#very thing you desired and sought after | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

osarina · 5 months ago

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ᡣ𐭩 LOVERS ROCK

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: there are very few things that leave dazai osamu at a loss for answers. you are one of them. more specifically, it's your relationship (is this a relationship?) with him that has him so disconcerted, and dazai is getting to his breaking point.

(wordcount: 3.6k; nsfw [kind of, very suggestive so will label nsfw], ada!reader, dazai has SEVERE trust issues & paranoia, this is set like half a year after he joined the ada, dazai also has a bad relationship with sex that is mentioned in his narration, he is terrible at communication too, accidentally hurts reader a little [nothing major])

AUTHOR'S NOTES: hiiiiiii guys <.< so i'm actually really proud of this ehehe. this is a universe that i'm tempted to expand on like wykyk, but we'll see.

Dazai hates giving up control.

Ever since he was a kid, he’s been hyper-independent. First with his family, because they were never around and he had to learn to be self-sufficient otherwise he’d die a slow, painful death. Then in the Port Mafia, he quickly learned that asking for help is a weakness and being dependent on others is a vulnerability that people would take advantage of to subvert his influence and usurp his position as an underboss. As long as he’s remembered, it was all but a death sentence to rely on any other than himself.

It wasn't until he became a member of the Agency that he finally began to allow himself to depend on others—banking on Ranpo and his mind, Kunikida and his ideals, Yosano and her tenacity. But even then, he never allowed himself to lose complete control over a situation, drawing things out in a way that would always leave him with a firm hand guiding the chess board.

Until he met you, at least.

He wasn’t sure what made you so different—he still isn’t entirely sure, it’s a thought that frequently plagues him, and because of it, he can never allow himself to be fully comfortable with you. You joined the Agency a month after him with lips that spoke pretty words and gave him even prettier smiles. You’d been kind to everyone, but Dazai likes to think you were especially kind to him. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Dazai liked the idea of it.

Well, he didn’t at first.

In fact, he was rather hostile to it. To you. The longing he felt for the casual, soft touches you laid upon the other members of the Agency felt more like a weakness than anything else. It scared him. He’d never desired anything of the sort before, he’d always been okay on his own—thrived in it, really—and now he was suddenly seeking you out at all hours of the day, and he didn’t even fully understand why. Every time he sought you out, it ended poorly with him saying something uncalled for and your expression twisting as you tried to hide your hurt.

And yet he still continued to seek you out. He made the same mistake over and over again: constantly forcing himself into your space after getting jealous watching you doll out casual affection to the other detectives, waiting for you to give him the same attention, and then lashing out in some manner when you finally did.

He supposed it didn’t help that Dazai was uncomfortable in general with people touching him, which naturally made him even more hostile because why was he longing for something that made him uncomfortable?

He also still isn’t sure how you managed to break through all of his walls—or why you even persisted when it became clear that he was at best incompetent when it comes to dealing with real emotions, and at worst, borderline malicious.

But you did. And it scared him. Scares him.

Dazai lets out a shaky breath when he feels your lips ghost against his neck, fingers twisting the sheets below him. Your hands are sliding against his sides, gentle and soothing, and a part of him wants to melt into the sheets while another part of him wants to flip the two of you around, press you back down into the mattress and rip control over the situation back from you.

As if you can sense his conflict—maybe you can, Dazai has come to realize that unlike everyone else at the Agency, who he can fool with his mask of exaggerated dramatics and clownlike behavior, that you had somehow learned how to see right through him—you pause for the sparest moment and trace your lips back up his neck to brush them against his own, soft and comforting, as if to soothe his discord.

And it works somehow. Dazai doesn’t know how you do it because he can’t even quell his own mind when it starts to spin out of control, but the brush of your lips against his is enough to ground him again.

“Everything okay?” you ask quietly, eyes searching his face for the answers that he knew his lips might not give.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice rough and cracking over the word.

He thinks maybe a part of it is the way you always check on him to make sure he’s doing alright. For Dazai, sex has only ever been transactional—he was young when he was first carted off to a whorehouse so he could be taught how to use his body for intel and other miscellaneous advantages. No matter how hard he tried to enjoy it, he always found it to be underwhelming at best and loathsome at worst. And he did try to enjoy it, he forced himself to seek out women in his free time to try to learn to enjoy the activity that so many other people seem to find comfort and pleasure in.

It wasn’t until you that he could.

His first time with you was earth shattering. He’s not exaggerating when he says it completely altered his perspective on intimacy. It was embarrassing, almost—he remembers giving you quick, flirty smiles, and he remembers the sly comments he whispered to you at the bar the members of the Agency were at to celebrate Yosano’s birthday.

He knew that morning that he wanted you in his bed by nightfall—partly because he thought it would get you out of his system, that maybe all he needed was a good fuck to stop acting like he was brainless whenever you were around, and partly because he was curious. He was curious to know if that genuine demeanor of yours continued behind closed doors, or if it was all just a mask you liked to put up in public.

Dazai’s hands were on you before the two of you even left for the night—they were creeping up your inner thigh, lingering on your bicep, he was resting his chin on your shoulder as he stood behind you, warding off any man that might try to approach you with cold looks you couldn’t catch. Eventually, like he planned, you asked him if he wanted to go back to your apartment, and Dazai agreed, of course, eager to get his questions answered. Eager to free himself of whatever shackles you’ve put on him.

And it all went downhill from there.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask again, frown deepening and hands stilling on his waist when you don’t find an answer you like on his face.

Dazai tries to play it off—you’re here for sex, not all of his unstable thoughts. He gives you a practiced smile and slips his hand under your shirt to rest on your lower back, pulling you firmer against him—an easy tactic, one of the first he learned to distract his partner when he slips up.

He should have known better than to think you would fall for it.

Instead of returning to the lingering line of kisses you were leaving on his neck, you sit back to study him, and Dazai feels seen. He shifts under your scrutinizing gaze, averting his eyes to the ceiling and counting the seconds that pass as he waits for you to ask that dreaded question.

“What's wrong?” you ask him quietly.

Dazai can evade it. He knows that he can—even if the sex is ruined, because he knows you’re not going to have sex with him if you think something is wrong, he can evade this question by refusing to answer. You never press it, although sometimes your lips curve down in a disappointed frown that makes him feel even worse than before.

But Dazai finds himself hesitating.

“I-“ he starts to say before cutting himself off abruptly, horrified by the realization that he was just about to admit to you what he was thinking. “Nothing.”

The anticipation that had sprung to your eyes when he started to speak dissipates when he blows you off, and it makes his chest tighten. He feels your thighs tense and knows you’re about to get off of him, so his hands fly to your hips to keep you in place.

“Something,” he corrects, voice just a little too raspy for comfort. “… Something.”

You settle back down on top of him, tilting your head to the side.

“Tell me?” you offer quietly, your hands drop to his arms, sliding up and down the bandages that cover his forearms slowly. Soothingly. He hates it.

“I just don’t understand this,” Dazai admits. “It’s… confusing.”

It's possibly the first time he’s ever spoken these words out loud. It’s a weakness he’s never allowed anyone to be aware of—even when Dazai has no idea what’s going on, he’s careful to put up an impenetrable facade of confidence, one that even the keenest eyes can’t see through.

And here he is, bare of masks and facades, admitting his weakness plainly to someone who could easily take advantage of it.

Oh.

“This as in…?” you prompt with a pondering frown.

Is that it?

“This,” he repeats more insistently as his mind races. “Us.”

You, he accuses silently.

You have the ability to destroy him. Dazai realizes, disconcerted, that this is what is confusing him. He's allowed himself to be weak in front of you. He's lowered all of his guards. He's let you in through his many walls of defenses. You’ve settled down in the treacherous beating thing in his chest that he’s tried to rip out too many times to count, and Dazai waits for you to take advantage of it. He waits for this to go wrong. Waits for you to prove yourself to be a Trojan Horse in the form of dazzling smiles and a beautiful face.

But you don’t, and that’s what Dazai just can’t understand. He doesn’t understand what you’re getting out of this—he knows what he’s getting out of it. He’s getting comfort, he’s able to pretend he’s capable of being loved, he gets you. But you’re not getting anything out of this, so he feels like he’s just been biding time before the other shoe drops.

“… What about us do you not understand?” You sound perplexed, and it agitates Dazai. Worse, you can tell it agitates him because immediately you run your thumb over the pulse point on his wrist to soothe him. You add quickly with a small smile, “I'm not understanding now, help me?”

It is beyond disconcerting that even though he knows it was a ploy to distract and soothe him, it works anyway. Dazai needs to do something about this.

“What do you get out of this?” Dazai decides to ask the question plainly instead of dancing around his words, partially because of the agitation and partially because he just needs an answer. Desperately. “What do you get out of what’s going on between us? I don't understand why you keep agreeing to meet me, why you initiate it sometimes. I need to know what it is you get."

Sex is transactional—it always is. Each party has to get something out of it, and if you don't know what the other is getting, then you have made a perilous mistake somewhere along the line. Dazai has known this since the beginning, but he allowed himself too long to bask blindly in the comfort of your arms and bed. He can’t keep doing this without knowing what you’re getting, It’ll come back to haunt him.

You’re still confused by his question even with the explanation, he can see it in the way the thoughts race behind your eyes as you try to piece it together.

Eventually you settle on a smile that’s almost playful as you answer with, “You?”

Dazai’s frown deepens at your words, his expression becomes a bit colder. He thinks you’re evading the question because you don’t want to answer it, and that’s dangerous. You joined the Armed Detective Agency not long after him—were you a plant sent to get close to him by one of his old enemies? By Mori? His thoughts start to spiral dangerously. These are questions he should’ve been having months ago when you first joined the Agency, not now.

“What are you really getting?” His grip on your hips tightens. “Tell me. Stop avoiding the question.”

Your expression becomes a bit more alarmed when he closes off from you, he thinks maybe his grip on your hips might be painful from your wince but he can’t afford to let go until he has his answer.

“You, Dazai,” you say again, more insistently this time. “I get you. I get to spend time with you. be with you. That’s what I get.”

“But why?” Dazai presses, raising his voice, holding you tighter. He is hurting you now, he can tell from the way you try to bat his hands away, but he couldn’t let go if he wanted to. His blood pressure is rising as he realizes how badly he might have messed up. All of Ango’s efforts—Odasaku’s last request—all down the drain because of one mistake. “Why? What information are you trying to get? Who sent you? Who are you work-“

“What?” you demand. The confusion in your eyes is almost believable—Dazai thinks you must’ve been sent by someone important if you’re this good of an actress. His thoughts track back to Mori and his mind starts to fog with fury. “Who sent me? What are you-Dazai-I want you because I care about you. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The fog clears, Dazai stares at you blankly, hands loosening on your hips. He's not sure he heard you correctly, so he says: “What did you just say?”

Your expression softens a bit, and you repeat, “I care about you. I want you because I care about you.”

“No, you don’t,” Dazai says immediately. Instinctually.

“Yes, I do.” Dazai has never seen you get irritated before, but your face twists when he instantly denies your words. “I do, Dazai.”

“You don’t,” he insists. “You can’t. You don’t even know me, you don't care about me.”

He thinks he almost would have preferred that you had some ulterior motive to this. He hates the way his chest swells with hope—hope is dangerous, more dangerous than any other emotion. Fear, anger, sadness, none of it compares to the light that tries to bloom within his rotted chest. He tries to cut it off before it can spread, but it’s notoriously hard to snuff out; it clings to anything it can get a hold on even as he tries to push it away.

The idea is… more tempting than he expected. It’s concerning, that should be enough to clear his head, but it’s not. His fingers cling to your shirt desperately, he searches your face, trying to find the sparest indication that you may be lying.

He finds none.

Still, Dazai knows better. He knows this won’t last. you’ll find out who he was, all of the things he did, and then you’ll leave him. You’ll see him for what he is, and you’ll leave him. This will never last.

Nothing good ever does for him.

“But I do care about you,” you insist, and you’re cruel now, because you reach out to cup his cheek and Dazai leans into your touch. He can’t help himself from it. “I care about you deeply, Dazai.”

“You can’t,” he repeats, and to his horror, his voice wavers. “You don’t know who I am, you don’t know what I’ve done, and when you do-“

“We all have skeletons in our closet, Dazai,” you interrupt him quietly. “I don't think there’s a single ability user out there that doesn’t. I don't need to know your past to know I care about you.”

That’s not true, he wants to say, but can’t force the words out. Instead, he says hoarsely, “It would change how you see me. I'm not who you think I am. I’m-”

A monster. A demon. His blood is black—has been since the day he was born, will be until the day he dies. He is not someone who should be cared for. He's someone who should be left to rot, someone the world would be better off without. He doesn’t deserve this, not when there are so many other people in the world who are unfailingly good and do deserve it.

“It won’t,” you say again, but Dazai knows it’s not true, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know how awful he is. You don’t give him the chance to protest though. “I care about who you are today. I care about who you are tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. Not who you were months ago. The past is the past, Dazai, leave it there.”

“It's not that simple,” he rasps.

“It can be,” you say softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, “if you let it.”

“It can’t be that simple,” he disagrees. There’s an odd lilt to the voice—pleading, almost, begging you not to give him hope only to rip it away when the truth inevitably comes to light. “It can’t.”

“It can for us,” you tell him again, and Dazai finds himself believing you. Wanting to believe you. Wanting to believe things can just be that simple. That easy.

“Why?” Dazai breathes out, eyes searching your face for answers. “Why me? Why not someone…”

Someone better. Someone good. Someone deserving.

“Because you’re you,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, you lean down to ghost your lips against his and it fogs his brain with a pleasant warmth he’s only ever felt with you. “Do I need a reason more than that?”

Dazai wants to say yes, because him being him is a reason for you to not want him. He’s despicable, he’s cruel, he lashed out at you for weeks all the while forcing himself into your space because he wanted to be near you but didn’t understand why.

“I love your smile,” you say, thumb running along his bottom lip, “and I love even more when I’m the reason for it.”

“But-“

“And I love your eyes,” you continue, fingers trailing up his face to trace under his eyes. “I think they’re the prettiest shade of brown I’ve ever seen.”

“I know that’s not true,” he rasps—he knows very well that his eyes are unnerving, too black and too empty. People have been unable to look him in the eye for long even when he was a kid. “I-“

“But most of all, it’s just you,” you say softly, cupping his cheeks with both of your hands. “You make me happy. I like being around you. I always look forward to the time we get to spend together—missions, at work, after work. I’ll take you in whatever way I can get, Dazai.”

You don’t let him avert his gaze this time, you force him to look at you, force him to see the truth of your words reflected in the adoration on your face. No one has ever looked at him like this before, and it makes him feel bare. Seen. He’s always felt seen with you, but never like this.

“I was… mean to you.” He still tries to argue with you, lashes fluttering shut. “I was cruel for months because-“

You laugh at him. “Mean? You were like a puppy trying to snap at my hand to scare me off.”

Dazai gapes. “A puppy?” he demands, seriously offended. “Don’t compare me to a dog. I’m more like a… A…”

“A…?” you press, a pretty smile flickering at your lips.

“A panther,” he supplies confidently.

“A kitten,” you correct.

Dazai groans dramatically, flinging his head back, but he finds himself smiling. He finds his chest full of warmth, light and bubbly, and when he looks back up at you to meet your eyes, he finds the same emotion swimming on your face. He thinks again that no one has ever looked at him like this before—not with such fondness, not with adoration, not with…

No, Dazai doesn’t dare think that word.

“I care about you too,” he admits. He’s hesitant, like he’s scared to say the words out loud.

“Even with all of the skeletons hidden in my closet?” you tease, leaning down to brush your lips against his again, and then a second time, and then a third. He basks in it, eyes sliding shut as you kiss him gently—it takes a few moments for your words to register.

“They’re not worse than mine,” he replies, the pads of his fingers running up and down your thighs absently. After a couple of seconds pass, he asks, “… What skeletons do you have?”

You tilt your head to the side and say playfully, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Dazai isn’t ready for that, so he just tosses you a smile and a wink before murmuring, “How about you show me something else instead?”

You laugh at that, tossing your head back and giggling so genuinely that your hand flies to your mouth to muffle the sound. His lips part to make another suggestive comment, but he finds himself breathless at the sight of you.

You’re beautiful, and Dazai can’t help but think again that he doesn’t deserve this. You.

“Deal,” you agree.

This time when you lean down to press your lips against his, Dazai’s hands are content to rest on your thighs. His fingers don’t itch to wrangle control from you, and his mind isn’t plagued with paranoia-induced thoughts.

He thinks, maybe, that he can get used to this. Used to you.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs smut

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floralpools · 1 year ago

Note

Hi love, you have an amazing imagination, and I love your writing style. I was wondering if you could maybe do some more with Wolverine. I'm in that x men stage again. And I loved you last piece of work on him. Maybe you could do a continuation of it or think of something completely new. Anyway, dont feel pressured ❤️

A/N: ur actually so sweet, thank uu! I'm also rlly shocked but appreciative of all the love Professor Howlett received, so u don't even have to ask twice for more, it's my pleasure ;)

Divided Attention

Professor Howlett II

Part one

Warnings: minors dni, Smut, fluff, language, jealousy, (legal) age gap, oral, f!receiving, semi-public

Pairing: Logan x Student (Mutant) reader

Summary: Things were going well with you and Logan, until he suddenly put distance between you both, acting strangely. On top of that, you catch him threatening one of your fellow classmates and have no choice, but to face your issues, head-on.

Word count: 2.6k

…

Any small moment together, Logan and I chased. The little highs we could derive from our busy schedules, we eagerly pursued.

From a quickie in the janitor's closet, a make-out session after class, or a passionate sleepover, Logan consumed every inch of my life. He was consuming every bit of my mind, and slowly, there was an ominous trepidation trailing behind him like a shadow.

The more I saw him, the greedier I became. Desperate to see and feel more of him—beyond the surface. So, it was no surprise, that I soon desired something more from our casual relationship.

With graduation just around the corner, I was almost home free. Free to outwardly tell him what I yearned for.

But the concern that racked my brain constantly, that trepidation, was whether he wanted the same.

As I was getting to know him, it was clear there were parts of him I had yet to discover, parts he seemed reluctant to reveal. Sometimes he would be open, close by my side. The next second, he would shut down.

What made matters worse, was that recently, he hadn't sought me out. It's felt as though he's no longer hungry for those small moments, that I still very much craved.

Now I'm on edge and have no clue what he's thinking, or what he thinks of us.

...

The day started like any other. I went to each class, exhausted and disinterested, till that afternoon. Something caught my eye, and the eyes of the school's populace: Logan pinning a male student to the wall of the vast, oak wood hallway.

They speak in hushed tones to one another, and the boy looks beyond frightened, while Logan looks ready to tear his head from his scrawny neck.

It takes only a moment for my alarm to pass, and for me to note, that this boy sits next to me in history.

A sharp intake of breath hitches in my throat.

His name's Mikey, and he has been a nuisance to Logan from the get-go, long before our intimate affair. Labelled as the class clown, Mikey uses his obnoxious voice and meddling powers to disturb Logan's lessons, daily. To top it off, Mikey consistently bothers me, mimicking what I say, and staring at my profile, for far too long.

Just when Logan dips his head closer to Mikey, perhaps to rip out his jugular, like the predator he is, Scott interjects.

"Logan! Drop him!" When Scott's unnerved voice orders Logan, my eyes snap to Mikey's feet, which are spraddled in the air, dangling for dear life.

I guess a few days apart made me forget just how strong he is. Maybe he's just too gentle with me to remember.

As his feet slowly lower to the floor, gasps and murmurs flood the halls, and my head frantically shoots around, surprised by the crowd of avid onlookers.

Eyes anxiously surveying the students, I hone in on Logan again, flinching when seeing his pupils, already fixed on me.

He releases Mikey immediately, retracting from him while Scott grabs his bicep, heatedly whispering into his ear, and Mikey scrambles away.

Logan's eyes shy from mine and my mouth gaps. He almost looks, embarrassed. 'Huh?'

Soon, other teachers arrive to intervene, shooing students from the crime scene.

So, aimlessly wandering outside, into the courtyard, hoping to clear my head, I think back on our classes together. Every time Mikey acted up, Logan seemingly couldn’t care less, looking more spent overall, than unsettled by his brazen jokes.

It was kind of funny, seeing Mikey quaking in his boots at the older male. It was only yesterday, that he spoke to me with such forwardness, and to Logan with such rudeness, carrying that typical smug expression -it was nice to see it wiped clean.

I laugh to myself, disbelieving what just transpired. I can only imagine what errand Professor Xavier will make Logan do to atone, or what bonding exercise he and Mikey may perform...

While I trudge down the stone steps, onto the vivid green field, I spot the devil himself, Mikey. He sits under the shade of a grand willow tree, dome hung between his bent knees.

Feeling rather empathetic, I stroll towards him, stopping in front of his feet. Evidently noticing my bright attire, his head pops up, and his dewy eyes widen.

"You alright?" I ask warily and his bottom lip trembles. He sniffs once, toughening up before responding, "I'm good." I nod, then look at the endless landscape to my right. "Whatever you did must've really been something, Mr. Howlett's rarely that peeved."

"You're telling me," he huffs sarcastically, sounding pained. Shifting, I sit beside him, maintaining some space. "If you don't mind me asking, what was that about?" Mikey pauses, thinking hard.

"No clue," he mumbles pitifully. I gawk at him, brows creasing. He peers at me and copies my appearance. "I'm not lying," he exclaims defensively. "There's no way," I retort, scoffing.

"If you don't fucking believe me, why ask," Mikey spits, mumbling "bitch" as he shoots to stomp off.

Suspiring, my crown gingerly falls onto the tree's trunk. Finding comfort in its rugged bark, I calmly savour the crisp air.

I close my eyes, for what feels like a few minutes until a fierce call of my name grips my consciousness. Eyelids cracking open, my vision focuses on Mr. Howlett himself, standing in all his glory, glaring down at me with a brooding look.

"If it isn't the man of the hour," I giggle humourlessly, straightening my spine, but choosing not to stand and seem intimidated, like he evidently wishes me to be.

"You have a nice chat?" Logan questions with an irked tone, obviously remarking on my 'chat' with Mikey. 'Was he watching us?'

I tilt my head defiantly. "I'm not picking sides," I raise both hands in surrender, smiling from ear to ear. His eye faintly twitches, and I nearly gulp. He grumbles incomprehensible nonsense, then chooses to stay relatively quiet, which is unlike him.

"Do you have something to say? Or are you just gonna stand there?" I inquire venomously.

Clearly dispising my attitude, he concentrates on my face, scowling. His features have rage written all over them, but I refuse to bow out of this impending feud.

He grumbles under his breath again, and I break.

"Speak up!" I shout, swiftly bringing my gaze to our surroundings, making sure we're alone -which is something Logan clearly isn't worried about.

"What the fuck do you two have to talk about?" He just about growls and I tense, stunned. My face contorts with perplexity. "Me and Mikey?" I question, and his eyebrows nearly conjoin in response. "Not much, just discussing you're outburst," heaving, I continue, "though he didn't have much to say on the topic," sighing, "you?"

His nostrils flare slightly, and I do my best to appear composed. "What else have you talked about?" He grunts, and I roll my eyes, rising to my feet, bored with our conversation. "What's it to you?" I ask rhetorically, internally referring to the distance he'd been building between us.

Moving elsewhere, I roughly brush past his shoulder. He doesn't immediately reply, but trails after me as I march further into the courtyard.

"The fuck you on about?" Logan vulgarly rumbles, and I forget to speak.

My pace then staggers when he delicately wraps his digits over my forearm, tugging me, almost cautiously, backward.

Square to him, I discern his thumb tracing my skin lightly, before finally looking at him. He examines his finger as it sweeps across my flesh. "Logan?" I carefully utter, and his eyes stay glued to where our bodies meet.

"Why do you talk to him," he pauses, snarling with emphasis on 'talk,' yet again. Then he murmurs, "-When you have me?" He’s so quiet, that the words are barely audible. My features instantly soften. “Are you,” I hesitate, “Jealous?”

When he doesn’t answer, I gasp so loud, that my palm slaps over my mouth. He looks around, avoiding eye contact as I grasp the situation. “Did you threaten Mikey 'cause he yaps to me in class?”

Logan scorned the very idea of jealousy, cruising his head in a circle, to showcase his exasperation. I smirk uncontrollably and he snits. "Don't flatter yourself Princess," he remarks blatantly. My smirk only expands. "I can't believe you," I laugh hysterically and he motions like he's going to walk away, but he stays put, and I know I've won.

"Don't pull that face," he complains, gesturing to my proud look.

"What face?" I ask, playing naive, faintly swinging my body side to side. "Just stop talking to him, he's a bad influence," he grunts, peering off to the horizon. I giggle, "Or what? Do you intend to beat every boy who speaks to me?" I counter, and he struggles to fight a smile.

"What if I do," Logan more or less declares.

Shaking my head, "You've got some nerve," I huff, "seeing as you've been avoiding me lately."

"I haven't been avoiding you-"

I interrupt, "Oh yes, you have," playfully punching his gut with a grin, which drops the second my knuckles practically grow a heartbeat. "Ow," I breathe and at last, he laughs.

