenous eyes at the way Mattheo’s body thrashes, becoming more restless has you choking a moan that vibrates around his cock. The desperation was becoming unbearable, and the craving was insatiable, bopping with clear determination to make this undeniably hot man fall apart.

His chest heaves, his shirt feeling the dampness of the heat soaking in and he’s struggling to keep his eyes locked on your movements. He’s had his fair share of beautiful women at his feet and you fit in among his top 10 for sure. But the way your eyes linger aimlessly on him, watching with intrigue and eagerness at every expression he makes, has him gripping your hair harder. Hissing out a groan, he stays panting, mumbling filthy praises, his hips jutting further. He’s close, he can feel it and his eyes finally roll back, slamming his dick deep into the depth of your throat. 

Your gags only spur his orgasm to come faster, feeling the constriction of your throat close, squeezing him and he pulls back with a desperate need. Grabbing himself, he pumps himself, decorating your face like a pretty picture drenching his cum across it. Watching how you take it unsparingly like you were anticipating it desperately, your tongue sticking out to taste any extra drips. 

His eyes flutter lazily, taking a deep breath to calm his adrenaline, his teeth sinking into his swollen bottom lip, exerting redness from the tension he had caused it. He adjusts himself, searching his jean pockets for his version of aftercare - his spare clean hand cloth he carries with him, leaning forwards to cup your chin and wipe your face of his excess. 

You hum catching your breath, appreciating the thoughtfulness, licking the spilled cum within your tongue's reach. Offering a thanks to him, you allow him to tend to you. Rarely did a man show any sort of kindness after such a vulgar act, and it just makes you want to repeat the action again. But Mattheo is already sorting himself out, concealing his pretty cock behind the covers of his boxers. 

You straighten up offering him a hand, out of the backseat, which he accepts, it swallows yours within the size of his. The firmness of his hold almost creates the opposite effect, and your feet slip on the dirt. He’s quick to catch you resting a study hand on the roof of the car and a tight grip around your waist. 

He throws you another cheeky look amused, "Already so eager for seconds, sweetheart you’re gonna give me a heart attack in this heat."

Bashfully, you laugh finding your footing on the desert road and you bite your lip at the idea of another round, "I mean…maybe there's also something wrong with my trunk?" 

His eyes light up huskily, sliding his hand further down your body giving your ass a solid squeeze, "Defiantly nothing wrong with your trunk sweetheart, but if you're feelin a little empty, I know a place to get you filled?"

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