When Logan's laugh dims, he looks almost sullen. "Didn't think you'd notice," he mumbles and I quirk my chin in confusion. "You seem preoccupied." Gapping at him once more, he rolls his eyes, showing his teeth. "Don't gimme that damn look girl," he heaves, "you're young and, and-"

"And what?"

"Attractive," he sighs heavily, "you don't need an old man weighing you down."

I still, catching his genuine displeasure and defeat. It's like he's disappointed I may seek romance from someone else, but accepts it regardless, for my sake, my happiness.

My heart thumps irregularly and I feel like jumping his bones. I release a lengthy sigh, with a smile twinkling. His brow rises questioningly, seeming anxious about a reaction to his masked insecurity.

"What?" He bites.

"I'm relieved," his confusion visibly progresses. "I thought you were tired of me." As his mouth opens, to probably insult my intelligence, I cut in. "I wanna go steady with you, if that wasn't obvious already." My smile grows sheepish, then taunting, "I like you Lo, and clearly you must love me."

Like he's been holding his breath, a loud puff of air escapes his chapped lips, and I shamelessly watch as he wets them.

"You've gotta be the strangest girl I've ever met," he utters with a smirk forming, and I return one, interpreting his words as a declaration of love.

"Woman," I correct, then babble jokingly, "refined Lady." He confidently strides closer. "Mistress-"

The air leaves my lungs as his solid arms devour me, squeezing tightly.

"You best realize what you're committing to," Logan comments, lightly lifting strands of my hair with his fingertips, to kiss my neck. "That means, no more talking to boys," he grunts, humour coaxing his tone. "Especially ones so far out of your league," he pulls his head back, to peer at my expectant face, "It's not even funny," he finishes with a grin.

I laugh, unable to contain my joy, quickly hiding my wild smile in his chest. A pleased hum rumbles in tune with his heavy breathing, and I listen to his heartbeat's fairly, rapid pace.

For a while, we stay present in each other's arms, with fulfillment and ease consuming our beings, synchronously. Logan's fingers drift across my lower back, leisurely tracing my curves.

"I like you, so much," I whisper airly because the words couldn't be repressed, and had escaped. His hands gradually slow to a halt, till he abruptly draws back. He looks at me, with such intense seriousness, that I shudder.

Then, he pulls away entirely, taking my hand in his larger one, to drag me deeper into the field -into the overgrown areas, looted with massive trees and bushes.

"Logan?" My whisper transforms into a squeak when I'm hauled behind various, untrimmed hedges. His palms grope my hips, stilling me before he drops to his knees. I ogle his smug face as it bores into me, before he wrestles with my pink, low-waisted, jean shorts, impatiently dragging them down my plump thighs. He mumbles, "Ridiculous" when his eyeline levels with my purple, close-to-sheer underwear.

Like my shorts, he yanks them down to my ankles, then swiftly encloses his mouth over my cunt, swiping the folds with his tongue. I throw the back of my hand over my incoming yelp, biting down to muffle it.

"Is this you tryna to deflect admitting you really like me?" I joke meekly as my mouth parts from my hand, but I quickly chomp down again, when he licks me, with a long flick of his tongue. I gasp and whimper, using my spare hand to claw at his scalp for leverage, as he hungrily laps my pussy, sucking on its nub.

A tremor racks my insides, eliciting spasms while he builds up a powerful, but excruciatingly relaxed pace. His bulky digits move to relentlessly rub my clit, applying a rhythmic pressure that makes me sob.

Logan shushes me, mouth still buried in my folds. The buzz of his voice sends shivers through my core, and the strength of his action grows, acknowledging my imminent finish.

“Eyes on me,” Logan basically growls, before diving back into my cunt.

I muffle a cry of his name with a fist now, biting my knuckles. Then, I look from the heavens, back down to the one hand I still have, clenching his silky locks.

My knees begin to buckle and his sizeable palms relocate to support my hips, with his fingertips bordering my ass, kneading it. "I'm close," I gasp, barely audible through my hand. He hums again, and when it elicits another shiver, and shake of my frame, I tumble over his back, wrecked by my climax.

Now hunched over him, with my hands splayed down his torso, I tremble furiously, coming down from my high. I can't help but whine when Logan continuously licks me. He tastes every inch of me like I'm the meal of a lifetime, like I'm oxygen itself.

"Enough," I choke, as my arousal becomes too much. His response is simply plunging further into me, to lick all the way from my ass, to clit.

Steam floods my stomach, lighting me on fire. A raging flame consumes my very being, and I relish in how dirty and dangerous this encounter is -in public on his knees for me, Logan made it known that I'm his, and he let me know, that he couldn't care less who heard us, because I was his.

"You're disturbed," I breathe, and his chuckle resonates louder when he separates from my damp skin. "You love it," he states with a smirk and an arch of his brow. He then runs his tongue over his soaked lips, and I bite back a groan, sighing, "I do."

Lifting, moving my palms to his shoulders, I capture his top lip, sucking on it as a thank you. I grin, and as if he can hear my jest coming from a mile away, he scoffs and turns to hide his smirk.

"And you must lovveee me," I repeat my earlier comment with even more enthusiasm, and he shakes his head.

He rises and I do the same. Logan then goes in for a kiss to shut me up, but just as he does, I catch his mumble of "I do."

I gasp into his mouth, eyelids stretching.

My lids briskly flutter shut when he deepens the kiss, dipping my figure, rather romantically, and we both smile.

2K notes · View notes

eightmakesonebraincell · 2 years ago

Text

ateez as royals who fall for you (hyung line)

read maknae line here

genre: royalty!ateez x fem!reader, fluff, angst, smut, crack, a brainrot and smutfest of royal tropes

length: 12.8k

c/w: very nsfw scenes - mdni, explicit language (dirty talk, swearing, insults), death, violence, blood & injuries, weapons, heavy & mature themes (sex work, murder, assassination, execution, mentions of misogyny)

a/n: this has simultaneously been the pride and joy of my life and the bane of my entire existence for the last 2.5 months 🥴 and tumblr is an inept incapable CLOWN who cannot handle the full 24k worth of bullet points so here is the hyung line first - maknae line coming soon (yumi @sorryimananti-romantic can vouch for my unsuccessful 3-hour attempt at formatting them into a single post)

hongjoong

pov: you're the king's royal courtesan

“fuck,” hongjoong lets out a deep growl from within his chest as his head dips down to rest against the crook of your neck. “you’re just as tight as last time”

when your hips involuntarily buck from the pleasure, he nudges your thighs further apart and keeps your wrists pinned above your head

he can’t help but let out another groan when he feels your walls clench around his cock as you adjust to his thickness

“i thought- god,” a moan escapes you after he thrusts his hips against you, “thought you never fucked the same woman twice”

“i don’t,” he simply says

and it’s true

hongjoong is one of the youngest princes to have ruled during the kim dynasty, having risen to power after the previous king succumbed early to an unknown illness

he has the choice and selection of all the courtesans available within the palace and outside its walls

hongjoong also has a reputation of being highly sought after by everybody, not just amongst courtesans

it’s not only because he is devilishly handsome, knows how to properly fuck somebody dumb, and is the literal king

the main thing that makes him so desirable and unreachable?

he never sees the same courtesan more than once

“yet here you are,” you hook your legs around hongjoong’s waist to gain leverage and meet his thrusts with your own hips, “between my legs for the second time”

you smirk when he curses and throws his head back

his grip on your wrists tightens and his voice drops dangerously low

“the first time doesn’t count because i was meant to see lady chae. so really, this is the first time i’m requesting for your services”

he silences you from retorting by pressing a bruising kiss against you, lips messily attaching to yours before trailing down the sharp angle of your jaw to bite your neck

you are a courtesan for people of nobility and royal status

part of the ‘house of flowers’ and commonly referred to as ‘flower courtesans’, you and the other women are highly-sought after for the companionship you offer

you are well protected by the house of flowers though - the services of companionship that you provide is requested by your client, but is ultimately accepted or rejected by you

lady chae, another of the flower courtesans and one of your closest friends, is requested by the king for her services

it is quite clear what it is going to entail and you both spend several of the following nights giggling and whispering scandalously to one another

whether the rumours about his stamina will be true

whether lady chae will be the first to break his one-fuck rule

except when the day of the meeting comes around, she spikes a sudden fever

lady shin, the head of the house of flowers, takes all but one look at her before ordering her to bed rest despite both of your attempts to, albeit unconvincingly, persuade lady shin that chae’s fever would only serve to help make the king’s dick warmer

lady shin is not amused to say the least

with the last minute hitch, the king agrees for you to be sent out to him as a replacement instead

and you end up being the flower courtesan who he breaks his reputed rule for

(lady chae is initially jealous, understandably)

(but very quickly, she appears to be even more excited than you are as she combs through your undergarments for the “sluttiest set” that she can find)

your attention is brought back as hongjoong flicks his tongue over your hardened nipples, continuing to drag his length in and out of you while your back arches off the bed

you tease in between short breaths, “are you really bringing up another woman’s name while you have your cock inside me?”

“you brought it up first,” he reminds you, accentuating his answer with timed thrusts

you grind your hips against his, chasing more friction against your clit as you feel your high approaching

“why?” he snakes one of his hands down between your connected torsos to rub messy circles against your clit, smirking as he asks, “are you getting jealous already?”

for that, you clench down hard on his cock, immediately feeling the way it throbs inside of you as you bring him closer to his orgasm too

“as if. fuck off”

your words are hardly audible from the whines that are leaving your mouth due to the added pressure of another finger against your clit from your retaliation

“i’m close,” hongjoong releases his grip on your wrists so that he can straighten his body, anchoring his hand on your hip instead so that he can fuck you and rub your clit with his other hand with renewed vigour

when you hear him groan, “cum for me,” the string snaps and your whole body quivers in his hold as your orgasm washes over you

hongjoong’s hips gradually stutter to a pause, an occasional thrust inside your clenching pussy as he milks out the rest of his cum inside of you

he finally eases himself out of you and hums in satisfaction as he watches his cum slowly leak out of you

hongjoong drops down beside you, toned chest covered in a sheen layer of sweat as it rises up and down with his pants

when your fuzzy mind has cleared a little from the blissful haze of your orgasm, he strokes his fingertips along the side of your thigh, along the curve of your ass, and over the dip of your waist just under your breasts as he says, “you better not be jealous. first one to get jealous loses”

“if anyone’s going to get jealous first, it’s you,” you scoff back

he raises an eyebrow

oh yeah?

he shoves his leaking cum back inside of you and fingers you to another orgasm

now that shuts you up

for a man who barks, he sure has no bite, because you find yourself being notified by lady shin several days later of yet another request for your services under the king’s name

and another request turns into another

and every single time, hongjoong makes sure that the only word leaving your lips for those many hours is his moaned name

but at the same time, the more you and hongjoong meet, the more he just savours in your simple companionship

he asks you to teach him how to embroider because you’ve mentioned before it’s how you like to spend your free evenings

he rifles through your bag of materials that you bring

you smack his hand away at the carelessness with which he’s upturning everything

“what’s this?” he holds up a large, wooden hoop before trying to fit it through his head, “a necklace?”

“i wonder if people know they appointed an idiot to be king,” you say as you gently unscrew the hoops and demonstrate how to align a piece of fabric between the rings

he watches with interest as you screw the outer hoop tighter until the fabric is nice and taut and then repeat the process so you both have one to work with

you have to help hongjoong thread his needle too, because apparently the king’s fingers are only good for scissoring you open

you weave your own needle through the fabric at a slow pace whilst telling him the different names and uses of the stitches you’re showing him

except, when you look up to see if he’s following?

his own hoop has been abandoned to one side and he’s leaning against his hand as he gazes cheekily at you

“were you even paying attention?”

he sounds a little too confident when he answers not at all

in return, hongjoong shows you how to write hanja the next time you meet

he positions himself behind you with his hand over yours as he guides you through different characters stroke by stroke

he claims that there are specific ways of applying pressure to the brush so he has to be holding your hand at all times

you most definitely roll your eyes several times but you indulge him anyway

there are a lot of giggles and teasing pushes when you accidentally dip the end of your sleeve into the ink and you try to spread it onto his robes too

(the calligraphy may or may not become forgotten when hongjoong pins you down to stop your cheeky behaviour, because things naturally escalate whenever he has you under him)

you two do eventually manage to finish one decent-looking scroll of characters which he ends up gifting you so that you ‘don’t forget’ about him when you’re not with him

when you walk back into the house of flowers, the hanging scroll perks lady shin’s interest as you walk past

“hongjoong taught me how to write my name today”

lady shin waggles her eyebrows at you suggestively because of how casually you refer to the king, for which you nudge her with a shoulder

she laughs then asks to have a look

you unravel the paper to show her but then she makes a funny noise

“that’s not your name? these are the characters for- oh,” she cackles scandalously to herself, as if she has made a secret discovery

“what does it mean?” you hurry to clarify

you wouldn’t put it past him to have taught you a crude phrase instead, like ‘best tits’ or ‘biggest ass’

lady shin lets out an amused exhale, handing the scroll back to you

“it says, my flower”

you’re looking at those exact characters from where you lay on your bed when a knock sounds on your door several days later

lady shin steps into your room with a warm smile as you greet her

“you have an appointment with lord min tomorrow, but the king has just inquired about your service availability for tomorrow,” she informs you. “would you like me to give him the usual answer?”

this isn’t the first time a clash has occurred, particularly with the increasing frequency with which hongjoong requests to see you

you have always told lady shin to ask for hongjoong’s pardon and to offer him an alternative time or day, because in the end, you still need to maintain a professional and admirable reputation as a flower courtesan

and as you open your mouth to tell her ‘yes’, your eye catches the scroll hanging on your wall

my flower

you hesitate

“actually,” you look away from the hanja, “i’ll see hongjoong.”

lady shin gives you a motherly smile as she nods in understanding and closes the door behind her

the next day you see him, he excitedly points out the large tambour frame in his room that he bought just a few days prior, claiming you two can work on a big embroidery patch together now

you give him one look then demote him back to the small embroidery hoop because he still hasn’t learnt his basic stitches yet

(that’ll teach him to not pay attention when you’re demonstrating, ha)

you relent and end up going through the different stitches with him again anyway

and you find that he’s actually not that bad with embroidery once he’s actually focused on the task at hand

it’s nice, basking in each other's presence while he threads his little square of fabric and you work with the large frame you have now essentially claimed as yours

not that hongjoong minds; he did buy it solely to make you happy

and then you offhandedly mention that someone had gifted you a handkerchief with your initials embroidered on one of the corners the other day

“i actually have it on me, in fact,” and you take it out from where it’s tucked into your waist so that you can show him

he juts out his chin as he peers down at the delicate letters, huffing, “it’s pretty, i guess”

then as an afterthought he tacks on, “bet i could do a better job”

“are you jealous right now, kim hongjoong?”

said man is hellbent on avoiding your eyes as he picks up his needle and thread again

“no i’m not!”

“whatever you say,” you smirk

after that day though, you don’t receive another request from hongjoong to meet until two weeks later

which, in the grand scheme of things, really isn’t much

but in comparison to the frequency at which you are used to seeing him, the frequency at which your body is used to having him, it is much too long

you are almost beginning to wonder whether you shouldn’t have brought up the handkerchief gift

yet, he greets you with his usual teasing squeeze of your waist, dangerously close to your ass

you make a move to follow him through the doors to his chambers but he turns around to produce a silk cloth

he starts to blindfold you, whispering sultrily, “i have a surprise for you”

you feel the hairs on the back of your neck raise at his tone

guiding you inside, hongjoong gently pushes you down so that you sink into the plush duvet of his bed

“do you trust me?” he whispers

trying not to dwell on the urge to lick your dry lips, you answer, “of course”

you feel him tugging slowly on the string that holds the front of your corset together, loosening your dress with tenderness like you are a fragile gift

you shiver when your shoulders are suddenly exposed to the cold air

and then the sensation is followed by the warmth of hongjoong’s soft exhales along the expanse of your collarbones as he leans closer to fully disrobe your shoulders

you have to remind yourself to keep breathing

“you can look now,” he tells you

you remove the silk cloth from around your eyes, unsure of what to expect

it takes a few blinks to readjust your vision to the room around you but then your eyes finally focus

and you gasp

there, hung on the wall with its striking viridian green, shimmering threads and intricate swirls on glorious display, is quite possibly the most stunning dress you have ever laid eyes upon

“try it on,” he encourages

but as you step closer, you realise the lacing across the front of the corset and running down the sleeves of the top dress is in fact, not lacing

it’s patchy

it’s uneven

it has empty areas

but it is no doubt embroidery

“did you…did you make this?” you reach out a hand to lightly caress one of the embroidered flowers, not quite daring to believe that hongjoong would go to these lengths for you

“of course,” he wraps his arms around you from behind and presses a light kiss against your temple, “i’m not losing to a lousy handkerchief”

“is that why you disappeared for two weeks?”

you let out a laugh, sinking into his embrace, because the image of the great king holed up in his chambers for days on end, hunched over your dress with a needle, thread and frown on his face is just too endearing

he lets out a warning huff as he turns you around in his embrace to face him

upturning his hands, he shows you the tips of his fingers and grumbles, “i poked myself so many times for you and you laugh at me?”

you bring his hands closer to your face, pressing light kisses to his fingertips as you smile, “thank you, joong. i love it so much, i really do”

he looks at you impossibly soft

under his tender gaze, something suddenly rushes to your very core

you hold one his hands steady in front of your lips then swirl your tongue out in an experimental lick over his fingers

it’s almost captivating how quickly his pupils dilate and zero in on your tongue

so you dare to bring his fingers into your mouth

you suck on them a little harder

a little deeper

and then you moan around his fingers, “i want you”

he lets out a groan himself, feeling the front of his breeches tighten as his cock twitches

“i- fuck, i didn’t give the dress to you in hopes that it would lead to this,” yet despite his words he is stepping you backwards so that he can pin you against the wall

“i know, but i want you,” you palm his growing bulge, your knees going weak at how hard he already is. “and i need you. now.”

he doesn’t need further encouragement

he shoves the remainder of your clothes aside before inserting his fingers roughly between your folds

it doesn’t take long for him to bring you to your first orgasm, curling his fingers relentlessly as you ride them

he spreads your cum over your pussy and you buck your hips with a whine when he circles over your clit briefly

then he’s turning you around and bending you over, one of your hands bracing against the wall, your other arm held behind your back by hongjoong’s firm grasp

“fuck, you’re so wet,” his whole body shivers with pleasure as his cock slips right into you

the obscene sounds of his hips slapping against your ass and your slick being pushed back into your hole over and over again fill the room

and to the clenching of your pussy from another orgasm, hongjoong also cums into you with a guttural groan of your name

he gently carries you to his bed and lays you on top of the covers

he leaves your side for a moment and you listen to him rummage through something while you try to regain control of your quaking legs

when he comes back, you feel him gently spreading your legs and then the ticklish sensation of a soft cloth along your inner thighs

a whine escapes your lips when he rubs over your sensitive clit and hongjoong grips your thigh a little tighter

“be careful what pretty sounds you’re making if you can’t handle another round”

it isn’t until he finishes cleaning you up and lies down next to you to start wiping himself down that you look over and realise what it is that he’s been using this whole time

your mouth drops in disbelief

when hongjoong notices your expression, he smirks, “the man who gave you this has no idea his handkerchief is being used to clean my cum off your thighs”

“hongjoong!” you flush with a laugh. “you are definitely jealous, aren’t you?”

“yes, i’m fucking jealous,” he growls, “you’re the only one i want. you’re the only woman i’ve been requesting for since i’ve seen you. and i want to be the only one who gets to have you, too”

you confess, “well, you can have all of me. because i’ve started refusing other people just for you”

he looks at you for another moment before he’s suddenly straddling your hips

“change of plans,” he says breathily, “i need you again”

“very good plan,” you grind up against him

and then you pause, mirth starting to bubble in your throat, “one last thing though”

hongjoong looks down with amusement in his own eyes, wondering what could possibly be so funny

“that handkerchief?” you start, struggling not to laugh when his eyes immediately narrow, “i never said it was from a man. it was a gift from lady chae”

seonghwa

pov: you're his royal guard

as soon as you notice the movement out of the corner of your eye, your body reacts straight away

you murmur seonghwa’s name with a tight voice and move to position yourself in front of him, unwilling to risk the prince’s safety

one of your hands grasps the hilt of your sword, ready to unsheathe it at the first sign of danger, as your calculative gaze darts between the two young men stumbling closer on the dirt path and the line of forest trees from which they appear

they are wearing simple tunics and breeches with their colour faded and seams loosening from wear

from what you can discern, they are simply commoners, but that does not rule out the possibility that they are bandits

seonghwa seems to think otherwise, though

unsurprising but still grating

the prince places his hand on your shoulder gently in a silent reassurance and request for you to step aside

albeit reluctantly, you force yourself to move to his left

it becomes clear to you as the two figures stop just shy of a few feet away that the term ‘men’ was pushing it - their faces are young and they appear to be no older than seventeen or eighteen

the young strangers dip their head in greeting, one of them apologising as well as he pulls out a tattered map that he extends out for you two to see

“my companion and i are traveling to the village norshaw but seem to have lost our way. would you be able to point us in the right direction?” the one with the map asks

“of course,” seonghwa offers with a kind smile

you watch as the three of them step closer together to look more closely at the map

on high alert, and just as you are predicting, you see the companion shuffle closer to seonghwa, hand inching towards the leather pouch that hangs from the prince’s belt

you catch the subtle motion of seonghwa’s eyes flickering down just an inch

because of how well you understand his body language, you know that it means he has already noticed the thieving intention

but because of how well you understand seonghwa, you know that he isn’t going to do anything about it either

so you strike in his stead

your hand darts out to snatch the thieve’s wrist, twisting his forearm upwards so that he is forced to lean awkwardly towards one side to prevent his elbow from snapping

his partner drops the map, letting out a string of curses and hesitating for all but three seconds before he turns around to flee

scoffing, you threaten the one who is still in your hold, who then bolts with his tail between his legs after you release him

"did you really need to scare them off like that? it's not like i had any money in the pouch anyway," seonghwa chastises with a chuckle

"yes," you deadpan. "i did not spend the last two hours of our trip pausing every fifty meters to wait for you to pick up a rock because you thought it looked pretty, only for them to be stolen by a pair of petty thieves"

"it would have been funny to imagine their faces after realising what they stole," seonghwa grins

“mhm,” you hum, “and the next thing you know, you’ll wake up to your palace ransacked, because word in town is that you can steal from the prince and get away with it”

he levels you with a boyish scowl, “you’re so dramatic. what are you, my mother?”

“no, but i am your royal bodyguard”

“exactly. you are my bodyguard, not my brainguard. if i am to be swindled of my pretty rocks, then so be it”

you roll your eyes out of exasperation, but everything is swiftly forgotten minutes later when you point out a heart-shaped rock and seonghwa rushes over to pick it up

it has been like this ever since the incident occurred - him, the sunshine; you, the sunshine protector

it has been almost four years since it happened

somebody had attempted arsenic poisoning of not only seonghwa, but also those working under him

you had noticed strange discolouring of the silverware in the kitchen and on the table serving his dinner, which prompted an investigation and subsequent discovery of the perpetrator

an act of betrayal and treachery by one of his closest relatives - his very own uncle

seonghwa was - still is - too merciful and tender-hearted to punish his uncle, even if the severity of his uncle’s crimes warranted execution

to have his trust broken so shatteringly hurt seonghwa more than if he were to actually have been poisoned

you still remember like it was yesterday; the sight of the prince slumped against the wall, weighed down by chains of turmoil and despair as whispers fly through the palace of the weak-hearted prince who is unable to deliver fair judgement

it is the sight of the prince looking so small and lost that drives your feet forward to stand before him

as the soft draught coming through the windows tugs gently on your tresses and the flickers of candlelight illuminate the glint of steel in your hand, you make a decision

“i’ll be your sword,” you pledge

not just as his royal guard, but as his haven when he is forced to face corruption and wickedness

and when you see the way his shoulders immediately sag with relief at your declaration, the way he nods like a child who has been reassured that everything will be okay, you tell yourself that seonghwa will never have to dirty his hands as long as you are with him

you will be the dark to his light; the yin to his yang

quietly, you see to it that his uncle is executed for his crimes - your statement to the rest of the palace that prince seonghwa is not to be mocked

neither of you bring it up again, but seonghwa knows

he pulls you into a wholehearted hug, arms enveloping you securely as his chest shakes with shuddering breaths of thank you over and over again

you rub your hand up and down his sturdy back soothingly

it is an action that simultaneously reciprocates his embrace and his crossed line of professionalism

one that starts the shift in dynamic between you both, boundaries of sought comfort blurring with friendship and then something more

where seonghwa is too trusting and too soft-spoken, you become his skepticism and his voice

“you should be more wary of others,” you always remind him

“and you should be more trusty of others,” he’ll retort

yet, he will never make a decision that does not receive your input nor one that you do not agree with

where seonghwa is too gentle and too humble, you become his sword and his shield

you do not waver when you strike down foe, and friends turned foe alike

you speak up and establish firm boundaries when others take advantage of the respect he shows everybody regardless of their class or status

and yet, if you find yourself on the receiving end of someone’s condescension or discriminatory treatment, be it due to your rank as a guard or identity as a woman, seonghwa will be advancing forward to defend you before you can do so yourself

where seonghwa is too innocent and too bushy-tailed, you become his eyes and his caution

your morning walks together always last for longer than they are scheduled for

he stops to watch every butterfly and bumblebee that flutters along the flowery path, and he waits for caterpillars to crawl onto a leaf that he holds by the stem so that he can move the critters off the pathway

you love to watch him and his glittering eyes, his cheeks rosy from happiness and from the air still crisp with morning dew

but you also make sure to watch his surroundings with greater vigilance because the quiet peace that the freshly awoken sun brings simultaneously increases the likelihood of a targeted attack against him

as much as you rib him for being a marshmallow personified, however, and as much as he banters back that you are more than welcome to resign at any time, neither of you want it any other way

seonghwa carries out a lot of gestures that he justifies to himself as being eternally grateful for you and the things you do for him

he likes to gift you flowers he has plucked from his garden or the bushes he walks past that remind him of you

(“that’s actually just a very pretty-looking weed, but thank you, seonghwa,” you tell him on more than one occasion)

(it’s adorable, because the next time he finds a flower, he goes to the length of certifying that it is indeed a flower with the merchant who sells bouquets in the nearby town before presenting it to you, eyes gleaming with pride)

you stand still and let him tuck a flower behind your ear, sometimes braiding your hair gently so that he can weave and secure the stem into your hair, holding your breath as his features fill with the same enrapturement that he would admire a beautiful artwork with

after you voice this out one day, seonghwa supposes to himself that there is not much difference between an artwork and you

not that he’s attracted to you or anything - you just…have an objectively attractive face

yes.

especially when your usually-piercing expression is softened by fatigue, guard no longer up as you sleep slumped over a desk while accompanying him during his late night of studies

he does not realise his feet have moved until he is right beside your resting form, as if the soft exhales escaping from your slightly parted lips are a siren’s song

seonghwa tenderly brushes your stray locks away from your face and behind your neck

except he forgets to account for the fact that you are trained to sleep on the brink of consciousness

the squeal that leaves his mouth when your reflexes kick in and you almost slit his throat resounds at a frequency so high you almost believe it comes from your own mouth

you have a grand time watching his beet red face stutter out an excuse as to what exactly he was doing so close to you

needless to say, that is the last time seonghwa ever tries to do anything while you are sleeping

but as much as he bumbles around, he also reveals his perceptiveness when you least expect it

like now, as you accompany the prince to one of his meetings with numerous advisors and ministers

it is relatively dull and uneventful, mostly a cordial appearance to maintain amicable and loyal relationships with his subjects

conversation is limited to pleasantries and at one point, seonghwa even points out the calligraphy paintings hung at the back of the room

everyone nods with throaty laughs as if the paintings are indeed the most exquisite and tasteful artworks they have ever laid their eyes upon

when you and seonghwa arrive back at his chambers following the conclusion of the meeting, he walks over to his bed and shakes the sleeves of his robe over the expanse of his duvet

and out drops a neatly-wrapped sweet, followed by another, then another, until there are enough to amount to two handfuls

baffled, you look at seonghwa, because these are the very same treats that had been plated on the tables during the meeting

“you smuggled candy out of the room?” you try to keep the amusement out of your voice

he peers into his sleeves to ensure there are no more stragglers, before turning to face you as he waves his hands over the small collection of goods on his bed

as if they are-

“for you!” he exclaims almost proudly. “i saw you eyeing them during the meeting so i took some for you”

okay

most definitely proudly

you feel something tickling you from within, as if he has reached through your chest to directly caress your heart with a delicate finger

“when did you even…” your voice trails off when it comes out a little fonder than you are expecting it to

“remember the paintings i pointed out?” seonghwa giggles, and you think that the hand in your chest is now cradling your heart completely. “i swiped the sweets when everyone was looking back at them”

“thank you, hwa,” you settle on saying, because you do not trust yourself to say anything else

that is more than enough for him, though

which, of course it is - this is seonghwa, with his huge heart that fills easily with the smallest of things

he eagerly hands you one of the treats and you unwrap it to place into your mouth

you’ve had these before, but this one that he has specially grabbed for you tastes remarkably sweeter

you wonder if his lips will taste the same…

but then you accidentally bite your tongue, hard enough to draw blood, and you realise just how wrong you are for letting those fleeting thoughts into your mind

because while you navigate the world in thick droplets of red and sharp glints of silver, seonghwa sees the world in soft hues of pastel and gleaming rays of yellow

how could the two palettes ever blend together harmoniously?

so instead, you grant yourself one last moment of selfishness and pull him into a hug, a gesture that toes the already shaky borders of professionalism yet can still be excused under the guise of friendship

you realise that he has always meant much more to you, but that is what this will stay as - a mere realisation

seonghwa wraps his arms around your form as he relaxes into the way your bodies naturally meld together

it’s strange how easily you slot into his life, his thoughts, his heart

he wonders whether it’s possible for feelings of appreciation to run so deeply and potently within somebody, like a drug that he cannot get enough of

and when you take a step away from him, leaving his chest feeling physically and emotionally empty, he wonders if he is perhaps…

in love with you

following that incident, it is almost as if a switch flips - both of you take several steps away from the line that has been danced around

but neither of you notice the distance because you are both consumed by your own thoughts

until one of your usual morning walks around the castle walls of his palace

seonghwa is wondering whether the bushes you walk past remind you of the flowers he used to gift you and you are debating whether to reach out to brush a petal out of his half ponytail

then, like deja vu, your eyes flicker towards the burst of movement as a figure covered in black comes darting forwards with their blade raised intended for murder

you immediately start to unsheathe your sword, feet poised and prepared to defend-

until you are harshly tugged back and the prince steps in front of you to parry the strike that the assassin tries to land

it takes your lifetime of training and experience to snap back into focus and thrust your sword into the enemy’s exposed side

when you are sure he is dead, you whirl around to descend upon seonghwa with a voice trembling from both anger and relief

“what in the world were you thinking?” you yell

“i-”

taking a step forward, you toss your sword to one side, “no, actually. you weren’t thinking at all”

“i was afraid that you would get hurt!” he takes his own step closer

“that is my duty!” the volume of your voice raises even more. “i am willing to lay down my life to ensure your safety! i have been guarding you for years now and you have never acted this way. what has changed?”

for a moment, the only sound that punctuates the silence is your harsh breathing

seonghwa swallows

“my feelings…” he whispers, a stark contrast to the peak of emotions you have been riding. “my feelings for you have changed”

your throat tightens at his words

it is your turn to whisper, a noise of confusion leaving your lips

he takes another step closer, bringing himself to stand right in front of you as he looks down earnestly into your eyes

“i’d rather be the protector, and you be the protected”

“but…why?” your heart races with anticipation

“because i’m in love with you”

right at the invisible border that has been separating you two for as long as you have been his guard, seonghwa now stands, hands wringing together as he awaits a response

“then that makes the two of us,” you confess

you step forward to take your familiar spot on the other side of the line, except this time you do not stop

you stride over the boundary completely to stand by his side

raising yourself onto your tiptoes, you pull him down slightly by the front of his doublet so that you can press a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips

it stretches wider and curves upwards under the nurturing of your own smile

you can’t help but give him another kiss on the other side of his mouth to match the one you just gave him

“from now on,” seonghwa starts, “i’ll be your sword”

you wouldn’t really, and you will fight him to let you continue being his guard, but that doesn’t stop one last teasing question from escaping you

“does this mean i get to retire?”

yunho

pov: you're part of a rebel group

the crown prince is not in his fucking library

for the past three weeks, the crown prince has always been in the royal library at night

until today

under normal circumstances, his royal guards and staff would be alerted to ensure that the deviance in routine is a conscious decision and not an issue of the crown prince missing

except doing that would make your job significantly harder…

considering you have been ordered to assassinate him.

you’re part of the ‘red sun’, a revolutionary movement aiming to overthrow the current monarch

following the debilitating state of the king after falling ill and the subsequent coronation of queen jeong into power, she has since then established numerous royal decrees to keep everyone under her reign on a tight leash

a leash made of barbed wire

people are quick to become resentful and thirsty for an end to the dictatorship and bloodline

although he has made limited public appearances, the crown prince has also developed a reputation rivaling the queen’s

within the second year of the jeong dynasty, red sun has already amassed a multitude of supporters

the focus is currently on growing in numbers, preparing for an imminent revolution and picking off corrupt royals and noblists, be it through incrimination or assassination

dealing with those in positions of higher power is a task only completed by an elite selection of red sun rebels who have distinguished skills and traits that set them apart from peasants and commoners

and you are amongst the elite team

which is why you find yourself staking out on the tiled roof of the imperial palace, clothed in black with a mask and hooded cowl covering your face that blends you in with the darkness of night, on the orders of a higher-up to assassinate the crown prince

except the target is missing; the information you were given is wrong

which never happens

you can’t risk staying around for much longer, especially now that the crown prince has broken his routine

he could be anywhere and so could his royal guards

you shift your body to a crouch and place your hands on the cool tiles beneath you, ready to leave

only to spot a figure, crouched just like you are, on the opposite side of the roof

their face is a black hole of nothing within the shrouded confines of their hood, but you can feel their gaze piercing into you all the same

you run

you scramble to the edge of the roof and nimbly leap off the curved eaves to the neighbouring structure of the study room

when you glance backwards, you see the man - physique now obvious - is keeping up easily along the stepping stones of roofs

this game of cat and mouse isn’t going to work for long

if you don’t get caught by him first, you’re both going to get caught by the palace guards

so you make a split decision and alter your next trajectory lower

keeping your arms outstretched for the eaves, you grab on tightly when your fingers touch the edge of the roof and use your core to kick your legs up to stop your body from slamming into the wall from the momentum of your jump

you let go and drop to the ground like a feline, noiseless, and slink towards a line of trees

then you wait

he’s good, you note to yourself, when the only sound that alerts you to his presence is the quick scuffle of his feet as he softens his impact against the wall and the muted thud of his body landing on the ground

“state your purpose,” he demands, voice low yet firm

you ignore him to ask, “who are you?”

now up close, you can see that the man is wearing attire almost the same as you are, identity also hidden by the his bandana and hood-

wait

even the dark red stitching that subtly replaces the original seam on the right shoulder of his outer clothing is the same

the same as those on the elite team

“one of you,” he confirms your suspicions

except you don’t recognise his voice nor his build

being one of the earliest members of the rebel organisation, you are familiar with all the members who carry out missions like yours

he is not one of them; not one you can trust yet

when you don’t speak, he adds on, “we need to go. the safehouse might be in danger”

he refers to the two of you so easily, as if you and him are an unspoken team

you cannot trust this man until you know for sure he is part of red sun, so you ask him

“when is red most beautiful?”

it is a vague question with a fixed answer

one that reflects the heart of the revolutionary itself

during the sunrise of a new beginning

“during the sunrise of a new beginning,” the man says resolutely

the tension releases from your shoulders

“okay,” you opt to abandon your original mission. “let’s check on the safehouse”

the man offers you a hand to hike yourself up onto one of the outer walls of the palace before he jumps up himself with ease

you both flip over the top and land in unison

the moon illuminates the ground beneath your feet as you both sprint into the surrounding forest

the safehouse is really just a small hut situated far enough from the palace to stay inconspicuous, yet not close enough to the outer borders of the kingdom to risk discovery by the frequent border patrols

you both slow down as you approach the clearing, steadying your breaths and treading with cautious steps

and then you hear it

the shattering clang of a desperate parry

all it takes is a quick glance at the man by your side before your eyes harden with purpose and your steps are dashing in unison towards the hut

you’re both hit with the smell of a metallic tang in the air, and it’s not from your drawn swords

bursting through the door, you quickly take in the scene before you

several red sun members are scattered around the hut and slumped in varying degrees of injury

it’s easy to spot the intruder; they’re yanking their sword out of a body’s torso as they simultaneously turn to look at you

and it’s hard to miss the royal insignia of the jeong monarch on their chest plate

you have the element of surprise

but only for the next few seconds

you leap forward with the thud of footsteps of your partner following almost immediately, side-stepping once you close the distance to dodge a haphazard swing

there’s a brief break in defense when the enemy tries to aim for another strike that leaves the gap in the side of their armour exposed

you feel the slight resistance of your sword entering flesh as you thrust it forward into them

except when you try to tug it back out, a hand grasps your own and the hilt of your sword, stopping you from stepping away

the enemy has realised they are not going to make it out of this alive

but if they are to die, then they are going to take one last person with them

you.

you see glint of metal as they use their other hand to swing their sword down onto you, only for it to be deflected at the last second by another sword

the man you have met for barely an hour is now at your side with his towering protectiveness

in one smooth kick, his long leg sends the other careening into the wall of the hut with a mighty slam

you feel yourself jerking forward from the enemy’s grasp still on your hand

but the man next to you quickly tucks you into his side before you are also sent sprawling

“check on the others,” he briefly says, and then he is striding towards the fallen intruder

you only spare him another quick glance and then you rush to the nearest figure on the ground

you go around checking for pulses, and for those who are still breathing, the extent of their injuries

there are several casualties but nowhere near as many if you and the man had not come to check on the safehouse

which suddenly makes you pause in your tracks

how did he know about the attack in the first place?

you stretch your legs from their squatted position next to one of the red sun members and turn around to confront him

except…the man has disappeared

and so has the intruder’s body

days later, the question of whether you will chance upon the man again tonight flits through your mind when you find yourself perched in the very same spot on the tiled roof of the palace that gives you a clear view of the royal library

you have received another order to assassinate the crown prince as soon as you see the opportunity arise

this time, the note is accompanied by a cyanide capsule, a non-verbal message that this mission is to occur with your life on the line

you spot him

he’s preoccupied by the scroll in his hand as he makes his way through the shelves of parchments

you wait until he’s walked far enough into the library before you drop down from the roof, keeping your stance low to ensure you stay hidden as you silently move closer

you take out the jagged dagger from its sheath by your waist as you anticipate it will be too difficult to wield your long sword in the narrow aisles

and there the crown prince stands

he has his back to you, exposing him to your mercy

mercy that you have no intention of showing him

the cruel heir to the throne of an even crueler dictatorship deserves none

“it’s you again, isn’t it?”

you freeze

the crown prince still has not turned around to address you, but you can feel the dark gaze of his eyes on you as if he were looking at you

“you were here a few days ago”

fuck

how he knows you have no idea

what you do know though is that you have about two seconds to make a move before you lose this chance to assassinate him completely, and quite possibly, lose your life as well

the pill you have hidden in the breast of your tunic feels heavy

“you are part of red sun, are you not?”

this time the crown prince does turn around to face you, but it isn’t the nonchalance with which he reveals your identity that makes your head reel

it is the warmth and softness in his gaze and the hint of a smile on his face that does

what the actual fuck

you’re convinced that the crown prince is not only heinous, but also batshit crazy

“i am,” you spit out at him, “with orders to assassinate you, in fact”

his mouth thins into a tight line, “the orders you have received are false”

“sounds exactly like something a crown prince would say to avoid being assassinated,” you scoff

but then his next words change everything

“red is most beautiful during the sunrise of a new beginning”

before you have time to fathom the bomb that has just been dropped, your heads swivel simultaneously towards the entrance of the royal library when a voice calls out for the crown prince

“hide,” he hisses urgently

and then he’s stepping further away to conceal your presence as best as possible

you hear the shuffle of footsteps approaching before they stop, dangerously close to where you’re crouched behind a bookshelf

“apologies for interrupting your time, crown prince,” they say

from where you are you can see the crown prince’s expression clear as he lets out a small huff, “i have told you many times to just call me yunho”

“of course, crown prince yunho”

even though you can’t see the other person’s expression, you can hear the amusement in their voice

they continue, “i have the information you have requested for”

“thank you,” you see him - yunho - receive a small scroll. “the queen does not know?”

“no, i made sure to be as discreet as possible”

yunho thanks the other once again and your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets when he bows his head in appreciation as he dismisses them

is this the same crown prince as the rumours?

and what is he doing behind his mother’s back?

you don’t realise you’ve been staring dumbly at him until he’s back in front of you with amusement on his face

he stands tall and proud, robes accentuating his stature and nobility

“who exactly are you,” you dare to ask

your voice is small - you feel small, crouched at his feet like a stark physical representation of the power he holds over you

but then he takes yet another step closer and kneels down so that your eyes meet at the same level

“i am the leader of red sun. the creator of the whole revolution”

your ankles actually do give out at that and you have to seat yourself on the floor

because how is any of this possible?

you must have voiced your thoughts out loud, because before you know it, yunho is crossing his legs and making himself comfortable on the floor right in front of you

it makes you feel so strange

the crown prince’s willingness to make himself an equal before you - and even to his staff from earlier

yunho starts to explain

a change in monarch, particularly one of such dictatorship, requires massive momentum and synergy; something he cannot produce alone nor without the support of the people

thus, red sun came into existence for the exact same reason you and all the other supporters have joined

in hopes of a sunrise one day that marks a new beginning

a new leadership

except recently he has had growing suspicious of the presence of a traitor within the organisation, which were confirmed the night the safehouse was attacked

“that night…that man was you,” you realise, “and that’s how you know who i am”

he nods, “and that’s also how i know your orders are false.” yunho nudges you playfully with his knee, “pretty sure i never ordered for my own assassination”

yunho continues to explain that he had taken the intruder back for interrogation, but then you frown when he reveals the enemy had swallowed a suicide pill before any information could be gained

he has an inkling that someone in a high position of power is involved, since the pills are almost impossible to gain access to, but it cannot be ruled out as a coincidence

“hang on,” you pull down the top of your tunic in a hurry

yunho scrambles to cover his eyes and turns his head as he jokingly sputters out, “woah okay, this is moving a little fast don’t you think?”

you tug impatiently on the sleeve of his robe, telling him to look

yunho hesitates for another second before lowering his hands and realising you have-

“a suicide pill?”

you look at each other, because this can only mean one thing

the pills are not a coincidence; the enemy is much closer than yunho would like

you’re both unsure how much time there is until the traitor decides to order someone else to assassinate yunho, or worse, decides to finish the job off themselves

but from that very night of discovery, you and yunho work together incessantly against a ticking time bomb

it’s a delicate balance between finding as many leads as you can and spreading out your investigations to stay under the radar

yunho tries to look further into the cyanide pills while you try to uncover any information regarding the order you had been given

whoever is behind it all has kept their tracks hidden well

there isn’t much to report from either of your ends whenever you sneak into the palace to meet up with yunho

but he makes it very hard for you to feel discouraged when he makes your meetings seem like casual catch ups between - you dare say - friends

you have yet to catch him by surprise whenever you drop down from the roof in front of him in an attempt to scare him; he has an uncanny ability to sense your presence

except, you think you prefer being unsuccessful, because your indignant grumbles never fail to bring out his toothy grin and an excited body jiggle

other times he is the one trying to fluster you

“remember that time you literally tried undressing yourself in front of me-”

“i was taking the pill out to show you!”

you bring your thumb and index finger closer together in front of your face and squint at the gap

“i am this close to changing my mind and assassinating you after all”

he gets a kick out of it, pretending to beg for your mercy, “oh please spare me, your majesty”

other times, yunho teases you for always keeping your cowl and mask on

“bet it’s because you’re ugly or something,” he jokes

and you bite back that he had his face covered too when you both met, so you’re one to talk, ugly

“but since then i’ve always shown you my face as the crown prince. you can see me nice and clear,” he suddenly leans forward, so close you can see the dip of his cupid’s brow. “what do you think about me now?”

you swallow hard

you’re glad you have your mask on because you can feel your face rapidly heating up

“i think…” you gently cup his jaw, “you look better with your mask on,” as you nudge his face to the side

you cannot help but join in with your own chuckles at his laughter and boyish glee

and eventually, you two have a breakthrough

yunho manages to trace the cyanide back to a traveling merchant operating under the guise of selling rare herbs and medicine

in the transaction ledger, there is an unusually large purchase under the name of ‘lee minjun’

“i’m sure i’ve seen the name before somewhere, but i can’t remember where,” yunho huffs

you let out your own huff at his elbow that has very naturally taken a rest on your shoulder

pulling out a stack of paper, you spread it out onto the table before you two

they are past records of certain red sun missions that, upon looking back, seem suspicious

“i noticed a mark on a couple of them, a drawing or character perhaps? except none of them are fully intact. it’s almost like the paper was accidentally marked”

you point them out to yunho in hopes that he will have a better idea

he doesn’t - not at first

not until he chances upon two that vaguely align with each other to form a clearer image

“this-” yunho runs his hand through his hair, “this is butler lee’s stamp. my father’s butler.”

the king’s butler?

lee?

your eyes snap to yunho’s, just as his meet yours

“lee minjun”

you sink back in your seat

there’s now definite proof that the king’s butler is at the very least involved

the question of why and what for remains

in fact, you and yunho would not put it past the queen either to be involved too

there is a long moment of shared silence as you both mull over what this means for the future

yunho breaks the silence first

“after this all ends…do you want to work for me, officially?” he clears his throat, “will you stay by my side?”

after this all ends

you two must still uncover butler lee’s motives; likely part of a much grander scheme involving queen jeong too

you two must still bring down the whole monarch; with the support of red sun, yunho needs to sit on his rightful throne

the sun has yet to rise but you can see the faint hues of orange and twilight blue in the horizon

the new beginning is close

and at that, something in you relaxes

crumbles and disintegrates with utter relief

“it would be my honour to stay by your side forever, yunho”

and then you are removing your hood and mask, daring to breathe and feel alive and hopeful for once

ironically, yunho chokes on air

you glance at him to find that he is unable to meet your eyes

you think your eyes are deceiving you because-

the tips of his ears are a glowing red

you could definitely get used to seeing the usually calm and collected crown prince become a shy, blushing mess

the corner of your mouth rises with smugness, “like what you see?”

“you should really keep your hood and mask on,” he mumbles

“and why is that?” you humour him

he finally looks at you

and when he sees the shit-eating grin plastered across your face, his shoulders suddenly fill out again with confidence and cockiness to match yours

“because,” his voice deep and flirtatious, “with a pretty face like that, you’re going to distract me from my duties”

yeosang

pov: you're in an arranged marriage with him

ever since you could understand the words coming out of your parents’ mouths, you have known that you will be married to yeosang

it just made sense

for the respective princess and prince of two powerful kingdoms to join together, leading to increased power and stronger allies

it is tradition for the pair to meet their chosen spouse for the first time only when both parties have turned sixteen, and even then, subsequent meetings are rare until the time of the actual wedding

so you spend the first sixteen years of your life infatuated with the idea of your prince charming - of prince yeosang - wondering what he looks like, what his personality is like, and how you two will fall in love

and when you finally reach that long-awaited first meeting, prince charming is everything and more than what you have envisioned

if angels with broken wings were exiled to earth, they would look like yeosang

he is soft-spoken and slightly reserved, as any awkward teenager meeting their future spouse would be, but you don’t miss the way that his eyes overflow with adoration and his shoulders shake with exuberant giggles whenever his little sister, yeoreum, comes tottering into the room

he always bends down onto one knee to match her eye level, uncaring of the stains that mark his pants even as his mother narrows her eyes in disdain, and he listens with utmost sincerity when yeoreum tells him about the secret pink and glittery fairy she spotted in the courtyard

they remind you of the relationship you share with your own little brother, juwon, who is barely half your age and height, yet has you wrapped around his little finger

you lean down closer with a hum at the soft tug on your dress to hear your little brother whisper conspiratorially into your ear, “he looks stupid”

if looks could kill, yeosang would be dead right now

you stifle a laugh as you flick juwon’s chin affectionately at his sudden display of childish jealousy

if anything, you’re pretty sure you are the one who looks stupid

stupidly in love

because walking away from that first meeting with yeosang and his family, you know that you are absolutely smitten for the prince

unable to quell the restlessness of having to wait until the next unforeseeable meeting, you pick up a quill that very same day you return to your palace and start writing

it takes you all night, the gentle gleams and winks of the stars keeping you company until they rotate shifts with the songs of the waking world

but by the time you have crossed out and scrunched your way through rolls and rolls of parchment paper, you are satisfied with the letter you have written

the letter addressed to prince yeosang, which you task eunju, one of your maids, with passing it to the royal couriers for delivery to the kang palace

it is a simple letter, thanking him for the enjoyable day, yet it holds the deeper message that you are interested in him and would like to become better acquainted before your marriage

you wonder whether his cheeks will flush a pretty red as his butler hands him your letter

whether he will trace his fingers delicately over the curve of your words

whether he will bite back a smile as he pictures you saying the words to him

two weeks pass, and you approximate the letter to have just been delivered to his kingdom

and although you desperately wish for him to immediately sit down with a quill in hand to pen out his reply, you wait and give him a week before you eagerly start counting down the days until the arrival of his letter

your whole life you have been able to wait patiently

you wonder what has changed now that mere weeks feel like an eternity

the day yeosang’s letter is due to arrive, you are sporadic bursts of giggles, twirls and skips throughout the palace

even juwon is starting to become sick of getting swept up into a crushing hug to the cheery tune of i loveee youuuu every single time you pass him

nothing can bring you down from cloud nine

only…the letter never comes

not the day after, not the week after, not the month after

you’re disappointed, of course, but you busy yourself with reasons why yeosang has not replied, and you don’t give up

you send him another letter, and then another, and another

sometimes you just tell him about your day - what made you smile, what made you sad, something interesting you saw, something your little brother said

other times you tell him about yourself - your hobbies, likes and dislikes, aspirations, fears

and you also wonder about him

you ask what he likes, what he smiles at, what makes him sad, what his dreams are

with each letter that you hand over to eunju to be delivered, it becomes harder and harder to stay optimistic - not even the words of encouragement from your favourite maid lifts your spirits

you continue like this for over a year, still yet to receive a reply

until-

you do.

it feels like you are brought back to that very night of your first meeting, feeling so very alive as hope and excitement cascade into your body the moment eunju hands you a letter with a smile

with shaking hands, you fumble to unpeel the wax seal and free the envelope’s contents - a single piece of paper, neatly folded

your mind races with anticipated words and explanations

perhaps he had been too shy to reciprocate your letters earlier

or perhaps your letters had been lost in transit

you unfold the parchment as the hairs on your skin raise in anticipation, only to find it blank save for one scrawled sentence in the middle of the paper-

stop sending me letters.

and just like that, the clock strikes twelve

your carriage reverts into a pumpkin

and your carefully curated story of prince charming disintegrates into ashes

you don’t write to him again.

years later, the stacks of parchment scrolls on the wooden desk of the guest room you are currently residing in feel like a fresh slap in the face each time your eyes land on them

they are a stark reminder of your very own letters, the cold rejection you received, and the irony of the only letter you ever received again following his being one from the kang monarchs, announcing the proceeding of the royal wedding between you and their son

now, only a few days newly-wed to yeosang, the king and queen are gracious enough to let you sleep in one of the guest rooms temporarily, under your claims of adjusting to a life in a new kingdom and as a wife

really, you are trying to avoid yeosang for as long as you can

you spend your time instead getting to know his little sister better, which is why you find yourself sitting side by side with yeoreum, legs dangling off the edge of your bed

she eyes the vase of flowers on your bedside table curiously, “did you buy that?”

“no,” you reach out to touch the baby’s breath, “someone delivered it to my room”

you had offhandedly mentioned to some of your staff the other day that flowers would make your room look more homey, and you had woken up the morning after to find the beautiful vase teeming with flowers next to you

“why?” you ask yeoreum when she hums thoughtfully

“it looks just like the vase in my brother’s room, but he’s weird about it. yeo never lets anyone touch it, much less have it”

you blanch a little, “in that case i’ll give it back to him later then”

“you don’t like it? or…you don’t like my brother? my brother talks about you a lot, you know,” she reveals

caught off-guard by her perceptiveness, you reveal that you have been hurt before

you don’t specify by what exactly or who it is that you’re talking about, but she seems to understand regardless

later that night, sweet yeoreum barges into yeosang’s room and with as much feistiness as she can muster, she glares at her brother and interrogates, “what did you do to make her upset?”

before he can so much as blink, yeoreum concludes, “you boys are dumb. go talk to her and fix it or something,” and then walks out with a huff

there’s no one there to witness it, but yeosang nods anyway

heart feeling a little heavy after your conversation with yeoreum, you head towards the kitchen to seek solace in the sweet pastry you are usually served each morning

the first time you tasted the danish pastry, decorated with strawberries and cream cheese, was when you had traveled to yeosang’s palace at the age of sixteen for your first meeting

you remember the blissful expression that had bloomed across your face with your initial bite, and no dessert ever captivated your tastebuds quite the same way ever again

if there is one good thing out of this arranged marriage with yeosang, then it would be the reunion between yourself and the strawberry danish

“your highness,” the head chef bows, followed by the rest of the staff in the kitchen, “how may we help you?”

when you ask for one of the pastries, the head chef apologises that there are none

“but we can make you one now, if you do not mind waiting”

you tell him not to go to the trouble and ease his worries, “i just thought there may have been leftover pastries”

“we make only one fresh every morning, specifically for you,” the chef explains, and confusion must settle across your features because he adds on, “his highness has expressed that you may like them”

oh?

flustered, you can only muster a short response of, “i do, thank you,” before you smile once more and excuse yourself

because of all people to notice and remember such a small detail, and then to go out of their way to put in the request with the kitchen on the off chance that it was still true, it was yeosang?

first the vase, and now this

you feel something deeply buried inside of you start to stir but you rush to nip it in the bud

your head and your heart are beginning to wage war against each other and suddenly everything feels like it’s too much

when you reach your bedroom, you throw open the double doors to step out onto the balcony, welcoming the chilling breeze of the darkening sky

you’re tired of fearing rejection if you open up

you’re tired of questioning yeosang’s intentions

and on top of it all, you suddenly miss home and you miss your parents and you miss juwon and-

“are you okay?”

yeosang’s soft question startles you, having missed his knocking at your door

he walks closer to join you out on the balcony when he sees that the answer is obviously a no, and he prompts you again, “what’s wrong?”

thoughts of vases and strawberry pastries flit across your mind

you start with half truths

“just missing my little brother”

“you love him a lot, don’t you,” yeosang smiles sweetly, “i can see it in the way you take care of yeoreum”

you can’t help the heat that slowly creeps up the back of your neck and to your ears, because it implies that he’s noticed all the times you’ve showered his little sister with the same love you give to juwon

it implies he’s noticed you

“what’s your fondest memory of juwon?” he asks when you nod

something within you thaws slightly at the fact that yeosang remembers your little brother’s name

you step closer to the edge of the balcony so that you can overlook the garden outside your room a little clearer, resting your hand on the railing as yeosang waits patiently

“we used to have this game we played. we had a lot of gardenia flowers growing around our courtyard and juwon loved cutting some to make me a mini bouquet,” you pause to shake your head with a chuckle, “it drove our mother nuts”

“doesn’t sound like it stopped him from continuing though, did it?” yeosang questions with mirth

“no, it didn’t,” your heart aches with fondness. “he would use a certain number of gardenias and make me guess what phrase containing the same number of letters he had in mind”

it never failed to tug your mouth into a smile whenever juwon giggled at your attempts to guess the flower phrase, even when most times he would bound away whilst singing answers like y-o-u s-t-i-n-k or d-u-m-b d-u-m-b

yeosang supports himself on the railing with one hand as he nearly folds in on himself in laughter, and before you know it, you too are gasping for air and wiping away tears from your eyes

when you both calm down relatively enough, only intermittent chuckles leaving your lips, yeosang clears his throat and scratches his neck awkwardly

“i know it might not be much, but maybe we can go out into town tomorrow and it might take your mind off things? and we can bring yeoreum along if that makes you feel more comfortable, because you’ve probably spent more time alone with her than you have with me?”

you don’t admit it, but you’re already feeling a little better, so you decide to tease, “are you asking me out on a date right now, kang yeosang?”

“oh, well, we’d be doing things a little backwards since we’re already like, married…but, yes? maybe? is that okay?”

it’s yeosang’s turn to flush a deep red as his usually composed demeanor is reduced to stutters, but you don’t notice under the faint glow cast by the moon now reigning the sky

“yeah, that’s okay”

you and yeosang smile fondly as your little trio stroll through a nearby town the following morning, his younger sister skipping ahead to peer at the colourful trinkets being sold at the market stalls, and your own small squad of royal soldiers following behind at a respectful distance

it’s kind of endearing how yeosang points out item after item, asking whether you like it or whether you find it pretty, in a not-so-subtle attempt to learn about your preferences

you have to stop him from buying you something from every second stall you both pass, but you’re unable to convince him from purchasing a small wooden toy as a gift for juwon, insisting that you give it to your little brother the next time you see him

the more you actually interact and talk with yeosang, the harder you find it to associate him with the memory of the yeosang in your rejected letters

because the equation of the letters, the vase and the pastries just does not add up

as you two sit under the awning of a small shop, watching yeoreum play with the shopkeeper’s dog, you find yourself unable to hold back anymore

“why didn’t you reply to my letters?” you break the silence, trying to hide the hurt laced in your voice

yeosang looks at you with wide eyes as his mouth stutters open

and in the smallest voice you have ever heard him speak with, he says

“you wrote me letters?”

your eyebrows knit together as your eyes dart back and forth between his, searching for any hint of deception

“too many to count,” you confess, “until you sent a letter telling me to stop…”

“impossible. i never got your letters”

your head recoils back as you try to make sense of his words, “but-”

“wait,” he interrupts

yeosang reaches into his robes, pulling out a small, wooden block, extending it out closer to you as he asks, “do you recognise this?”

upon closer inspection, you realise it’s a square seal stamp

it has the character ‘姜’ carved into it and you’ve seen it enough times to know it represents the kang family name - but the inscription that stylises the border is unfamiliar

“not the seal, no”

he swallows apprehensively, “i stamp all my letters with this to certify authenticity”

you let his words sink in as they throw you into a sandstorm of bewilderment

“but then-”

but then who wrote the letter?

and where did all your letters go?

the only people who would have known about them would be the royal couriers and…eunju

a memory flashes through your mind - the moment she handed you a letter with a smile

no, not a smile, you realise

a smirk

you are simultaneously overwhelmed with betrayal, guilt and apologeticness

yeosang doesn’t push you for a response, and you come to recognise that you are also grateful

“i’m sorry for doubting you,” you tell him

it’s nowhere close to the amount of things you want to confess, but it is a start, one that yeosang picks up on and understands immediately

“no, i’m sorry you felt the need to doubt me,” he offers. “that i didn’t make you feel loved enough”

“but i did, actually. the vase and the pastries, then our conversation last night…and even today”

he blushes a deep red as you list the things off with your fingers

“you weren’t meant to find out about the first two,” yeosang admits as he ducks his head shyly

then he suddenly perks up with a sudden thought

he ruffles inside his satchel that had been abandoned to one side, mumbling, “my sister said i did something to upset you…so i um, got you these”

he turns around to reveal a bouquet of flowers, looking a little rough for wear after being hidden in his bag all morning, but his clumsy consideration only serves to makes your heart skip dangerously

“forgive me?” he asks cheekily, and you both giggle at the absurdity of his question because it should very well be the other way around

“if you insist,” you take the bouquet into your hands

and finally, you allow the chains around your heart to fall away, “i can’t say no to my husband, can i?”

yeosang lets out a little squeak as you look at the bouquet more clearly, counting the number of flowers

you turn to ask if he remembers the game you told him about, but the way yeosang suddenly finds the patch of dirt near his foot absolutely fascinating tells you everything that you need to know

eight flowers

eight letters

i l-o-v-e y-o-u

5K notes · View notes

horchatakoo · 3 months ago

Text

BENEATH HIM | JUNGKOOK FF

Description: As an eclipse omega at the bottom of the hierarchy, you find yourself entangled with a pure-blood alpha.

Themes: yandere bully jungkook, pure blood alpha jungkook, omega reader, obsession.

Part 2

In this world, a strict hierarchy exists—an unshakable order where strength determines worth. At the top stand the Alphas, the unrivaled leaders of the pack, with Pure Blood Alphas reigning as the rarest and most powerful of them all.

Beneath them are the Betas, the steady backbone of society, neither dominant nor submissive but essential in maintaining balance.

And at the very bottom lie the Omegas, submissive by nature, their purpose bound to serving their mates.

But there is one rank even lower—one so rare and reviled that even Omegas look down upon them.

The Eclipse Omegas.

Born under a solar eclipse, they are weaker than their ordinary counterparts. Their bodies are fragile, their pain tolerance minimal, and worst of all, their pheromones are faint—almost nonexistent. Unlike normal Omegas, whose scents draw Alphas in instinctively, Eclipse Omegas are undesirable, often ignored, overlooked, or outright ridiculed.

Thankfully, births of Eclipse Omegas are rare.

But unfortunately for you, you happen to be one of them…

Life as an Eclipse Omega is anything but easy. Discrimination follows you like a shadow, relentless and inescapable. Even the other Omegas, the ones who should be your allies, look down on you with contempt—as if your mere existence is an embarrassment to their kind.

School is a daily struggle, each day more unbearable than the last. There are mornings when you don’t even want to get out of bed, when the thought of facing another day filled with whispers, glares, and quiet humiliation makes your stomach twist. If not for your ever-loving parents, who refuse to let you give up, you might have walked away from it all.

To them, being an Eclipse Omega is already a disadvantage—but being uneducated would be even worse. And they refuse to let that happen.

You keep your head down as you walk through the crowded school hallway, clutching your books tightly to your chest. The weight of the stares pressing against you is suffocating, but you’ve learned to endure it.

Ignore them. Keep walking. Don’t react.

But it never works.

A sudden force slams against your shoulder, sending you stumbling forward. Laughter erupts behind you.

"Oops, didn’t see you there," a sickly sweet voice sneers.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is—Mina, the most sought-after Omega on campus. With soft golden curls and a scent so intoxicating that Alphas instinctively turn their heads, she embodies everything an Omega is meant to be.

Desirable. Delicate. Wanted.

Everything you are not—and never will be.

Where Mina is radiant, you are plain. Where she is delicate, you are weak—so much so that you might as well be human with how faint your scent is. You are an anomaly, a mistake in the natural order.

And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, there’s one more thing that sets you apart.

You’re already twenty, yet you’ve never had your first heat.

“Forget it Mina, talking to a defective is not worth it” one of Mina’s friends said, making her group, as well as the others who witnessed it laugh at you.

This is already a common interaction you’ve had with every student here, yet you’ve never gotten used to it.

"Pathetic," Mina scoffs. Then, she opened your bags and made it upside down, making all of your belongings scattered across the floor before she left with her group.

The hallway erupts with more laughter

Your heart clenches, shame burning at your skin as you drop to your knees to gather your things. No one helps. No one ever does.

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to not cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

After the humiliating encounter in the hallway, you barely made it to your first class—Biology—just in time. Heart pounding, you slipped through the door just as the teacher started calling attendance.

"Min Y/N?"

"Present!" you blurted out, raising your hand quickly to make sure she noticed before rushing to your seat.

Relief barely settled in your chest before it was ripped away the moment you sat down.

A cold, sticky sensation spread across your thighs.

Your breath hitched as realization dawned. Hesitantly, you lifted yourself slightly and looked down—your skirt was covered in slime.

Laughter erupted behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who was behind it.

But you did anyway.

And there he was—Jeon Jungkook.

A Pure Blood Alpha. The son of the pack leader. The worst person you could possibly cross.

He leaned back in his chair, arms lazily crossed over his broad chest, an infuriating smirk plastered on his face.

"What?" he taunted, tilting his head mockingly. "You gonna run to the teacher? Go ahead. See what happens."

The challenge in his voice sent a chill down your spine. You couldn’t fight back. You couldn’t even report him—everyone knew that. Not even the teacher would dare stand against him.

Because messing with Jungkook was no different than signing your own death sentence.

Overwhelmed by everything that had happened—from the hallway to now—a single tear slipped down your cheek before you hurriedly wiped it away.

Jungkook’s grin only widened, satisfaction gleaming in his dark eyes. Making you cry at the start of the week? Perfect.

You scanned the room, desperately looking for an empty seat. There were none.

Not that it mattered. Even if there was a vacant spot, no one would let you sit with them anyway.

For a fleeting moment, you considered excusing yourself—going to the bathroom to wipe off the disgusting slime clinging to your skirt. But you knew better.

Your teacher was just like them.

She was strict—especially with you. If you asked to leave, she’d only scold you for “causing a scene” or “disrupting the lesson.” So, you did the only thing you could.

You stayed silent.

Turning your gaze forward, you clenched your fists and swallowed back the lump in your throat, your silent sobs barely contained as the cold slime seeped into your skin.

Behind you, Jungkook leaned forward, voice dripping with mockery.

"That’s right. Stay silent, you pathetic lowlife."

Then—a sharp jolt.

Jungkook kicked the back of your chair. Not hard enough to draw attention, just enough to make you jolt in place. Enough to remind you of exactly where you stand.

Laughter erupted behind you.

With a smirk, Jungkook turned to Taehyung, raising his hand for a victorious high five.

And just like that, your misery became nothing more than entertainment.

You could say Jungkook was the worst of all your bullies.

There wasn’t a single day he missed the chance to humiliate you.

Sometimes, it was just cruel words—sharp, biting insults meant to remind you of how unwanted you were. Other times, it was much worse.

He’d dump your lunch on your clothes, leaving you to sit through the rest of the day smelling like food. He’d mess with your schoolwork, ensuring the teacher found a reason to scold you. And when he was feeling particularly cruel?

He’d steal your money.

Not because he needed it—he didn’t.

Jungkook was already filthy rich, his family’s wealth ensuring he never lacked anything. But taking from you? Watching you struggle through the day without food, knowing you had no one to turn to?

That was what made it fun for him.

And if that wasn’t enough, he and Taehyung made sure your social life was just as miserable.

They spread rumors—lies—telling everyone that you secretly hated Mina, that you were jealous of her.

The result?

Mina was furious.

And the other omegas? They already looked down on you—now, they had an excuse to hate and beat you even more.

To them, you weren’t just weak. You were pathetic. A joke.

And for Jungkook, making your life miserable has become a hobby.

"I'm home!" you called out the moment you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you. At least here, you could finally find peace.

Your mom appeared from the kitchen, holding a steaming pot before setting it on the dining table.

"Oh, honey! I'm glad you're home," she greeted with a warm smile as you walked toward her.

But her eyes quickly landed on the damp patch on your skirt.

"What happened to your skirt?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

You tensed. Of course, she noticed.

"Uh… nothing, Mom. I slipped on a wet floor," you lied, grateful that you'd managed to scrub off the sticky slime after Biology class—though it left an embarrassing damp spot behind.

"Silly! You need to be more careful," she chided playfully.

"Yeah, I will, Mom," you muttered before heading up the stairs, eager to lock yourself away in your room.

But just as you reached the first step, her next words froze you in place.

"Oh, by the way," she started, "a friend of yours—Mina, I think?—came by earlier. You didn’t tell me you had prom this Friday!"

Your stomach dropped.

The prom.

Your teacher had announced it earlier, but you’d barely paid attention—already deciding you wouldn't go.

"I'm so happy you're making friends now, sweetheart!" she gushed.

If only she knew.

Mina wasn’t a friend. She was a nightmare.

But telling your mom the truth would only make her worry even more.

"She’s not a friend, Mom," you mumbled. "She’s just… a classmate."

Your mom hummed in understanding before beaming at you.

"Well, either way, I’ll make sure you look fantastic for prom!"

You forced a small smile, but your thoughts were racing.

“Great. Now I have to go to a party I never wanted to attend.”

And knowing Mina? She wasn’t inviting you for no reason.

They were planning something.

And whatever it was… it wouldn’t be good.

Tuesday came faster than you expected… and you knew it by the annoying blare of your alarm clock.

The bright red numbers on the screen flashed: 8:30 AM.

Your heart dropped.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, panic immediately setting in.

Your alarm was supposed to go off thirty minutes ago.

Without wasting another second, you practically threw yourself out of bed, rushing straight into the bathroom. No time to think.

You flicked the shower on, shivering as the cold water hit your skin, but you didn’t have the luxury to wait for it to warm up. You scrubbed yourself down hastily—shampoo barely rinsed out, soap barely lathered—before hopping out and wrapping a towel around your body.

Dashing back into your room, you yanked open your closet, grabbing the first uniform you could find. It was slightly wrinkled, but you didn’t have time to care.

You struggled to button up your blouse with trembling fingers, your heart pounding against your ribs. You slipped on your skirt, tugged on your socks, and shoved your feet into your shoes.

You didn’t have the time to blow-dry your hair as you bolted out of your bedroom, nearly slipping on the polished floor in your haste.

Your mom looked up from the kitchen, a spatula in hand, while your dad sat at the dining table, casually sipping his usual coffee.

“Breakfast is ready, sweetheart! Come eat before you go—”

“I’ll just buy something at the cafeteria, Mom! Bye, Dad!” you shouted over your shoulder, already halfway out the door.

Your mom barely had time to respond before you were gone.

“Honey, don’t you think our daughter is acting a bit… off today?”

“Hmm? She’s just going to be late for school,” your dad replies, nonchalant over his morning coffee.

“I don’t know… something just feels off. I guess it’s just my mother instincts,” your mom murmurs, worry lacing her tone.

And hell your mom was right!

Later that day, you step into the school hallway, your mind still clouded from the morning’s rush. That’s when it hits you—a sudden wave of heat crawling over your skin, your head throbbing as if caught in a fever. A shiver runs down your spine, yet your body only feels hotter, heavier.

You pause, glancing around in confusion, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar sensation. Maybe it’s just exhaustion, you reason. Maybe the air is stuffy. But the hallway is nearly empty, most students already in class. There’s no crowd, no heat lingering from too many bodies packed together—just you and this unbearable warmth seeping into your bones.

Shaking it off, you force your legs to move forward, determined to push through whatever this is. But just as you round a corner, your stomach sinks.

Jungkook.

He’s walking straight toward you, his presence dominating the space with effortless arrogance. Instinct takes over before logic can, and you immediately turn down the nearest aisle, hoping to slip past unnoticed. You don’t have the strength to deal with him today—not with your body betraying you like this.

But luck has never been on your side.

Jungkook’s sharp eyes catch you in an instant, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk. His steps slow, his amusement growing. He’s seen you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

After all, making your life miserable is his favorite pastime.

You keep your head down, willing yourself to disappear as you quicken your pace, but it’s useless.

A firm hand grips your wrist, yanking you back with just enough force to make you stumble. Before you can react, you find yourself pinned against the cold wall of the empty hallway, Jungkook towering over you with that ever-present smugness in his dark eyes.

“Running away from me now, Eclipse?” His voice drips with amusement, the nickname he gave you laced with condescension. “Didn’t even give me a chance to have my fun today.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep yourself steady, but the dizziness crashes into you all at once. The warmth inside you intensifies, a strange pulsing heat spreading through your limbs, making your breathing turn shallow and uneven.

Jungkook’s smirk falters for a split second as he takes in your appearance—your pupils blown wide, with your eyes having that golden glow, chest rising and falling far too quickly, hands trembling at your sides.

Instinctively, he leans in slightly, inhaling.

And that’s when it happens.

His entire body stiffens.

Jungkook's entire body tenses, his grip unconsciously tightening on your arms as the realization crashes over him like a tidal wave.

No.

No, this can’t be happening.

His mate? You?

He lets out a shaky breath, trying to shake off the pull, but the golden glow in your eyes only confirms what his instincts are already screaming at him. His mate. The one person he’s supposed to cherish, protect—not torment.

And yet, here you are, trembling in front of him, vulnerable, struggling to even stand as your first heat crashes down on you like a storm.

A low growl rumbles in his chest, not out of anger, but something else—something he doesn’t want to name.

He watches as you bite your lip, your breathing uneven, your scent making his own body react in ways he never expected. His fingers twitch again, fighting the urge to do something stupid.

You look up at him, dazed and confused, searching his face for answers, for anything that will make sense of the unbearable heat consuming you.

But all Jungkook can think about is the way he’s spent every day making your life hell.

And now the universe has tied you to him?

He forces himself to step back, releasing you like you just burned him, even though every fiber of his being screams at him to hold on.

“Shit,” he breathes out, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t happening.”

But it is.

And the worst part?

You don’t even realize it yet.

"I... i can't breath" you muttered to him before your vision turned to black as you fainted.

his arms.

“Shit—”

Instinct kicks in before logic can. His arms move on their own, catching you before you hit the cold floor. Your scent—his mate’s scent—surrounds him, messing with his head, making it harder to think. His heartbeat pounds in his ears as he looks down at you, unconscious, your face flushed, lips parted as you struggle to breathe even in your unconscious state.

“Damn it,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, lifting you effortlessly in his arms. The moment your body pressed against his, a low growl rumbled in his chest, the bond already working its way into his instincts, even though he hasn’t marked you yet.

He swallows hard, pushing down the sudden wave of possessiveness that creeps up his spine.

He needs to get you out of here—now.

The last thing he needs is some other Alpha catching a whiff of your scent.

A soft hum of an air conditioner fills the silence as you stir awake, your body feeling both light and heavy at the same time. Your eyelids flutter open, adjusting to the dimly lit room. The scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, and the sterile white walls make it clear—you’re in some kind of medical office.

Before you can even sit up or ask where you are, a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“You passed out.”

Jungkook’s tone is flat, emotionless, as if he’s simply stating a fact. He’s standing near the wall, arms crossed, his usual cocky expression nowhere to be seen.

“You had a sudden drop in blood pressure, which caused you to faint,” the doctor explains calmly. “It’s nothing too serious, but your body is undergoing some changes, which is why you felt weak. I’ve prescribed you some medication to help regulate it.”

The doctors’s voice is steady, professional—but something about it feels… off. Like he’s withholding something. Like he’s deliberately choosing his words.

You don’t think too hard about it, too drained to question anything as he hands you a small white prescription bag. You glance at it, assuming it’s for something like a cold or exhaustion.

What you don’t know is that it’s all a lie.

Jungkook made sure of it.

The so-called "medication" in your hands isn't for blood pressure or general weakness—it’s a suppressant. Because your symptoms weren’t just random. You weren’t just lightheaded or exhausted.

You were going into heat.

And Jungkook knew. The moment your scent wrapped around him like a vice, the moment his body reacted in ways he refused to acknowledge—he knew exactly what was happening.

And he couldn’t let you find out.

Not now.

Not when the reality of what you were to him—the truth he wasn’t ready to face—would change everything.

You, oblivious to all of this, sigh softly.

“I… Can I go home now?” you ask hesitantly, still feeling slightly out of it.

The doctor nods. “Yes, but make sure to take those meds as instructed and get plenty of rest.”

You slowly slide off the examination table, still feeling a little unsteady on your feet. Just as you reach for your bag, Jungkook speaks again.

“I’ll drive you.”

His voice is cold, detached, like he’s doing this out of obligation rather than concern.

You freeze, glancing at him. His expression remains unreadable, his jaw clenched, as if he’s barely tolerating this situation.

Something about his demeanor feels… different. Not like the usual arrogant Jungkook who lived to make your life miserable. But still, you hesitate.

“I can take the bus,” you mutter, not wanting to owe him anything.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change. “I wasn’t asking.”

There’s an edge to his tone, not quite threatening, but firm enough that you know arguing is useless.

With a sigh, you give in.

Maybe it’s better this way. The sooner you get home, the sooner you can pretend none of this ever happened.

The car ride is painfully silent. The only sound between you and Jungkook is the hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal clicking. You keep your gaze locked outside the window, watching the familiar streets pass by, trying to focus on anything but the suffocating presence beside you.

When the car finally pulls up in front of your house, you swallow down your hesitation and glance at him. Your fingers tighten around the prescription bag in your lap.

“…Thanks,” you murmur, the word feeling foreign when directed at him.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. He simply hums in response, a low, almost dismissive sound, before adding, “Take care.”

The words are spoken casually, but something about them catches you off guard. Maybe it’s because you never expected to hear them from him. Maybe it’s because his voice, even in its usual indifferent tone, carries a hint of something unfamiliar.

Either way, you feel warmth crawl up your neck, and to your absolute horror, you realize you’re blushing.

You clear your throat, quickly undoing your seatbelt before pushing the door open. Without another glance back, you step out, clutching the prescription bag tightly as you walk up to your house.

The moment you step inside, the familiar scent of home washes over you, comforting in its normalcy. You slip off your shoes and call out,

“I’m home!”

Your mom peeks out from the kitchen, a warm smile on her face. “Oh, sweetheart! You’re home early.”

Your dad, sitting on the couch with his newspaper, glances up. “Rough day?”

You sigh, nodding. “Yeah, I just wanna rest.”

Your mom frowns slightly but nods in understanding. “Alright, go ahead and take a nap. I’ll call you for dinner.”

You mumble a quiet thanks before heading upstairs to your room, finally letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The events of the day weigh heavily on you, especially with the thought of how you hurriedly dash out of your house in the morning, to go to class, and end up not attending any of it. But exhaustion wins out, and you collapse onto your bed.

Meanwhile, downstairs, your parents continue their conversation—until your mom suddenly sniffs the air.

“…Do you smell that?” she asks, her nose scrunching slightly.

Your dad lowers his newspaper, sniffing as well. His brows furrow. “Yeah… that’s not her usual scent.”

Your mom gasps, suddenly lighting up like a teenage girl hearing gossip. “Oh my god! It smells like an Alpha!” she squeals, fanning herself dramatically. “Do you think—? No way! Our baby girl met an Alpha?!”

Your dad groans, shaking his head. “Don’t start.”

But your mom is already giggling, clasping her hands together. “This is huge! What if it’s her mate? What if she’s finally found the one?!”

Your dad sighs. “Or maybe she just bumped into someone.”

But your mom isn’t listening. She’s too busy spinning scenarios in her head, imagining wedding bells and grandchildren, while your dad pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing there’s no stopping her now.

The next day at school, everything feels… normal.

Almost too normal.

No pranks. No teasing. No Jungkook tripping you as you walk past his desk in Biology.

At first, you think it’s some kind of elaborate trick. Maybe he’s setting up something worse. Maybe he’s just waiting for you to lower your guard. But as the days pass, the torment never comes. He barely even acknowledges you in class—just sits there, staring at his notes, acting as if you don’t exist.

You should feel relieved. You do—mostly. But something about it feels off.

Then there’s the other thing.

It started two days ago, on a completely normal lunch break. You had just grabbed your tray from the cafeteria when your phone vibrated with an unknown number. At first, you thought it was a spam call, but when you answered, a familiar voice grumbled on the other end.

“Rooftop. Now.”

That was it. No explanation. No name. But you knew who it was.

And for some insane reason, you actually went.

You sighed as you stood on the rooftop, arms crossed, watching Jungkook lean against the railing like he had nothing better to do. With you still not having any clue as to why you’re here.

He wasn’t teasing you.

He wasn’t bullying you.

Hell, he wasn’t even talking.

Just standing there. Existing. Being annoying with his broad shoulders and his stupidly toned back that—

You blinked.

Nope. Absolutely not.

You weren’t going to admire Jungkook’s back. You weren’t going to notice how perfect the fit of his uniform was on him or how the slight breeze tousled his hair in a way that would make anyone swoon.

He’s a menace.

A tormentor.

He made your life hell for years!

You shook your head, forcing the thought out of your mind before you accidentally spiraled into something worse.

“Are you gonna stand there and sulk all day?” Jungkook suddenly muttered without even looking at you.

Your brows furrowed. “What the hell do you even want, Jungkook?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. It was so quick, so subtle that you didn’t even think twice about it.

Just like every other day.

What you didn’t know was that he had done it on purpose.

Every time he stood near you, every time he subtly brushed past you, every time he casually leaned against you like it was nothing…

He was scenting you.

Carefully. Subtly. Just enough so that no other Alpha would catch onto the fact that your scent was unclaimed and vulnerable.

You didn’t notice, but he did.

Every. Single. Time.

And that he hated himself for it.

Because no matter how much he wanted to ignore it, to fight against it—

You were his mate.

And the need to scent you was driving him insane, when he can just easily claim what’s his.

“You’re coming to prom tomorrow?” Jungkook asked casually before turning to leave, his question so abrupt that it caught you off guard.

“Uh… yeah. My mom got me a dress,” you replied hesitantly, still processing why he even cared.

“Okay.” His response was short, almost indifferent, yet it only left you more confused.

The venue was already bustling with life by the time you arrived. Laughter, music, and the soft clinking of glasses filled the air, yet you remained on the outskirts, lingering near the corner of the grand ballroom. You didn’t exactly have anyone to talk to, so instead, you busied yourself watching the swirling figures of your classmates, lost in their own world of glittering dresses and expensive colognes.

Your light blue gown cascaded elegantly to the floor, its soft chiffon layers swaying with every step. The bodice hugged your form, adorned with delicate silver embroidery that shimmered under the dim, golden lights. The off-shoulder sleeves draped gracefully over your arms, giving you an air of effortless elegance. Your hair was styled in soft waves, half of it pinned back with a silver clip, leaving just enough to frame your face.

Despite looking the part of someone who belonged here, you felt completely out of place.

You sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to another. If anything, at least Jungkook talked to you, even if it was annoying. Unconsciously, your gaze drifted across the room, searching for him among the crowd. It was stupid—you knew that—but something about his presence, no matter how frustrating, was familiar.

But no matter where you looked, you couldn’t find him.

Minutes passed, and the suffocating atmosphere of the venue started to weigh on you. The overly sweet scent of perfumes mixed with the heat of too many bodies pressed together made your head feel heavy. Bored and restless, you quietly slipped past the grand doors and out into the cool night air.

The contrast was instant.

A crisp breeze kissed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as you stepped onto the empty balcony. The muffled sound of music and laughter echoed from inside, but out here, it was peaceful. You leaned against the railing, inhaling deeply as you let the fresh air clear your mind.

At least out here, you could finally breathe.

Just as you were beginning to relax, a sharp whistle cut through the quiet night air.

Your body stiffened. Slowly, you turned your head toward the source of the sound, your heart already pounding.

A group of five guys—three Alphas and two Betas—stood a few feet away, their eyes locked on you like a pack of wolves finding easy prey. The way they leered at you made your stomach twist.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” one of the Alphas sneered, stepping forward. His smirk was sharp, predatory. “An Eclipse Omega, all alone in the dark.”

Your breath hitched.

Another Alpha laughed, shaking his head. “Didn’t think we’d see one of your kind out in the open. You must be real desperate for attention, huh?”

“I—I was just leaving,” you muttered, forcing yourself to stand your ground, even as your knees threatened to buckle.

One of the Betas scoffed. “Leaving? Aww, come on, don’t be like that. No one even wants an Eclipse Omega, right? You should be grateful we’re giving you the time of day.”

You felt like you’d been slapped.

Alphas always went for normal Omegas. Eclipse Omegas like you were considered… defective. Your scent was weaker, your heats unpredictable—most Alphas found you undesirable. You had heard the whispers before, the cruel remarks. But hearing it now, from them, in this situation…

Another Alpha leaned in slightly, eyes dark with amusement. “But hey, you’ve got a pussy just like every other Omega, don’t you?” He grinned. “Maybe you should take what you can get.”

Laughter erupted from the group, and bile rose in your throat.

The air around you suddenly felt suffocating, like their presence alone was pressing down on you, caging you in.

“Tell you what,” the first Alpha said, rubbing his chin like he was pretending to think. “How about we make this fun?”

His smirk widened.

“We’ll give you a head start. Five minutes. You run as fast as you can into the woods,” he gestured toward the dark tree line at the edge of the school grounds, “and if we catch you…” He trailed off, letting the silence stretch.

Your breath came out shaky, fear coursing through your veins like fire.

Run.

That was all your mind could process.

Without another word, you turned and bolted, the sound of their laughter ringing in your ears as you stumbled off the balcony and onto the grass.

Tears blurred your vision as you sprinted toward the forest, your heels sinking into the dirt, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

You didn’t dare look back.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as the men’s sinister laughter echoed behind you, each step they took sending a fresh wave of terror through your body. You knew they were close—too close—and that no matter how fast you ran, they were faster. Stronger.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs as you pushed your legs to move faster, desperation clawing at your throat. But in your blind panic, you didn’t see the tree branch lying in your path.

Your foot caught on it.

A strangled gasp left your lips as you stumbled forward, gravity yanking you down. The world tilted, and before you could catch yourself, you crashed onto the cold, unforgiving forest floor, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs. Dirt and leaves clung to your dress as you scrambled to push yourself up, your hands shaking violently.

Behind you, the laughter grew louder, closer.

"Aw, poor thing fell," one of them taunted, his voice dripping with amusement.

"Guess she really is useless. Eclipse Omegas are weak little things, aren’t they?" another sneered.

Your entire body was trembling now, heart hammering so hard it hurt. You tried to crawl forward, to get up and run again, but footsteps crunched against the leaves behind you—too close.

"Game over," one of them chuckled darkly, as one of the men grabbed your jaw tightly.

You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for whatever was coming,

A deep, guttural growl ripped through the air, so feral and vicious that the laughter behind you died instantly. The atmosphere changed, thick with something heavy, something dangerous.

Your eyes snapped open.

And there he was.

Jungkook.

His stance was rigid, his breathing controlled, but his eyes had already turned pitch black, a sign that he’s already about to turn in his wolf form at any moment .

“Shit…” one of the Betas muttered under his breath.

“Jungkook?” Another scoffed, but you could hear the slight tremor in his voice. “Didn’t think the golden boy would show up.”

Jungkook’s eyes darkened. “Didn’t think I’d have to deal with bottom-feeders like you tonight.”

One of the Alphas snarled, stepping forward. “Back off, Jeon. This doesn’t concern you.”

Jungkook tilted his head, the corner of his lip twitching into something almost amused—but there was nothing funny about the way his gaze burned into them.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said casually. “You made it my problem the moment you touched what’s mine.”

His words sent a ripple through you, but you barely had time to react. The men did.

The first Alpha lunged without warning, his body shifting mid-air, bones cracking as he transformed into a massive wolf. The others followed instantly, launching toward Jungkook with snarls ripping through their throats.

But Jungkook didn’t shift.

He didn’t need to.

Jungkook moved faster than your eyes could track. One second, the first Alpha was mid-leap, claws bared, fangs ready to sink into flesh. The next, a sickening crack echoed through the trees.

Jungkook had grabbed the Alpha mid-air, twisting its head with an unnatural force—ripping it clean from its shoulders.

Blood sprayed across the forest floor, the head rolling away, its expression frozen in shock. The lifeless body slumped to the ground with a heavy thud.

The other Alpha skidded to a stop, horror flashing in his eyes. He turned, trying to shift back, trying to run—

But Jungkook was faster.

With a single step forward, he drove his fist straight through the wolf’s chest, gripping onto his spine from the inside. A strangled howl left the creature’s throat before Jungkook yanked his arm back—spine and all.

The body collapsed instantly, blood pooling beneath it, the scent of death overpowering the air.

The moment the two Alphas fell lifeless to the ground, the remaining three turned on their heels, desperate to escape.

But they had no chance.

Jungkook was already moving before they could even shift.

With terrifying speed, he closed the distance between them, his hands striking like death itself.

The first Beta barely had time to scream before Jungkook’s claws sliced clean across his throat. Blood gushed out in a gruesome arc, his body falling limp before it even registered what had happened.

The second tried to shift mid-run, fur sprouting along his arms—

But Jungkook grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. In one swift motion, his claws tore through flesh, severing arteries and muscle like paper.

shaking.

“P-please…” he whimpered, tears streaking down his face. “I—I didn’t even touch her—”

Jungkook didn’t care.

With a single swipe, he slit his throat wide open, the Beta’s final gurgle lost in the choking flood of his own blood.

And then—silence.

Jungkook stood among the bodies, his chest rising and falling steadily, crimson staining his skin, his suit ruined.

He turned to you.

Your breath hitched, your entire body frozen in place.

Jungkook had just massacred five men in a matter of seconds.

And yet—there wasn’t a single ounce of remorse in his expression.

Only possession.

Like he had simply taken out the trash.

Jungkook’s head tilted slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

And then, in an instant, his entire demeanor shifted.

Gone was the ruthless killer who had just torn five men apart like they were nothing.

Now, his eyes—wide, frantic, almost wild—were scanning you in pure panic.

“Fuck, fuck—” His voice trembled as he rushed forward, his hands hovering over your arms, your waist, your face—like he didn’t know where to start, where to check first.

“Did they hurt you?” His voice cracked, his fingers finally landing on your wrists, clutching them tightly but gently, as if you would break. His breathing was erratic, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Tell me, please—are you okay? Did they—”

His eyes darted all over your body, searching for bruises, for scratches, for any sign that they had touched what was his.

You just stood there, frozen, unable to process the sudden shift in him.

And then—

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

Tears welled in his eyes as he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his entire body shaking.

“I was almost too late,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his hands gripping you tighter, as if he was afraid you’d disappear. “I almost lost you.”

And before you could even react, he leaned in.

His lips landed on your temple, pressing a desperate kiss. Then another—on your cheek, your forehead, the corner of your mouth—his lips trailing down to your jaw, your neck.

A shiver ran down your spine.

He was shaking.

Kissing you like you were the most fragile thing in the world, like he was trying to reassure himself that you were still here, still breathing, still his.

Still his.

The realization hit you like a truck.

Your breath caught in your throat as your mind finally connected the dots, the way he had been acting, the way he had been calling you to the rooftop, the way his scent lingered on you—

You gasped softly.

“…My mate.”

Jungkook’s lips stilled against your neck, his body tensing.

And when he pulled back, his red-rimmed eyes met yours.

He had been trying to fight it.

Deny it.

But he couldn’t anymore.

Because you knew.

And there was no going back.

Then, suddenly—

A sharp, searing heat bloomed in your stomach.

Your body trembled, your knees nearly giving out as a whimper slipped past your lips. The suppressant—whatever the doctor had given you—was failing.

Jungkook’s proximity, his touch, the way his scent completely engulfed you—it was too much.

You gasped, gripping onto his shoulders, your entire body burning from the inside out.

Jungkook inhaled sharply.

His entire frame shuddered as the same realization dawned on him— his suppressant was failing too.

His heat.

His own scent grew impossibly strong, thick with need, with instinct. His hands clenched around you, muscles tensing as if trying to fight against the overwhelming pull.

But it was futile.

Your body arched against his, heat pooling deep in your core as the ache became unbearable.

A growl rumbled from his chest, low and guttural. His arms wrapped around you, caging you in, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice strained. "I— I can't—"

Another whimper escaped you, your mind hazy, instincts screaming for relief, for him.

Jungkook's breath was hot against your neck. His hands tightened on your hips as his lips parted, revealing sharp canines.

"Mine," he growled.

Then—

A sharp sting.

His teeth sank into your skin, marking you.

And in that moment—

You were his.

Forever.

#bts fanfic #yandere #bts #bts smut #jungkook #yandere jungkook #bts yandere #bts fanfction #smut #fanfiction #jungkook x reader #alpha jungkook #omegaverse #jungkook ff #fanfic #bts jungkook #bts oneshot #bangtan sonyeondan

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heyimkana · 2 months ago

Text

Waking up to your yandere!fiancée Sung Jinwoo

This is a deleted scene from Limerence but can be read separately. It's basically just Jinwoo showing how much of a red flag he is and reader (colorblind af) thinking that he's just roleplaying 😌💀

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo X Female Reader

Genre: YANDERE, smut, fluff

Content Warnings: oral sex, penetrative sex, choking, swearing

Word Count: 4K

Waking up to Sung Jinwoo’s heavenly features was God’s greatest gift.

Sunlight streamed golden through the window, adorning every slope and rise of his muscles with an angelic glow. His strong arms were wrapped around your body, protective even in his sleep.

You took a moment to admire, adoring him with your heart fluttering fondly as your eyes absorbed every detail. He looked like a dream. He felt like a dream even as you trailed your fingertips over his features, reveling in the smoothness of his skin. His hair was adorably tousled, his eyelashes long enough to brush against his cheekbones. He was still nude beneath the sheets, his upper body bare and exposed, giving you the perfect view of the scratches you had left along his spine and the searing passion you had drowned yourselves in just a few hours before.

Jinwoo seemed so vulnerable like this, but only because with you, he found the chance to be. You were the serenity that allowed him to return to his roots, to let him be the little boy who was not yet aware of the burden the world would place on his shoulders, of the power he’d be bestowed upon. And that little boy, without fail, always sought for your affection, yearning for your undivided attention, and it made you feel wanted. Needed. Loved and desired.

You rolled to your stomach, propping yourself on your elbows as you pressed a light kiss on his shoulder. Carefully, you slipped away from his embrace, wanting to freshen yourself before he stirred awake.

Jinwoo groaned, the sound low and hoarse, murmuring your name in his sleep. “Don’t go…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you assured him, carding your fingers through his hair. He let out a blissful sigh at your touch, perhaps even a purr, falling back to sleep with his lips slightly curving up in the sheer happiness of having you there.

He’s so cute, you pondered to yourself, almost like a child. Giving him another soft kiss on his forehead, you climbed down the bed, your naked body sore after hours of being bitten, folded, and bent over.

“Fuck, he didn’t hold back at all last night, did he?” A painful hiss fled your lips as you looked down at your body, a territory marked with a very eager, very talented mouth and bottomless passion. Then again, I told him not to hold back, you giggled as the memory of you begging him to go faster, harder, came to your recollection. Seeing all his marks on you gave you a sense of pride and euphoria, and honestly, you wouldn’t have minded if they lasted forever. You belonged to Sung Jinwoo, and he belonged to you—only to you. What woman wouldn’t be proud of that?

Despite wanting the same, your fiancée was always considerate not to indulge his greed. He never left his lovebites in places other people could see. No matter how much the beast inside him wanted to, he chose to put a collar around himself and placed the leash in your hand. He’d only ruin you when you gave him permission to.

“God, I want to marry him,” you uttered aloud with a yearning sigh as you made your way to the bathroom.

You returned a little while later, your body adorned by the silky nightgown he nearly tore apart the night before. His lids slowly fluttered open at your movements, hazy with sleep. Jinwoo was gorgeous; even with his hair all disheveled and his eyes bleary, he remained the loveliest thing you’d ever seen. His pretty smile broke on his lips, slowly and softly, the second he found your face.

“Hey, Angel…”

No sound on earth was more pleasing than his voice in the morning, except perhaps the sweet moans and the subdued whimpers that rang through your ears when he released himself inside you. The rasp in his husky voice, how it vibrated nicely in the air in the form of the sweetest purr… His voice was the song the heavens created to bless your ears.

“Hey, handsome,” you slithered back under the covers, sliding closer to him. “You slept like a baby.”

“Mm. Someone wore me out last night.”

“I wonder who that was,” you tittered.

Jinwoo drowsily smiled, thankful he could hear your sweet sounds so early in the morning. “Come here.” He brought you back to his embrace, wrapping his arms around you again like he did every night. It was the only way he could fall asleep, with your body pressed flush against him, your warmth seeping into his pores. “Why did you move away? I was holding you before.”

“I’m sorry.” Your arms slid up and down his biceps, kissing the protruding muscle. “I went to brush my teeth.”

“Next time, don’t bother. I want to wake up with you in my arms.” He pulled you close, sighing in contentment at the contact. “Mmm… You’re so warm.” His hand drifted down your nightgown, following the contour of your spine, his touch reverent. “And soft...” His fingertips traced the skin underneath, roaming until they settled on the dip of your neck, lifting your face for him to marvel upon. “And beautiful…” He sighed, almost dreamily. “How did I get so lucky to find a woman like you?”

You chuckled, “Feeling grateful today, aren’t we?”

“I’m grateful every day, Angel. For every second of my life that I spent with you.”

“And a little cheesy.”

He scrunched his nose in response, which you kissed with your giggle reverberating right after.

“What time do you have to leave for work today?” Jinwoo asked, tugging you close enough for him to settle his chin on your head.

“Hmm…” You drew your name on his chest with your digits, not knowing that he’d already had it carved in his heart from the first day he met you. “In less than an hour, I think?”

Nuzzling his nose against your strands, he hummed, “Mm. I’ll call in late for you.”

You chortled quietly, answering his embrace with another. You drowned yourself in his warmth, in his sweet scent, your heart full of never-ending affection.

“It still feels like a dream to me,” Jinwoo murmured, “that I can wake up to you like this every day. To hear your voice the first thing in the morning… to see your face… to feel your body pressed against mine…” He returned the small distance between you to meet your eyes, his fingers tracing the apple of your cheek as devotion filled his gaze. “I’m the happiest man in the world.”

Moments like this made you feel like you owed the deities your soul for bringing him into your life. Unsure of how to convey that into words, you leaned in to present him with a kiss. Your lips just barely grazed his when he suddenly pulled away. “I haven’t brushed my teeth,” he whispered rather sheepishly.

“I don’t care.” You drew him back to you, your lips interlocking, your fingers twisting in his hair.

Jinwoo rolled you to your back, his body hovering close above yours. He kept the kiss chaste and sweet, smiling softly once it ended. “I love you.”

”I love you more.” So, so much more.

To your astonishment, however, the romance in his eyes transformed into something grave as his fingers played with your strands, his eyes glued to your face but not truly looking at you.

“What is it?” you asked, confused by the sudden change of his expression.

He drew a breath. “We’ll always stay like this, right? You and me?”

Hearing a hint of nervousness in his voice, you couldn’t help but tease. “If you want me to.”

“I’ll want you forever, Angel, you know that,” he replied with all his heart, his feelings too intense to reciprocate your jest with another. “There’s not a day that I don't need you in my life.”

You kissed the inside of his palm. “Then maybe forever I’ll stay.”

“You’ll never… leave me?”

“I’ll never leave you.” Your heart thawed. The slight tremble in his voice reminded you of that of a child frightened to bid his mother goodbye. “Why, Jin? What’s the matter?”

He turned hushed. Your words were crystal clear, and he could etch them in his chest, but for some reason, he needed more. Some kind of proof, a reassurance. “Will you promise me that?”

"Promise you?" Although it felt exciting to be so wanted, you always loved it better when he became desperate for you. “What, you don’t trust me? Do I need to spell—”

The sudden grasp of his fingers around your wrists instantly washed your mischievous grin away. He pinned you down to the bed, his grip far from hurting but firm enough to deliver his message. He was not taking this matter lightly, and neither should you.

“I want you to promise me,” Jinwoo repeated solemnly, almost like a harsh demand. “I want you to mean every single word you say when you tell me you’ll never leave me.”

The intensity in his stare, his touch, his voice… It burned you. However, the moment your eyes met, the flame turned subdued, as if the astonishment in your eyes doused it a little. The pressuring tone in his voice switched to pleading as he brought your wrist closer to his face, kissing you above your pulsating vein. “Please, Sweetheart…? I need to hear you say it for me…”

And when a man, more powerful than the Gods, shed his armor to show the frail pieces of him only for your eyes to see, how could you not grant such a request? “I promise,” you said without a doubt, without a second of hesitation, with all the fragments of your soul you could offer. “I promise never to leave you. I promise that I’ll stay here with you forever.”

His lips momentarily parted in surprise at your vow before he tautened them again, bowing as profound joy rippled through him. Jinwoo breathed a relieved sigh, cradling your face as his lips grazed your cheek. “I love you.” Your jawline. “I love you.” Your neck. “I love you so much.” He settled a lingering kiss above your heart, one that beat only for him. “My sweet girl… You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. The only one I can ever love.”

You squirmed; his lips felt ticklish and electrifying on your skin. As his hands and mouth continued to roam, the primal need for his touch returned, swelling rapidly within you. “Jinwoo…”

“I know, love.” His mouth was hot and wet against your sweet spot, the soft flesh of your neck tugged gently between his teeth. “Let me return the favor this time. Tell me, how do you want me?”

Everywhere. I want you everywhere on my body. Your lips. Your hands. I want your cock inside me, but before that—

“Your mouth,” you breathlessly replied. “I want your mouth on me.”

He nearly moaned at your request, elated that you asked him to do what he’d been craving the most.

You sighed in rapture, your body being pleasured once again, inch by inch. You arched your back as he kissed his way down your navel, your tongue wetting your lips as you watched him part open your legs.

“Right here?” Jinwoo asked with a rasp in his voice, his fingers gently caressing your heat, his mouth sucking another bruise on your inner thigh, so dangerously close to your core, you could already feel his breath on you.

You chewed on your lip, nodding.

He wasted no time, diving his head low, prying your folds apart with his thumbs before he darted out his tongue and licked you from your entrance to your clit. “Fuck,” you moaned, your body contracting as the sensation of his mouth closing around your nub washed over you. “God, baby—” Your hand settled on his head, grabbing a handful of his locks to keep him still as you bucked your hips forward, causing him to groan as he plunged his tongue deeper inside you. “Your mouth feels so good.”

He moaned softly, loved being praised by you. His grip tightened around your thighs as he sucked at your most sensitive spot, lapping every drop of essence that seeped out of you like an obedient dog. His eyes turned half-lidded, drunk in the taste of you, appearing so differently than the way they stared at you before when he demanded you to state your promise.

Promise, huh..? “Hey, Jin,” you started, still slowly grinding against his face. “Out of curiosity, what would happen to me if I—ngh—broke my promise?”

He stopped for a second, his lids flickering open, and then it returned, the glimpse of darkness you saw glinting in his eyes before. Jinwoo broke away from you, his thumb replacing his tongue as he collected his composure, rubbing it firmly against your clit. “You’re gonna leave me?”

You shuddered at his tone, how it altered the air between you with only one question. He pressed his thumb further against your bud as his two other fingers slid inside, wedged tightly between your walls. You writhed, his touch rougher than before, so intense you could almost feel his nails scraping against your walls. “H-hypothetically speaking.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” he repeated with a scoff. “Hypothetically speaking, Sweetheart, you’ll be punished.” He scissored his fingers inside, stretching you apart, no mercy in his smile.

“How—” Your soft whimper interrupted you, your body flinching under his ministrations. “H-How will I be punished?”

A new kind of thrill suffused him to the brim, his eyes gleaming at your curiosity. “Oh, your punishment would be severe, Angel.” His silvery voice soothed you as his words set you ablaze. There was a hint of playfulness there, which swept your fear away. He knew you simply wanted to tease him, so he played along. What was left inside you then was only excitement, born from every word he spoke. “I would make sure you knew exactly what happens when you even consider leaving me. You’d be kept close to me, watched at all times. You wouldn’t even be able to leave my sight without my permission. You’d be completely under my control every second of your life.”

It scared you how much it adrenalized you in the most wonderful way, his lines taking you to places your mind never dared to wander. You enjoyed it, this little performance he displayed. Jinwoo had always been nothing but a sweet, tender lover to you. Seeing him take a sadistic role for the sake of indulging your fantasy was a nice change. “You think you have the heart to do that?”

“Oh, honey,” he chuckled deeply, placing his mouth on you once more, his tongue swirling sinfully inside. “I can be whatever you want me to be. I can give you pleasure,” he purred against your soaking cunt, the vibrations making you squirm. “I can give you pain.” You quivered, your hand pushing his head further to your core, silently begging for more. “I can give you fear if that’s what you desire.” He let his teeth graze your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through your streams. “So, don’t tease me too much, Sweetheart. You don’t know what I'm capable of.”

There was a subtle threat in his tone, and you fucking loved it. You wanted it. You wanted it all. You wanted to see just how far he’d cross his own limits for you.

“But, of course,” Jinwoo brought your thigh closer to him, guiding you to wrap your legs tighter around his head. “This is only hypothetical.” He stroked your skin before he planted a soft kiss there, his cheek nuzzling against your inner thigh. “Because you'll never leave me”—something changed in his eyes, a certain glint in his cobalt blues that stunned your heart—“isn’t that right, Sweetheart?”

You couldn’t yet fathom what was written in his gaze, but it felt… unnerving. He was completely immersed in his role, so much so that you wondered if he wasn’t acting at all. That there was truly a part of him that wanted to keep you tied up to the bed, used solely as a toy for his pleasure.

You wished it were true. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?

Your filthy pipe dreams, combined with his talented mouth, brought you closer to the edge. And you would’ve crossed it had he stayed still between your legs, his tongue fucking you until all the knots in your stomach loosened at once. But he didn’t. Jinwoo moved away right when you needed him the most, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip, tasting the sliver of your essence as he returned to you.

You whined in protest, frowning as you watched him crawl up your body. “Why did you stop—”

“I asked you a question.” His tone, gentle yet intimidating, led to goosebumps breaking on your skin. The hunter hovered above you domineeringly, staring down at you as if you were his prey. “And I demand an answer.”

God, he sounds so sexy when he’s like this. “Of course, darling, I’ll never leave you. But…” Your lips tilted into a smirk. “I can’t deny there’s a part of me that wants to try, just to push your buttons and see how far you’ll go.” You angled your head slightly to the side, exposing the column your neck, your gaze painted over with allure. “Being punished like that isn’t so bad. Especially by you.”

“Is that so?” He showcased a nefarious smile, his face sinking into the crook of your neck. “I fear you’re playing a dangerous game, Sweetheart.”

“But that’s my favorite one to play, you know that.” You granted him more access to your skin, your eyebrows adjoined in the middle as he sucked an angry bruise on your collarbone. “So, indulge me, Jin,” you sighed out. “What would you do if I ran away?”

“I’ll hunt you down.” He felt you shiver under him, your body burning up quickly as excitement pumped through your veins. “I'll search the whole world for you to make you mine again.”

“Search the whole world for me, huh?” You forced out a breathy chuckle, your fingers threading through his hair as his mouth suckled on your breast. “But what if I’m very good at hiding? What if I—ngh, yes, right there—keep running away from you just to make it interesting?”

He drew his mouth away with a pop, a string of saliva connecting his lip to your nub before he ran his tongue over it. “Oh, there will be no escaping me, Sweetheart,” Jinwoo smirked, his voice dense with confidence and arrogance. “But I’ll let you try your best. I love watching you struggle, after all. I love it when you get desperate for me.”

I guess that’s why we’re a match made in heaven. Because I love seeing you act that way, too. The sadistic glow in your eyes rivaled his own. “And what are you going to do to me once you catch me? You’ll have me locked up?”

“And tied up, if I had to.” The feelings of his lips traveling to your ear, his hot breath skimming across your lobe, his tongue sliding against your shell—everything filled your senses at once. “I’ll have you bound to my bed, and I’ll claim you any chance I get. Every day, every hour, every minute I’m awake, I’ll have my cock buried deep inside you, my teeth on your skin, my fingers in your mouth. You’d be mine, Sweetheart. Completely and utterly mine.”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the vivid image he drew in your mind. Though you were certain he’d never have the heart to do such things to you, the mere thought of being used, controlled, dominated past your boundaries exhilarated you. “That sounds… exciting, actually.”

“Oh, I’ll make it so, Angel.” His hand glided up your thigh, his nails raking against your flesh. “I’ll make you feel all sorts of pleasure.” He pushed it forward, spreading your legs wide open for him. “And I’ll give it to you”—he pressed down on you, making sure you understand how much he was throbbing at the thought of ruining you—“Again”—he abruptly pushed hips forward, his cock sliding between your folds—“And again”—the protruding vein underneath his length rubbed against your clit, each thrust harder than before—“and again”—he watched you mewl at the sensation, at how wrecked you look beneath him, wanting so desperately to have him inside you—“until you’d never find the will to leave me again.”

Your hips moved on their own, rocking against him, matching every sway. No matter how much you tried to seduce him, Jinwoo refused to give it to you just yet, not until you understood the consequences of what you wished for. “What if I persist?” you asked between jagged breaths. “You know how stubborn I can be sometimes. Would you hurt me?”

Only then did he stop. He leaned back to stand on his knees, his grip tightening around your thighs as his gaze darkened. “I would never hurt you,” he said, stating it like a vow.

You went still for a moment, stupefied by the sudden sincerity. “Too bad,” you smiled, a little minx disguised as an angel. “I think a little pain could be fun.” Curling your fingers around his wrist, you brought him closer to your neck. “Like this.” You guided him to splay his hand at the front of your throat, letting him feel your vein pulsing beneath his palm. “Wrap your fingers around my neck like this and—” You choked in the middle of your words, his fingers suddenly tautening around your throat, stilling your breath. He was only answering your challenge, doing what you taught him to do, but God, it made you weak, made you realize just how powerless you were beneath the man who could shatter your bones to dust.

Thank God, he promised not to hurt you, right?

You laughed softly, the sound strangled as he continued to hold you by the neck. “I—I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you said, your mouth breaking into a grin. “Never thought someone as gentle as you could choke me like this.”

“Like I said,” he smirked, staring down at you mercilessly. “You don’t know what I’m capable of. If you want your limits to be tested, then I’ll make sure we find out.”

Jinwoo had had his hands around your neck before, but it was always with the intention of possessiveness, never controlling. And this? This excited you. It should’ve terrified you just how rough he was, but no. You loved it. You loved it so much, you could barely recognize yourself.

He could see it, the way pain elevated your arousal, and it delighted him, his eyes gleaming in the temptation to do more, knowing how badly you enjoyed this type of pain. The sweet torture that only he could give. “Too tight, Sweetheart? Should we come up with a safe word?”

“N-no,” you coughed out, not wanting to lose, not yet. “I love it. I want it harder. Give it to me harder.” He did without hesitation, robbing another hiss out of you. "Fuck."

“Careful what you wish for, love,” he warned, bringing tears to the edges of your eyes.

“I know what I wished for.” To his surprise, there was still a spark inside you. You wrapped your legs around his hips, drawing him closer to you. “Are you gonna keep talking, or are you gonna fuck me now? Or maybe I should flip us over and ride you like last night. Maybe we should come up with a safe word then 'cause you best believe I’m not gonna let you off easy, Sweetheart.”

He chuckled, impressed by your taunt. He thought you were adorable. “Saying things like that with my fingers wrapped around your neck is a bold move, Angel.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable—” Your sentence ended abruptly in a silent moan when he thrust inside, filling you with everything at once, burying himself so deep, you could almost feel him in your stomach.

Expletives toppled over your lips as you tossed your head back, feeling so full, so complete, your hands gripping onto the sheets. He fucked you slow, then fast, then slow again, throwing you off your rhythm, filling you with frustration, all the while keeping his hand on your neck. It doubled the tension, doubled the pleasure. The sense of danger was always there, like he could crush you any moment, and it was so, so damn thrilling that you fell into regret for not asking him to do this sooner.

“Fuck,” he groaned through clenched teeth, his head hanging low as his body caged you inside. “You’re so fucking tight, baby.”

Fucking you rough and deep—he could make you come just like that, you knew it. But then, seeing how close you were, Jinwoo pulled himself out entirely, choosing to squeeze his cock between your folds, sliding back and forth on the bundle of nerves, instead of stretching your walls apart.

“Jinwoo—” Your nails clawed against his wrist as your legs wound tightly around his hips. You pulled him down toward you, wanting nothing more but for him to bury himself to the hilt again. “Don’t tease me—”

“Tell me what you want, then.”

He was messing with you, a sight you rarely saw, as he was always determined to make you reach cloud nine as fast as he could. Mischief looked perfect on him, and as much as you wanted to witness it longer, your need for him was starting to grow painful. “Fuck me. I need you to fuck me.”

Though elated, he was far from satisfied. “More, Angel. Do your best.”

Fuck having him punished you. I’m going to punish you later for this. “Jinwoo, please! I need you to fuck me, please!”

That was it. That was the kind of desperation he wanted to see. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He chuckled near your ear, “You look the prettiest when you’re begging for my cock, you know that?”

Your walls clenched tightly around his throbbing length as a forbidden kind of pleasure burst through your system, feeling burned in the most exciting way. “Hard,” you breathed out, your throat dry. “I need you to fuck me hard, Jin.”

He felt like a king, owning the world in his hands. “Where’s your manners?”

“Please,” you said as tears glazed your eyes. “Please give it to me harder.”

Perfect rows of marbled teeth peeked from behind a wolfish grin. “Good girl.”

He lived up to your words. Every sway of his hips, every drive of his cock inside you was everything that you desired and more. You couldn’t scream his name as loudly as he wanted you to, your throat still strangled to produce anything louder than a whimper. But he relished the sight, nevertheless. If anything, he looked even more excited.

You felt it building, one wave of pleasure after another, ready to crash and drown you like the ocean. “Close, Sweetheart?” he asked, and you gave a shaky nod, biting your lip.

When you were put in a similar situation the night before, your body tensing as your orgasm approaching quickly, Jinwoo had sweetly kissed your temple and whispered, “Come for me, sweet girl. Let yourself go for me.”

But right now…

“I’m gonna make it clear for you, Sweetheart, so I’ll say it again,” he said amidst heavy breaths, almost in a growl as his teeth grazed against your ear. “If you try to run away from me, I’ll wrap my hands around you again, just like this.” He tightened them slightly to paint a picture for you, the added pain nearly sending you over the edge. “And I’ll keep you here with me.” His tongue traced the contour of your ear, his smirk dark and sinful as he made an oath of his own. “And I’ll fuck you like this, the way you want me to. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll only remember my name. And I'll keep fucking you until you stop wanting anything else, but me.”

He proved his words by snapping his hips roughly against yours, causing your vision to turn white. Your orgasm shook you to your core, your strength leaving you almost immediately as he continued to chase after his own high. As your body turned pliant beneath his, Jinwoo pried his hand away from your neck, choosing to slip his fingers between your own. His gesture romantic, a complete opposite of how he was a second ago.

“I’ll have you trapped in my arms, Angel,” he promised as your lids turned heavy. The feeling of his lips caressing your knuckles was the last thing you felt before your unconsciousness slipped away.

“Forever.”

*** AN: I was going to include this in part 2 at first but I feel like it's too long and I don't want to drag the story any further than I already do LOL but throwing this scene away feels like a waste too so idk have your weekly dose of yandere!jinwoo ig 😌

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bitchface24-7 · 5 months ago

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THE SEDUCTIVE PROFESSOR VIKTOR

synopsis: Professor Viktor, the most sought out and dreamt of professor at Piltover Academy. Luckily for you… you’re his favourite student.

warnings: age gap (viktor’s gotta be anywhere in his 30s-40s to be a professor, reader is in their 20s (early to late I don’t really care) ), power imbalance, dom!viktor, I tried my best to make this gender-neutral, this isn’t gonna be a full on story, just bullet points I come up with, no beta we die like most of the characters in Arcane

genre: m/f, m/m (however you label yourself, I hope you can read this and enjoy it!)

PART 2

Professor Viktor hasn’t been a professor for very long at the academy. After he and his partner Jayce Talis revolutionized machinery and magic in the form of Hextech, well… the academy and the council wanted their genius shared with the younger generations.

“The Science Behind Magic: HXT101” became a hit. This course had the highest approval ratings, least amount of absences, and highest amount of A students in the history of the academy.

Viktor’s proud of his students work, everyone else sees it as it is. Everyone is doing amazing due to their hot professor.

His attitude, his humour, his accent, his beauty. Professor Viktor is sin incarnate and doesn’t seem to realize it. The dreamy sighs, the lustful gazes. It all goes over his head like water down a ducks back.

Having Jayce come in as a guest speaker doesn’t help in the slightest.

The two men are gorgeous. Jayce with his broad shoulders, messy hair, and wonderful beard. A few strands of grey focused on his temples.

Viktor with his long hair, sultry eyes, lithe frame that’s mostly delectable legs. He dresses wonderfully too. All tailored to fit his frame perfectly. His tiny waist seems almost impossibly small.

Viktor tries his best to be impartial to his students; neutral as a good teacher should be… but there’s something about you.

You’re bright, intelligent, well-spoken. Overall beautiful. He can’t stop looking at you during lectures, he can’t stop thinking about you in the privacy of his own home; in his office as well.

You always pay attention in class, you ask riveting and inspiring questions, you continue the conversation Viktor is desperately trying to create to invigorate the students the way he and Jayce were all those years ago.

Your pretty eyes, soft looking lips, shiny hair. The way the academy uniform compliments your figure in all the right ways. He’s a man obsessed.

He knows you’re at least physically attracted to him. The way you bite your lip when you look at him, when you shyly look down when he compliments your work with a sultry “good job”

How you jolt in your seat from daydreaming when he comes up behind you and whispers in your ear to pay attention.

He wants to see how you react to other stimuli. A practical theory if you will.

Will you be good and listen to Viktor’s every command? Or will you be bratty; needing to be put over Viktor’s lap and your ass reddened to be taught a lesson. Would you prefer his hand, a ruler, or maybe even his cane?

How pretty would you look on your knees, taking his cock down your throat? Would your eyes water? Would you choke? Or are you secretly a slut, who can take it no problem.

Are you a moaner, a whimperer, a screamer, or a crier?

He knows his blatant desires for you are cementing you as his “favourite student” you can do things others can only dream of.

You can come to class late and not need a valid excuse, you can borrow any materials without reasoning, you can stay as late as you want during office hours; when anyone else would be politely but firmly told that their time was up.

People have noticed, everyone but you it seems. The rest of the class can’t help but envy you. How the hell do you have such a drop dead gorgeous man wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even realize it!

You’re going to realize it soon, when Viktor tells you to stay behind after class. That he has a theory he’d like to discuss with you.

That theory leaves you with your face feeling like it’s on fire, your throat sore, your body aching in a delicious way, your legs bowed, and your appearance completely disheveled.

Viktor gets the answers he’s been desperately craving and is not disappointed. He can’t wait for the semester to be over. He wants you, and he can pursue you when he’s no longer your professor.

He just gave you a taste of what he’ll give you everyday if you agree to be his.

(You’ll agree to be his. He rocked your shit)

#arcane #viktor arcane #viktor imagine #viktor x reader #viktor smut #professor viktor #arcane imagine #arcane smut #fem!reader #male!reader #gender neutral reader #banners by cafekitsune #HEAR ME OUT #HES SO FINE 😩😩#ANY VERSION OF VIKTOR CAN GET IT #(except when he’s a kid)

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prythiansprincess · 5 months ago

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— a taste of the divine.

NAVIGATION // inbox. tags. writing. library. moodboard.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader.

song inspiration: the summoning by sleep token.

author’s note: vampire! mattheo has been on my mind for ages and now i've finally written something so hedonistic and self-indulgent solely inspired by the fact that the man looks good drenched in blood. sink your teeth in.

Everything in the world is about sex — except sex. Sex is about power.

At an early age, you learned how to wield your sexuality like a weapon. After working as a courtesan for as long as you have, you quickly realized that men were truly only capable of categorizing women in one of two ways: the Virgin: an embodiment of purity, innocence, and virtue or the Whore: an incarnation of seduction, manipulation, and promiscuity.

To be desirable, you were expected to walk a fine line and maintain a perfect balance between the two. Lean too close to the right and you’re classified a prude. Swing too far to the left and you’re labeled a slut. The difference lies in whether or not you know how to play the game.

Given your line of work, it was in your best interest to become a top player. According to the Madam, you had a gift when it came to enticing clients. In reality, you were merely observant. The ability to accurately read people was a necessity in the game of seduction.

To seduce someone, you need to know their dreams, their hopes, and most importantly, their desires. Most clients were motivated by a fantasy. It was your job to become that fantasy and you were quite good at your job.

Ironically enough, the Madam always said that there were only two types of clients. The majority sought after instant gratification; a quick fuck, a one night stand, a memory to get himself off to while he lies next to his wife longing for the glory days of when his cock still worked. They were easier to please. The latter, on the other hand, proved to be a little more difficult. The naive ones that believed in silly fairy tales like making love, sighing dreamily about romance and intimacy and connection while inevitably setting themselves up for disappointment.

You were more realistic. For you, sex has always been tit-for-tat. You never offered more than you received. Until Lord Riddle.

You should have known Mattheo was trouble from the moment you laid eyes on him.

The first thing that you noticed about the young lord is that he preferred his own company. Every time you came across him in the Underworld, he was always alone. Mattheo never interacted with the other clients. Not out of shame like most of the first timers at the club, but out of observance. He was gauging his surroundings, judging the others around him in stoic silence, and filing them away in neat little categories in his mind. In other words, Lord Riddle was a predator sizing up his prey. Just like you.

Usually, it only took a single interaction for you to figure out what type of person someone was. You could easily tell which clients possessed great wealth, political advantage, or secrets so terrible that you could easily exploit for your own advantage. Needless to say, this special skill of yours made you the most infamous courtesan in all of London and subsequently, the Madam’s favorite.

But as you observed the mysterious stranger from across the room, you were surprised to come across something that you haven’t encountered for a very long time — a challenge.

“Great choice,” the Madam praised from over your shoulder. “Would you like to be introduced?”

“No,” you answered as you lazily sipped on a glass of champagne. “Lord Riddle will make his move when the time is right.”

Three nights passed before Lord Riddle made his approach. The Underworld was filled to the brim with gyrating bodies, their sticky and sweaty limbs pressed against one another as they danced to the seductive crooning of the singer on stage. The red spotlight bathed the crowd in a hazy light as smoke curled through the dancefloor.

“Not a fan of the crowd, I take it?” Lord Riddle drawled as he smoothly sidled up to your side.

“I prefer to watch,” you replied nonchalantly as you sipped champagne. “Clearly, I’m not alone in that, my lord.”

Lord Riddle smirked seductively, drawing you in like a predator toying with his prey. As you firmly held his gaze, you finally allowed yourself to truly take him in. Looking at Mattheo was like looking at a masterpiece — the dark and seductive eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the angular jaw, and the tall and lean body that towered over your own were all pieces of a work of art that deserved to be immortalized in a museum. Suffice to say that he was the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Still, there was more to Lord Riddle than just an aesthetically pleasing appearance. There was a presence about him, a certain magnetism that pulled you into his orbit. You felt drawn to him in a way that you had never felt with anyone else before.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” His voice was husky — smoky almost and it sounded like silk to your ears. Lord Riddle held out a gloved hand and flashed his charming smile. “My name is Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.”

You shook his covered hand, noting the ancient heirloom ring sitting snugly on his right ring finger. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. My name is Y/N.”

Mattheo extended your hand up to his mouth and placed a chaste kiss on the back of your palm. The coolness of his lips against your skin sent shivers up your spine. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Y/N,” he purred. “And please, call me Mattheo.”

With a sly smile, you swiped a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to your newfound companion. Mattheo took a graceful sip, his intense gaze drinking you in.

“What brings you up here tonight, Mattheo?” You gestured to the lower level of the club where the atmosphere shifted into a hedonistic maelstrom. “Surely you would much rather partake in the revelries happening down there.”

Mattheo leaned closer and the strong scent of cinnamon and tobacco enveloped you from all sides. “Something tells me that the main event is right here,” he whispered as he caged you against the banister until all you could see, feel, and hear was him. “With you.”

Unperturbed, you flashed him a seductive grin. “Smart and handsome,” you quipped as you smoothed the lapels of his velvet suit jacket. Mattheo trailed your touch with that intense gaze, his eyes following a path down the hard plane of his chest, which was exposed beneath an unbuttoned black dress shirt. The silver cross chain around his neck glimmered underneath the dim club lights. “Perhaps I’ve found the cure to my perpetual boredom.”

“If you’re bored, then you’re more than welcome to play with me.”

You raised a perfectly manicured brow. “Is that a proposition, my lord?”

Mattheo was the perfect picture of sensuality as he closed the gap between you. “Not the type that you think,” he murmured softly. “After all, I am a gentleman so I intend to do this properly with you.”

You raised your chin defiantly. “I can be proper.”

His dark chuckle caressed your skin. “Somehow I doubt that,” Mattheo gibed. “Be that as it may, my offer is quite simple. I request your company for dinner tomorrow evening at my estate.”

“For what purpose?”

“I would like to get to know you,” Mattheo explained. “Preferably without the smoke and mirrors of this place. You’ll find that I’m a simple man with simple taste. I do not require such pageantry. What I want is the pleasure of your company over dinner and drinks.”

“A date?” You reiterated with intrigue. “That’s not the way we do things around here.”

Mattheo smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll make an exception for me, love.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“I intrigue you,” he simply stated. “I am a complete mystery to you. A puzzle of sorts. You like to solve puzzles. All you have to do to find the missing piece is accept.”

“If I do,” you proposed in a neutral tone, your gaze flickering up to this magnanimous man. “Will I finally have the full picture of who you are, Lord Riddle?”

Mattheo bowed and kissed your hand once more. “Come and find out, love.”

The wrought iron gates creaked as the carriage rounded the Riddle Estate. The ancestral home was imposing, its pointed arches and towering spires looming ominously against the backdrop of the full moon. The lawn was meticulously maintained, every hedge trimmed and shaped to perfection.

The carriage came to a stop in front of an ornately carved wooden door. You thanked the coachman and climbed the steps one by one, careful not to step on your scarlet silk dress. As if on cue, the doors opened of its own accord. A servant awaited you inside, his stern expression fixed as he welcomed you into the home.

“Welcome, Miss Y/N,” he rasped out. “Lord Riddle awaits you on the terrace. Follow me, please.”

“Thank you for having me,” you said graciously as he led you through the luxurious home. You took a moment to appreciate the intricate artwork that lined the walls. “The estate is quite beautiful. From what I understand, this place holds a lot of history. Everything has been preserved from when the Prince resided here. Is that correct?”

The man’s expression transformed from indifference to delight. “Before it became the Riddle Estate, this ancestral home was called Carfax. To honor its history, the Riddles have maintained the furnishings in its original state from when the Prince first purchased the property in the nineteenth century.”

“Lord Riddle is quite right to do so,” you said in admiration. “There’s a certain melancholy to this place that I find quite charming.” The man nodded in appreciation. “Haunting, even.”

“The only thing that haunts these four walls now are me,” Mattheo said when you reached the terrace. His dimpled smile was as charming and haunting as his home. “Thank you for guiding Miss Y/N, Nigel. That’ll be all for the night.”

You curtsied as the man called Nigel bowed. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Y/N,” Nigel said in parting. “Perhaps I may give you a tour of this grand home and discuss its historic importance when my lord allows it.”

“That would be lovely,” you accepted with a smile. “Thank you, Nigel.”

Mattheo watched in amusement, his brows quirking as he watched the man depart. “I’m impressed,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve managed to charm Nigel. I haven’t seen him smile in decades.”

“I’ve been told I have a certain appeal.”

“Speaking of,” Mattheo drawled as he surveyed you. His gaze snagged on where the silk accentuated your curves. “You look quite ravishing tonight.”

You allowed a demure smile as you discretely scrutinized him. “I could say the same of you.”

In all honesty, ravishing might be an understatement when it came to Mattheo. The silk button down he donned tonight was as dark as sin. At first, you thought it was black until the candlelight flickered through the fabric. Then you realized that it was a crimson so dark it appeared onyx like dried blood. His trousers were black and neatly pressed and on his feet were expensive leather shoes. The same cross chain dangled from his neck, disappearing underneath his shirt. You desperately wanted to trace it with your tongue.

Mattheo rested his gloved hand on your lower back, guiding you gently to your seat. “You’re just in time,” he said in a pleased tone. “Dinner is ready.”

As you settled into your seat, you had to admit that this wasn’t at all what you expected. You envisioned a grand and ostentatious six course meal served by servants while you and Mattheo were seated on opposite ends of an expensive mahogany table. In comparison, this was intimate and cozy. You were surprised to find that you preferred this much more.

Dinner was a delicious serving of filet mignon, asparagus, and parmesan crusted potatoes that Mattheo served you himself. It was better than any meal you had ever had. To top it off, the wine he paired with the food was a rich vintage that was probably older than both of you combined.

The conversation flowed easily between you. Mattheo was curious about you and asked questions at any given opportunity. He wanted to know your hobbies, your friends, your aspirations. It was more than anyone had ever inquired about you in a long time.

“How did you come to work for the club?”

You tensed at the question, but smoothly brushed over the reaction with a sip of wine. “My father was an alcoholic and a gambler. The drunker he got, the higher he bet. Unfortunately, luck never seemed to be on his side. One day, he lost a bet against a very powerful man. My father was given three days to repay his debt. Failure to do so would mean forfeiting his life. When I was eight, he sold me to the Madam and the rest is history.”

Mattheo listened intently, captivated by your story. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his eyes, which you appreciated. You hated when people treated you like some broken little bird. The story wasn’t meant to elicit sympathy. It was a shitty thing, yes. But shitty things happened all the time.

Even to little girls who didn’t deserve it.

The fact of the matter was that you were the most influential courtesan in London while your father had drank himself into an early grave. You had accomplished more than he ever did in his sorry life. Because of him, you learned to read men with pinpoint accuracy so you would never be at one’s mercy again.

“Did your father ever show remorse for what he had done?” Mattheo asked curiously.

You snorted. “That would require him to have a conscience. Besides, I neither want nor need his remorse. He died the way that he lived — drowning in liquor and debt.”

“And the powerful man?”

“Six feet under,” you declared nonchalantly. The governor was the first in a long line of men that met their demise by your hand. “May his soul burn in hell."

Dark eyes sparked with understanding. In the light, they almost looked crimson. “Who would be so bold to execute such a powerful man?”

“A little girl with a grudge.”

Pleased, Mattheo kissed your knuckles. He cleared the plates away and beckoned you to follow him. “Come, love. I want to show you something.”

You followed Mattheo back into his home and walked through a maze of floors and hallways before you reached the west wing of the estate. He pushed open a heavy wooden door and led you into what looked like an office. Despite the extravagance of the rest of the house, the office was simple yet elegant.

Crimson curtains reflected the moonlight, a breeze rippling through them like a phantom wind. Artifacts and artwork littered every corner of the room, including the mahogany desk positioned against the back wall. Important documents were arranged in organized stacks, but beside them were sketches and drawings of varying shape and color.

“Everything there is to know about me is in this room,” Mattheo explained. “You said you wanted a full picture of me, so I’m giving you what I promised.”

The part of you that harbored mistrust was alarmed by his openness. “Why?”

“To show you that I am true to my word. I will always be true to my word,” he emphasized. “Especially when it comes to you.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Your madam told me about a special talent of yours.”

“I wouldn’t call it a talent. I’m just terribly observant. If you know where to look, most people are an open book.”

Mattheo fixed his gaze on you. “Read me then, love.”

“Most men can’t handle the truth.”

“I’m not like most men.”

Between the lines, the true meaning of his statement revealed itself. This room was the very core of who he was and now he was inviting you in. Mattheo was putting himself wholly and utterly at your mercy. To scrutinize, to inspect, to judge. He knew how important it was for you to have the upper hand and he was willingly offering it to you.

In silent acceptance, you surveyed the room with unveiled scrutiny. Your gaze snagged on a few interesting things. The family crest stamped on official documents. The trinkets and tokens originating from all around the world. The stoic portrait sitting above the mantelpiece. The picture of a dark haired boy that bore a great resemblance to the man before you peeking out from a discarded album.

They all contained a piece of the puzzle that was Mattheo Riddle.

“You’re wealthy, but not in the same sense that the rest of the club’s clientele are. You hail from old money, the type of generational wealth that most likely traces back to nobility. You’re well traveled and highly intellectual. You pick up interests left and right and you’ve probably studied at a handful of prestigious universities around the world, but you can never stick to just one topic. You have an older sibling that you have a very complicated relationship with. You’re guarded and extremely selective about the people you let in because you’re afraid of showing them the man beneath the mask. You don’t want control. You need it. Probably because you’ve felt out of control your whole life.”

“That’s a clever trick,” Mattheo drawled as he appeared in front of you in the blink of an eye. You sucked in a breath as he pressed you against the wooden desk, resting his hands above your waist. “Is that all your instincts tell you about me?”

“You say that you aren’t like most men, because you aren’t a man at all. You’re something else entirely. Something dark. Something dangerous.”

Red eyes glimmered underneath the moonlight. “What am I?” Mattheo rasped as he pressed his hips against yours. “Tell me, love.”

You held your chin high and looked him in the eyes. “You’re a vampire.”

The mask slipped as Mattheo transformed before you. His eyes were as red as blood, dark veins forming on his pale skin. You gasped when his canines elongated, sharp and lethal and deadly. He could probably drain you of life and you wouldn’t even know it until it was too late.

“How did you figure it out?”

“You wear gloves because your skin is as cold as ice, your eyes are crimson in certain lights, and you speak like you’ve lived a thousand different lives. Plus, you’ve been staring at my neck all night like you’re just waiting for the chance to sink your teeth in.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“You should be,” Mattheo drawled. “I have lived for five hundred years and never once have I experienced bloodlust like this in all of my existence. Your blood calls to me. I knew it from the first night I laid my eyes on you.”

The admission should have frightened you, but instead in some strange way you understood. On any other occasion, you never would have allowed yourself to be alone in a strange home with a strange man, but for some reason, you felt compelled to accept. Whether by fate or kismet or destiny, you knew that you were meant to be here tonight.

Mattheo caressed your throat and buried his nose in the crook of your neck to inhale the heavenly scent. “Tell me love,” he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly. “What do you desire most in life?”

There was no hesitation in your voice when you spoke. “Power.”

“I could give that to you,” Mattheo promised. “I could give you power beyond what you could ever imagine. All you have to do is say yes.”

“What are you asking for in exchange?”

“You,” Mattheo said simply. “I want you. Bind yourself to me and you will never feel powerless again. I will worship you like the goddess that you are. I will devote myself to you for eternity. I will be yours and you will be mine.”

“You want me to be your consort?”

Dark eyes flickered with desire. “No, darling,” he purred smoothly. “I want you to be my equal. Equal in wealth, equal in beauty, equal in power.”

The idea thrilled you. Being an influential courtesan was one thing, but becoming an immortal vampire with immense riches and power would provide security that not even the Madam could offer. You thought about the little girl that you were — scared and helpless as your father ripped you away from the only life you’d ever known. If you accepted Mattheo’s offer, you would never have to feel that way again. You would be untouchable.

"Why me?"

"Because you are beautiful and bloodthirsty. Because you are clever and cunning. Because you clawed your way into a better future despite the pull of the past," Mattheo declared with certainty. "Because in all my existence, I have never met anyone quite like you."

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Sharp fangs caressed your neck as Mattheo dragged his canines against your skin. “The pull between us. I never believed in the concept of mates, but even I could not deny the call of the bond. I have searched for you for centuries and I was not even aware of it until I finally found you.”

“Is that what it is?” Since that first night at the club, you had felt inexplicably drawn to Mattheo. Even then you knew it was more than attraction. It was like every fiber of your being yearned for him. “You’re my mate?”

Mattheo nodded. “Only if you accept the bond.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, I accept.”

“I will have to turn you,” Mattheo explained carefully. “The ritual will be painful. I will drink of your blood and you will drink of mine. Once the venom courses through your veins, the pain will be excruciating, but I will be with you every step of the way.” He caressed your cheek, his expression softening. “Do you trust me, love?”

Strangely enough, you did. You knew that Mattheo would stay true to his word.

With a nod, the ritual began. Mattheo fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back. He hummed against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses up the column of your throat before settling on a spot at the junction of your collarbone. His dark eyes flicked up to yours as his fangs elongated. Mattheo watched for signs of hesitation, but found none.

You gasped as he sank his teeth into your flesh, eyes fluttering shut as the sting of the bite took hold. Mattheo moaned as he drank your blood. The venom spread like wildfire in your veins, scorching your entire being from head to toe. It felt like your blood was boiling. You screamed as tremors rocked your body, phantom hands taking hold of your bones and breaking them over and over again. You screamed as the pain spread, but Mattheo stayed focused and retrieved a dagger from his desk drawer.

In one swift move, he cut his palm open and held it over your mouth. “Drink, my love,” Mattheo instructed. “It will ease the pain.”

Desperate, you lapped up Mattheo’s blood with urgency. The metallic taste filled your mouth, but you couldn’t help but drink deeper as it turned sweet and heady, tasting like wine on your tongue. The more you drank, the better you felt. It was almost as though his blood was the antidote to the pain.

“That’s it,” Mattheo murmured. “You’re doing so well, my love. Just a little more.” You sucked on his palm shamelessly, blood dripping down the front of your dress. “That’s a good girl.”

Mattheo wiped his blood from the corner of your mouth before crashing his lips against yours. You groaned as he pressed you against the desk, his hands gripping your waist while you kissed him back with equal fervor. Passion sparked between you as Mattheo scrambled to taste as much of you as he could.

His soft pants echoed in your ears as he desperately chased after your kisses, blood staining both of your mouths. A euphoric feeling washed over you like a wave, chasing the pain away and replacing it with a surge of pleasure. Every touch felt heightened, your senses shifting into overdrive as Mattheo pulled away.

You whined at the loss, which made him grin apologetically. “The ritual isn’t complete yet, my love.”

Mattheo flipped the dagger in his hand and beckoned you over to the middle of the room. He pulled out the expensive rug and carelessly tossed it aside before kneeling on the wooden floorboards. You mirrored the gesture and watched as Mattheo pulled you against him, placing the dagger in your hand. He produced a grimoire and skimmed through the pages until he found the right one.

“We must draw the ancient bonding runes,” Mattheo explained as he pointed at the carvings illustrated on the grimoire. “They will signify our eternal union. Once we carve them, there’s no going back.”

You gripped the dagger tightly. “Together?”

Mattheo smiled. “Together, my love.”

Carefully, the two of you carved the runes into the floor. The carvings glowed as mist and fog rose up from the wooden floorboards. You shivered as the temperature dropped, an eerie wind blowing through the crimson curtains. As you finished the last rune, you and Mattheo turned to face each other.

Blood stained his hand as he reached up to caress your cheek, his eyes black with desire. You could feel the ritual sinking into your bones, changing the very core of your being. The bond physically took hold as the connection stretched taut between the two of you. The scarlet string glowed and the end of your thread reached towards Mattheo.

“What do we do now?”

Mattheo’s fiery gaze flickered up to you. “Now we consummate the union.”

Your breathing slowed as Mattheo drew you close, his face mere inches away from yours. Desire burned through you like a living flame. At that moment, nothing existed but him.

“I want you, Mattheo,” you breathed. “My mate.”

You groaned as Mattheo kissed you deeply, his hands finding refuge in your hips. The taste of him was intoxicating, sweeter than any wine you had ever consumed. You groaned as he parted your lips with his tongue and placed you over his lap. The kisses grew desperate, like you couldn’t get enough of one another. Mattheo pulled down the straps of your dress, kissing every inch of skin he had access to.

“Let me worship you like you deserve,” he murmured in reverence.

His eyes remained fixated on you as he laid you atop the runes, its glow bathing both of you in scarlet light. Mattheo took his time lavishing your body with kisses, marking every inch of you with his mouth. You moaned as his dark head disappeared between your legs, his sharp canines tickling the inside of your thighs. He took your lace panties off with his teeth and hooked your legs over his shoulders.

The anticipation was almost too much to bear until Mattheo finally put his mouth on you. He eagerly feasted, his hunger evident in the way he buried his tongue in your cunt. You tugged at his curls as he licked and sucked, lapping up your arousal with unbroken focus. When his tongue flicked over your clit, you bucked against his mouth and shamelessly moaned his name.

“You’re a fucking goddess, Y/N,” Mattheo declared.

The sight of him between your thighs, his mouth dripping with blood and cum while his eyes burned with carnal passion was enough to send you over the edge, but you didn’t want to come without him. You wanted to do this right. You wanted to do this together.

“I need you,” you pleaded as you tugged at his belt. “Please, Mattheo.”

“You never have to beg,” Mattheo answered as he undressed. “I’m yours, Y/N.”

With bated breath, you watched in anticipation as Mattheo crawled over you, his gaze wild and hungry. He groaned when you tugged him down by his curls, his mouth meeting yours in a heated frenzy. His hard length pressed against your center as you parted your legs for him, greedily wrapping them around his waist while you grinded deliciously against his cock.

The friction was divine, but you needed more. So much more. Mattheo growled into your mouth as he guided your hand towards his impressive length, chuckling softly when your eyes widened at his size. Crimson bled into soft chocolate eyes as Mattheo lined himself up at your entrance.

“You’re fucking exquisite,” he whispered in reverence as he traced your jaw. “I have waited for you for centuries and it was worth every second.”

You whimpered as he eased into you, his cock stretching your walls as you adjusted to his length. Praises flowed from Mattheo’s mouth as he pushed inside, giving you inch after inch until he was fully sheathed in your pussy. The pressure was painful at first, but it soon gave way to pleasure.

“I feel so full,” you groaned as Mattheo kissed your neck. “So full of you, Mattheo.”

“Is it as heavenly for you as it is for me, love?”

In response, you secured your legs around his waist and pushed him in further, making the both of you moan in satisfaction.

“Does that answer your question?”

A cheeky grin appeared on Mattheo’s handsome face. “You’re absolutely sinful, but don’t get too cocky. I’m going to ruin you for every other man.”

“You already have,” you responded as Mattheo moved slowly, dragging his cock in and out of you until you actually whined from the absence. “No man could ever measure up. There is no one like you, Mattheo.”

The declaration seemed to unleash something inside of Mattheo. His movements, once slow and calculated, turned frenzied and frantic. His hands were all over your body, his fangs dragging up the column of your throat while his form enveloped you whole until you couldn’t tell where you began and where he ended.

You matched his rhythm, rocking your hips to the frenetic pace. Mattheo hissed as you clawed at his back and slammed harder into you, seeming to know exactly what you needed without you speaking it into existence. The ancient runes glowed and your blood hummed in agreement, accepting the final binding of the ritual.

“Do you feel that, love?” Mattheo grunted, his sweat matted curls plastered to his forehead. “That’s my power flowing into you. With it, you will be unstoppable.”

Your back arched against the floor as energy surged through your veins, electrifying every cell in your body. The scarlet thread between you and Mattheo twined itself into an unbreakable connection, connecting your mind, body, and soul together.

A shiver skittered down your spine as you looked into a pair of crimson eyes. “We will be unstoppable. My mate, my love, my Y/N.”

The pleasure was overwhelming. You tugged Mattheo down to you, panting into his mouth as you kissed him. “So close,” you breathed. “I’m so close.”

Your gums ached as fangs began to elongate from your mouth. Mattheo watched proudly, his handsome face bathed in awe at the transformation.

“Surrender to it,” he whispered softly. “Bite me, my love.”

The words gave you pause, but as soon as he spoke them, hunger and bloodlust seemed to awaken in your veins.

“Drink from my blood,” Mattheo encouraged. “Mark me. Claim me. Devour me.”

Without hesitation, you sank your teeth into the side of his neck. The thirst was unquenchable and you drank deeply, greedy for the taste of his blood. Mattheo’s hips stuttered as he moaned erotically, his release close.

“That’s it, Y/N.” Mattheo encouraged as blood dribbled down his neck. His fingers swiped over your clit, rubbing stimulating circles and making you feel untethered. “Surrender yourself to me completely. Come for me, my love.”

A whip of lightning lashed at your body, searing you from head to toe as you toppled over the edge. The orgasm was white and blinding, seizing your very being with pleasure. Mattheo kissed you through the comedown, letting you ride it out as you clawed at his back and arms.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Watch the way you undo me.”

Mattheo was a man ruined. As soon as your gazes met, he threw his head back and roared in pleasure. The way he looked when he came, perfect curls mussed and sex tousled, abs straining as he emptied himself inside of you, and mouth open as your name left his lips, was something that would be ingrained into your mind for the rest of time.

The bond settled between you then, signaling the completion of the ritual. You were now connected to Mattheo in every way possible. The courtesan who once vowed never to give herself to a man now found herself bonded.

Mattheo embraced you in his arms, holding you close. You pressed your cheek against his solid chest and found comfort in his touch.

“What happens now?”

“I devour you again and again,” Mattheo responded cheekily. “And once more before the sun rises."

You chuckled softly. “After that?”

“You decide, my love.” He declared with no qualms. “You are in control of your story now.”

“And if I said the little girl with the grudge wanted to burn the whole world down?”

Crimson eyes met yours. “Then I’ll help her light the match.”

Mattheo meant it. You knew it in your very bones. With a smile, you settled into his arms. Feeling safe. Feeling loved. Feeling like you could rule the world. He gave you that. Your mate.

As your eyes fluttered close, one thought flashed through your once cynical mind.

Perhaps sex wasn’t always about power.

Perhaps, on rare occasions, sex was about so much more.

#I will definitely be writing about vampire mattheo more he was made for this #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo x you

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dolphin-diaries · 5 months ago

Text

Who Gets To Talk Detransition?

Originally published on Dolphin Diaries

The story is supposed to go like this: a trans cult, or maybe the medical establishment, steals a young girl under its ghastly wing. A wounded girl, a scared one, desperate for reprieve from a violent world that has whipped her into self-hatred. The kidnapping cultists promise an escape. A cure to the horror of her body. Then, mutilation follows, which a brave few will eventually try to undo—only they never quite can.

No, wait.

The story is supposed to go like this: some people are trans men. They are assigned female at birth, but they are men, and so some want to make their body male. But sometimes, a select few regret their transition. They aren’t trans men. They’re actually cis—in agreement with their sex—but they’ve made a mistake for whatever reason. They are very scarce. A statistically inconsequential minority to which we ought not cede ground. After all, why should a society be concerned with a statistically minuscule people?

Regardless of which way you tell it, two constants remain. One: the trans and the detrans are antagonistic; the detrans have been hurt by transition care and now threaten its existence. Two: those that detransition are seeking to correct a prior mistake. Be it from the right or left, the story is always that of failure and regret.

Part I: When Your Worst Fears Come True

September 2023 marked the eighth anniversary of me starting testosterone. Getting HRT was something I’d fought for with great difficulty and determination: I’d burned bridges with an abusive family; I’d come out a year prior to the entirety of my university class and had already lived as a man; I then dropped out of university so I could work a full-time job to afford HRT. I did all this with full knowledge that I could not access the legal transition system in my country. I’d be unable to change my gender marker and would have to deal with that fact in a place where most people barely know what ‘transgender’ is, let alone accept it. But I was willing to weather all of that, and to my luck, I had no trouble passing for a man, and the vast majority of friends and acquaintances accepted me.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic to start testosterone. In adolescence my masculinity had been denied to me, the feminine traits of myself and my body forcibly exaggerated to put me in my (woman’s) place. Now, it felt like having all the features I’d come to despise overtaken by new growth. Like a ruin reclaimed by fresh ivy. I wasn’t entirely content—I wanted to be indistinguishable from a cis man, untouched by any insidious womanhood whatsoever. Only I found most cis men either uninspired-looking or repugnant, so… a pretty cis man? Androgynous, but not too androgynous, so I don’t get gay-bashed?

The real end goal I wished of my body was nebulous. There was no man I could cite as the Ur-Man for me, trans or cis, neither in character nor appearance. It wasn’t for lack of the much maligned Good Male Role Models in my life; I simply resonated with none of them. But there was life to be lived anyway. So I put one foot in front of the other, and sometimes, I knew my steps were dictated as much by fear of transphobia as they were by my own desires.

There are many things to fear while living as trans. One of my most personal anxieties was detransition. A forced one would be most horrid; to be put in a position where my bodily autonomy, so hard-won, could be stripped away as if it never existed.

But my strangest fear was that I would want to detransition. Not from some cruel necessity or right-wing brainwashing or what have you; genuinely, rationally, actively want it.

I knew why I feared that. Whenever I met another trans man or heard of their stories, some jigsaw puzzles would simply not fit. I never once desired to be a man until I learned of trans men’s existence. Never sought to play the role of a man and only half-enjoyed them now, if at all. Never, not even now, dreamt of myself as a man. At times another trans man would have the same ‘odd’ pieces, but then something else would find itself amiss again. On and on that list went.

One might call this a foregone conclusion in retrospect. Shouldn’t I have known? Shouldn’t a doctor have known? But this rather ignores that the psychology and study of transsexuality are hopelessly warped with attempts to eradicate it. My country’s procedures were dated. The questionnaires I took to have my doctor conclude I’m transsexual? Those were lousy with decades-dated misogyny (do you like housework? do you get aroused by housework? or maybe by cars?) and with voyeuristic, invasive questions (how do you have sex? how do you masturbate?) There were correct answers; there was no variation, which is only allowed for the cisgender. That procedure has since improved, especially in the West, but the traces remain. How does one introspect on one’s gender when that was the model for it? How does one even attempt to unravel the relationship between misogyny and desire to abandon womanhood when to do so threatens access to medical care? What sign ought I have looked for to distinguish myself from trans men when it was demanded no distinctions exist?

One does not exit a hostile care system with a healthier, more stable identity. That is nothing short of a miracle.

September 2023 marked the eighth anniversary of me exiting hostile care with a coveted prize in my grasp. It also marked the moment I looked in the mirror and saw exactly what I’d sought to win in that hellscape: an indisputable man. Not a cis man, of course, but one bereft of all the features that had haunted me to the point of self-harm. I was free, I had won; no one would ever look at me and think me a woman—no one ever did, those days.

I had won. And in my victory, I felt nothing at all.

Part II: Failure and Regret

The Right invests much bombast into transition regret. Loud ring the warning bells: this could happen to you! Your child! A girl with so much to live for, rendered barren, flat-chested, a misshapen man-thing! You, too, will live to regret it!

It amuses me. Queerness and butchness had marked me long ago; I was never particularly buxom or fecund. Never, in the heterosexist sense, something worthy of desire. I was a misshapen man-thing far before I asked people to call me ‘he.’ The people who made sure I knew I was a monster man-woman were precisely the kinds of people that now warned me away from turning myself into what—according to them—I already was. The sheer parental panic with which I’d been forced into makeup and dresses, you’d think I transitioned already.

Even more amusingly, sometimes the Right claims to care about butch lesbians. Tomboys are being mutilated, they say. It’s an imposition of gender stereotypes; women can be masculine!

But if the Right believes women can be lesbian and masculine, what’s with the whole fixation on ruined femininity and birthing wombs?

Indeed, the Right’s acceptance of detransitioned women is full of little caveats. They are to be paraded as damaged goods at conservative rallies. Their lost breasts and ovaries will be ever-ogled, figuratively if not literally, and the ‘irreversible damage’ left by testosterone examined with morbid fascination. They are the Right’s Magdalenes. They’re proof there’s good in the transgressive—that is, that the enemy can be pitied, assimilated. As an underclass, of course. They’re never to truly cease being damaged, for they must be proof that sex can only be ruined, never changed.

For a detransitioner, there is temptation in the Right’s conditional acceptance. It offers an easy answer to their current pain. The past choice they may regret or suffer under—why, it should’ve been prevented! If only you listened to the right authorities, all would’ve been well. Not altogether different than regretting a marriage or college major. Many an adult decries stupid choices of youth—and those certainly happen—but what’s scariest of all is the notion you weren’t making rash or ill-informed decisions. I know I wasn’t. And if that is so, then it means the current self—the mature one, the one with 20/20 hindsight—could make a mistake, too.

Right-wing detransitioners take for granted there exists a guardian angel that could’ve healed them of the gendered distress they once felt and showed them a path to contentment. That is a very tall order, considering how misogynistic and hostile psychiatry and psychology are, historically speaking. And that’s to say nothing of religion. But at least they would’ve been prevented from transitioning; misery averted—right?

My guardian angel, you could say, was lack of funds. I wanted top surgery—double mastectomy—but there was no way I could afford it, not in many years’ time. Now I realise I would’ve come to regret it and would’ve likely sought to reverse its effects. So I’m all good, right? I benefitted from how flawed trans healthcare is, didn’t I?

Perhaps. But there was a reason I wanted a mastectomy, and not a frivolous one. Every time I needed to see a doctor for a respiratory infection, I did so in fear of transphobic malpractice. I would minimise the time I spent in places where my chest could be exposed—gyms, pools, beaches, goddamned corporate retreats. And then there was the way my body, breasts included, had been used to prove to me I was not just a woman but Woman, a biodestined vessel for coy giggles, cookware, and pregnancy. And how that made me feel.

Indeed, I would later find out there are women and nonbinary people that do not identify with manhood yet seek the exact same top surgery I once wanted, for similar reasons. With no regrets. They wish to take control of their body and do so. And I know that, had I been able to get top surgery in the past, it would’ve made me happy for a good while.

So what’s more important: years of constant anxiety, or lack of hypothetical regret?

The right-wing detransitioner assumes one’s current self to be the ultimate judge of one’s choices—but take that principle to its logical conclusion, and it will seem like no decision should ever be made. There is always a prospective Future You which possesses more knowledge. Always the possibility of regret. Of course, decisions in life are sort of inevitable, but don’t worry about that—the powers that be will handle that. Ancestral tradition, or a caring authority figure. That’s also all humans with exactly the same issues, but don’t worry about that either. Maybe God is speaking through them. You never know.

In the end, the prescripts of the Right march to the same grim conclusion. That the only decision you can ever make with total certainty is death.

Part III: Death, the Tarot Kind

Queer culture delights in tales of transformation. We were all once larval—in the closet, often abused and scared. Trapped in a world of rigid roles and brutal dominion. But one day, we hope to metamorphose into our true shape and to take flight above a blissful, lawless, ever-shifting sea of change.

Most queer people are cisgender, and more still do not seek to transition, but the nature of all our transgressions is intimately entwined with gender anyway. We’re all doing it ‘wrong,’ by the wider society’s definition, even the most masculine of cis gay men or the most feminine of cis lesbian women. Unsurprising, then, are the queer community’s various attempts to embrace gender variance and to lay bare the plasticity of sex.

There is nothing per se about detransition that does not fit this mould. If gender is to be fucked with, why not take it for a swing? Indeed, in my experience most queer people would agree it’s entirely possible to detransition without weaponising transphobia or lapsing rightward.

But that’s usually a hypothetical thought exercise that ends exactly there. Maybe that queer person knows a detransitioner, maybe they don’t; regardless, the lives of the detransitioned do not interact with queer ideas of sex/gender, or indeed queer ideas about anything. The only time the detransitioned are really remarked on is only to state our statistical insignificance—or rather, the statistical insignificance of transition regret. I don’t personally regret my transition for the most part, so I wouldn’t even count there.

Whereas the Right sings lyrical about all the motivations and trials and tribulations of the detransitioned (and deftly twists the verses to fit the chorus), the Left does not usually consider the lives of the detransitioned at all. Mistakes happen, they suppose. Kind of funny we ‘failed at gender’ twice. Too bad we’re so miserable, they guess. What, ‘the patriarchy made you do it’? BuzzFeed feminism is so-o-o 2010s, bro.

It would be accurate to surmise the queer community has ceded the concept of detransition to the Right. The queer stance is, in effect, ‘it doesn’t matter anyway’—a defensive and reactive one.

That is not to say the Left as a whole is to blame for grifting detransitioners or the Right itself—the blame is always, first and foremost, on the ones that actually do the harm. And the negligence of the Left doesn’t really harm those that happily push others under the bus—sadly, some people are just assholes. No, the consequences are felt instead by detrans people that have no desire to participate in the transphobia circus, and after that, trans people themselves. The Right’s deathgrip on the detransition narrative means detransition itself is conceptually tied to the Right. Because there is no alternative trans-positive narrative, there is no way to exist as detrans and not affirm someone else’s transphobia, no matter how many times you say you don’t hate trans people. After all there is only one thing people think of when they hear ‘detransitioner.’ And now you are it, whether you like it or not.

I feared I would detransition because, on some level, I knew I might. But why fear it? It’s hard to be trans. There are clear privileges to socially presenting as your birth sex. Doctors will readily help you undo transition. I didn’t want to grift—well, fucking fantastic. Easy enough to not do something. What’s the problem?

I feared it because it’s soul-crushing to know your existence hurts the people you love most. Your friends, partners, mentors. So many cis people in my past knew me as The Trans Person—and now what? How much of the good I had done would be ruined? And by what possible example could I imagine my life as a detransitioner? What is there to even aspire to? And what about everything I’d sacrificed to transition in the first place? All the strife and ridicule I endured, only to have it whispered to me from leering faces: “See? We were right all along.”

All that, to face alone.

At a certain point my resistance to the idea of detransition was motivated only by this. Only by what others would make of me against my will. Not my personal desires. Nothing else at all. To be turned into such a spectacle, a public property of a person, felt like nothing short of death.

Part IV: Afterlife

I decided to start this substack after listening to every podcast appearance by Lucy Kartikasari I could find. She is a detrans woman with a similar yet different story; she transitioned much younger, but went through a similarly arcane approval system and years of waiting; she is not a lesbian; she has detransitioned, and she speaks in favour of trans healthcare and trans rights. The name Dolphin Diaries also originates with her—or rather, with a different, anonymous user, whose idea she broadcast on her TikTok. A dolphin as a symbol of detransition; a mammal that evolved from the ocean to walk on land and then returned to an aquatic life. I find it an appealing and pithy comparison, one free of unnecessary gendering or judgement.

There are precious few voices that speak of detransition in a positive, non-right-wing light. It’s a perspective fraught with thorny, uncomfortable questions. A perspective which is easier to ignore—unless you can’t. If for no one else, I write this for people that felt the same way I did. Trapped, not by ‘mistakes’ or by ‘gender ideology’, but by the image others have painted of them before they could even protest.

I do not write this for the Right. There is nothing I can say that would sway you, and there is nothing you can say that would sway me—and believe me, I have listened more carefully and with far more good faith than you ever have. Feel free to comment how much you pity my womb, or something. I promise to leave its fertility a mystery. I’m a tease that way.

As for other potential readers of this blog: while I do believe it a failure of queer rhetoric to adequately synthesise detransition into the overall gender politic, I don’t believe it’s everyone else’s job to create that synthesis. Who better than a detransitioner, after all? I ask not that you solve my problems for me.

I ask only that you listen.

#transfeminism #detrans #detransition #essay #material feminism #lesbian feminism #feminism

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mini-ism · 7 months ago

Text

#— HEDONE.

pairings: lighter lorenz x afab!gn!reader [MDNI]

words: 3,443

synopsis: hedone (hēdonē), an ancient greek word that describes "pleasure.” after the girls leave, it’s just you and lighter. would you let him hold your hand if it gave him pleasure, if it gave him the answers he’s always sought? would you let him fuck you?

warnings: p in v, semi-clothed, hand job, choking, reader gropes lighter, accidental erection, daydreaming/fantasizing, fingering, he’s just a guy who wants to h*ld h*nds, unprotected intercourse, afab reader (gender neutral, no pronouns/feminine terms) 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

notes: crossposted to AO3, lighter is bae

the throttle of motorcycles and bikes were a sound you’ve grown accustomed to.

a lot of things in life can be chalked up to the philosophy, the belief, of chasing pleasure. why would you do something you hate if it reaps no reward you enjoy? why would you do something if you don’t like it?

that very same idea can be considered the reason people do anything, generally. subjecting yourself to pain is undesirable to many, the most masochistic of people have their limits too.

the roar of engines grew quieter, replaced by the heavy click of boots against hardwood flooring. it was smart to wear boots around, the wooden flooring was splintered, worn from years of trampling and stomping. a gloved hand landed on your shoulder, taking you out of your trance-like state.

“you good?” the hand on your shoulder drifted down to your upper back, rubbing circles, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. his voice was deep, a handsome sort of rumble. it took some effort to peel your eyes away from the scratched up window.

“yeah, i’m okay.” you brought your gaze up to lighter’s, whose was concealed by his beloved aviators, tinted so dark you wondered if he could even see at times. he stood behind you, to your side, his touch still lingering in circles, inferior to your lower neck.

his demeanor seemed stoic as always, keeping to himself, staying “low-key” as he put it. “the girls are all gone,” he murmured, the hum of their bikes so distant it couldn’t be heard anymore, “just us now.”

lighter’s eyes were glued to the environment outside the window, seemingly entranced, lulled into the same kind of deep thought you were in.

would one derive satisfaction from thought? what is pleasure? how much chasing would someone do for that rush, the release of ecstasy?

lighter’s gloved hand moved lower, to the small of your back, his touch growing into a gentle, almost ghostly, caress. you looked out the window, observing the tan, dusky dirt and sand, the orange hue of the evening sky, the constructs of blazewood, the few little pebbles and rocks scattered around.

your eyes trailed back to him, his gaze now focused on you, still hidden by those fucking sunglasses. his brows had a small indent in them, creased by their furrowing, lips slightly pursed. his gloved touch had since stopped rubbing circles on the superior base of your spine, fingers daring to go lower.

you let out a soft, confused noise, his lips parting slightly. the crease deepened a bit more. how far is someone willing push the limits to fulfill their own desires for satisfaction? depends on who they are.

lighter’s face was contorted into a strained, almost guilty look. his lower lip glistened with a thin and awkward sheen of saliva, expression taut with a shameful tension. how apt is someone to escape pain by indulgence? his fingers crept to your side, clutching it tightly.

you didn’t pull away, not at all.

internally, lighter was warring with himself, telling himself he shouldn’t, he couldn’t. he knew that was a damn lie. it’s not like you're anybody’s personal property, not like you’re pulling away, not like you're running from him. it really isn’t like that, not like you’re touching up on him too, not like you’re more than friends. it scared him, the uncertainty, but he just can’t help himself. you’re irresistible, every part of you.

was pleasure worth the risk of pain? what is pleasure without pain? to perceive one means the other must exist. his grip pulled you flush to his side, pressing you to his body, hold unrelenting. he could really get lost in those eyes, he was already tumbling over himself just staring at you.

you stayed flush against him, even pressing your cheek to his chest. could you hear his heart hammering? it was already thrumming in his ears, blood rushing harder, faster, further, everywhere.

everywhere.

he could only hope you could ignore the raging boner tenting his pants, standing quite proud. his tight pants really don’t help, they felt even more like a barrier than before. his breathing grew heavier, clawing at the last remnants of composure. he was a man that prided himself on his ability to keep it together, always level-headed, despite the circumstances. wouldn’t it be good to let that go? just for a little, just for a while.

his gloved fingers dug even further into your flesh, the sensation grounding, yet intoxicating at the same time. your body was so pliant against his, he was desperately seeking any other thought that didn’t involve pinning you underneath him, getting you bent over and compromised. his resolve was wavering with each second, you’re gonna drive him mad.

lighter’s insistently demanding cock kept stirring, retaliating with each needy twitch. every physical reaction of his spurred his dirty thoughts on further, lewd images of you under, beside, on top of him, his shaft buried as far as it could go inside of you. a particularly vivid picture of you, one leg up on top of his shoulder, leaned upright against a countertop beckoned him deeper into his fantasies. you keened as he shoved himself further inside you, drinking in every noise you made. your eyes were glassy with desire, with need, with… love. his grip on your thigh was tight, grunting with satisfaction as he slid in and out of your warm cunt with aided ease. god, you’d get so fucking wet…

a sharp inhale brought him back to reality. he didn’t realize just how tight his hold on your waist had gotten. “sorry, really, uh…”

instead of wriggling away or whining, you curled closer to him, body melting into his for some semblance of comfort or relief. whichever one was galloping through your motives. the air was tense, he was sure you could feel how hard he is through the fabric of his pants, you’re terribly close. not that that’s a problem, unless you don’t want to be poked in the thigh by his touch-starved cock.

yeah, you definitely knew. “are you hard?”

no point in hiding whatever is in very, very plain sight, “uh… yeah, my bad.”

with the simple brush of your hand by his crotch, he bit back a particularly low groan, stifling it as a throaty noise. did you intend to do that? did you intend to rub up against him like that, get him even harder than before? as if that could be possible, it was. his face was strained, cheeks dusted a faint pink, becoming immersed in his fantasies again.

his breaths came in shallow, slight heaves. they sounded like soft gasps, periodic and frantic. fuck, what he wouldn’t give to hear you croon underneath him. you’d look so hot pinned to the bed by your wrists, kissing you until you panted for air, just as needy and depraved as he is for your touch. your tongue would feel so good, swiping against his own, licking down his neck, down his shaft. those darling lips would fit so perfectly around his cock, tongue milking every drop of sweet pleasure out of him. pleasure that belonged in you, hips bucking like a crazed man, drunken and starved, experiencing what it means to feel for the first time.

lighter’s eyes trailed down to his crotch, your hand lingered, ghosting just over the raised clothing over his persistent, weeping cock. he could feel pre-cum seep from the head, dampening his boxers, demanding in tempo with the beat of his heart. the color of lighter’s face darkened, hips involuntarily grinding against your palm. lighter drew in a particularly sharp breath at the much desired friction.

you gave him a knowing look as you continued to palm the prominent bulge in his pants. lighter’s fingers stayed glued to your side, his eyes wide behind the dark lenses, partially in disbelief and in welcome bewilderment. his tongue darted out to moisten his lips, mouth slightly agape. at a loss for words, he let a deep grumble out, his gaze still stuck on your hand. your grip was now entirely on his dick, pressing against the outline, moving from base to tip and back through his pants. “ah, fuck…”

he let out a deep breath, the air held in by his wound muscles, unbeknownst to him. his body relaxed slightly under your gentle touch, slipping back into the comforting coax of his daydream. damn, your hand, it feels way too good. would you let him hold it if he could? hold it while he fucks you, while he guides you, while he walks in stride with you? will you let him interlace his bare fingers with yours? will you kiss each of the scars on his knuckles, wrap your own delicate hand around his aching shaft instead of his own?

would you instinctively reach for him? in a crowded area, would you look for him the way he’d look for you? could he seek every answer in you the way you’d look to him? would you let him fuck it out of you, kiss you until you spoke every word he wanted to hear? merely the satisfied twinkle in your eye soothes his soul. he could satisfy you the way nobody else ever can and will, accept every answer in the way you speak, laugh, cry, scream, and moan… every little gasp and mewl, nobody would take you like he could.

take you from behind, from the side, below and above him, take you as you are, take every word and lack of one. take every good with the bad, every soothe with the familiar burn and sting, if it meant you understood him the way he understands you. he would kiss you the way you like, fuck you ten times over if he knew you loved it, hold your hand tight enough if it meant anything to you. seems like you’re struggling with his belt.

“need a bit of help? i know it can be a pain sometimes. here, i got you.” he put his hand over yours, guiding it towards the overly complicated buckle, unclasping it just enough, loosening it with his own hand grasping yours until you could manage to unzip his pants. “you got it, keep going. i promise i’ll make it worth your while.

you didn’t need it to be ‘worth your while,’ having him in your grasp was already enough. you couldn’t be bothered to move from the window, hand already snaking down his boxers to grab his bare, attention-deprived cock. lighter hummed softly at the feverish contact, feeling your thumb collect the thick bead of pre-cum oozing from his cockhead. as you coated his shaft in his own pre, his head grew slightly dizzy, the sensation overwhelming, yet comforting knowing it was you.

“ah, shit, yeah…” your hand started moving faster as lighter let out a mumbled string of curses. with each passing stroke, he could feel the heat in his body burn hotter, the familiar pool of desperation in his lower gut forming, pleasure soaking into every single cell of his body. all his coherent, ‘normal person�� thoughts were melting away at the mercy of your slick stroke.

with a whispered groan, lighter leaned in, “that feels amazing, but i can’t take another minute without my dick in you.”

hesitantly, you released lighter’s cock, pulling your hand out of the waistband of his boxers. lighter pulled you away from the view of the window, just far enough from prying eyes. within the building was a lounge space and a small kitchenette. lighter cornered you inside the kitchenette, wasting no time to put his lips on yours. his kiss was firm but careful, giving you a moment to melt into his lips, your arm hooking around his neck to pull him further closer. his tongue eventually slipped between your lips, the sweet taste of your mouth mingling with his, eagerly swapping his spit with yours. lighter’s kiss grew heated and intense, exploring every inch of your mouth, his lips searing and nearly bruising. he groaned as your fingers tangled with his dark locks, his glove-clad hands coming to grip the counter on each side of you.

reluctantly, he pulled away, lips still proximal to yours, huffing for breath. lighter’s eyes burned bright with passion, staring you down as if he needed you more than the air that kept him alive. you nearly quivered under his scrutiny, the attractive green hue of his eyes keeping yours. your panties were stuck to your cunt with dampness. your hips rocked into his, heat collecting in the fabric as your cunt leaked, contracting around nothing. “do me a favor? turn the other way for me.”

you did as lighter asked, squirming around so your ass was in direct contact with his hard-on. instinctively, his hips rolled against your ass, the tantalizing swell mocking him. lighter eased your pants and underwear down your thighs and legs, letting them pool against the floor, managing to get his right glove off pretty quickly. the pads of his fingers prodded against your heated pussy, collecting the wetness between your thighs, rubbing your clit a few times from behind.

“you feel that, huh? that’s nothing compared to this dick.” seemingly on cue, his index and middle fingers slipped into your heated cunt, stretching your pussy out wonderfully. you let out a soft moan, feeling the two digits slide in and out with adept ease. each moan was punctuated by his fingers working their way back inside of you, deep within your cunt, the slap of his knuckles on your ass. lighter’s fingers curled just enough to make you croon and let your neck loll downwards, forehead dangerously close to thunking against the counter. your hands gripped at the edge of the countertop, knuckles white as lighter’s other hand spread your pussy to the side. his fingers made an abrupt exit.

you mewled at the loss, trembling weakly at the absence of something inside you, of him. the coil in your gut loosened, knees weak and palms creased by the rigid edge of the kitchenette’s counter. lighter brought his fingers to his lips, sucking on them nearly exaggeratedly, savoring the taste of you. he let out a satisfied “mmm,” licking the webbing between the digits, lapping up any remaining slick on his fingers. his left hand fell to his boxers, letting his cock spring free as his right hand got you to arch just right against the cold marble slate, spreading your cunt just enough again to let him take a good look.

“you’re gonna look so good taking my dick.”

lighter slapped the heavy tip of his cock against your slit, the rounded head dragging on your clit, the friction driving you wild. you could feel the excitement inside you build, anticipating the lethal stretch. fuck, you were soaked, the wetness coating his tip thickly, threatening to drip all the way down your thighs and onto the floor below you. he pressed his palm down on your lower back, forcing you to intake a sharp breath, his cock accompanying the newly inhaled air. after the tip got lost inside your heat, your cunt squeezed him tight, lungs immediately letting go of your breath. “that’s it, take it good, just like that.”

you moaned weakly, the thickest part of his cock being the shaft immediately below the tip. it felt so good, being split open by him, even with how wet you are. every fiber of lighter’s being was resisting the urge to snap his hips into yours, bury himself into you with force. your cunt wouldn't take much more, lighter opting to pull out a little to sink deeper inside. as he withdrew, you cried out, lighter hushing you with a soft “shh,” his hips moving forwards into yours again. you let out a string of soft babbles, the addictive stretch over as the rest of his shaft took.

“that’s right, fuuuuck.” he gasped, your pussy immediately gushing around him, clamping down on his length like a vice. after a few merciful moments, lighter dragged his hips back, rocking them into you again. you brokenly moaned, feeling his cock slowly drawl in and out of you a few more times, each movement followed up with a loud, needy moan. fuck, you looked so hot, sexier than he could imagine taking his dick from behind. “let me hear you, come on.” he urged gently.

his right hand pinned the back of your neck down to the cold marble, his hand large enough to wrap around the blood vessels on the lateral sides of your neck. his grip was tight, not entirely brutal, picking up the pace with each drag of his hips. the heat in your tummy flared, a thick sheen of your slick coating his dick, the lubricant creating a mess of his boxers and hem of his jacket. his tight hold on the sides of your neck furthered your high, body arching into his, brain fuzzy with pleasure and disconnected from reality. his cock slammed into you, his own pleasure indicated with a guttural groan. he sounded so hot when he felt good.

“you like it when i fuck you? you like this dick?”

you could offer a broken moan as a response, pussy tightening at his deep, horribly sexy, laugh. “yeah, i know, fuuuck.”

lighter bent lower, his voice ringing in your ears, brain barely processing his words, “you close? you just wont let me go, feels amazing.” your strangled moan told him everything he needed to know. you were closer than you could understand.

the heat of your orgasm pooled deep within you, winding all your muscles tight with tension and desire. with a few harsh thrusts, you let out a cry louder than you anticipated, your neck suddenly free from his hold. lighter bullied himself as deep as he could, watching you come undone. though you couldn’t see as you rode your climax out, he had a smug, proud look on his face.

lighter pulled out of you with an effort, resisting the urge to fuck himself using you. his hand came up to the front part of your throat, where your trachea was, pulling you upwards and putting your backside flush to his chest with a gentle force. “i got you, don’t worry.”

before you knew it, lighter was leaned back on the couch, sinking you onto his cock again, your legs parted as you straddled him. your hands came to rest on his shoulders as he half sat up and half laid back, squealing in pleasure as he buried himself to the hilt again. “knew you could handle it, feels so good.”

didn’t matter what he did with your clothes, now that you were naked on top of him, his signature sunglasses sitting aside on the other cushion. his scarred hands came to rest on your hips, moving you up and down, bouncing you on his cock. he threw his head back, gasping with each oversensitive movement along your walls.

an uncharacteristically high noise left his lips, his eyes focused on the bounce of your tits as he lifted you up and down on his ever-demanding cock. fuck, you looked so good, sweaty and tuckered out, yet still taking him so well. your tits are just the cutest, the way they jiggle with every motion. lighter’s hips rocked upwards, bucking wildly as the high crept onto him, your nails digging into the skin and scar tissue littering his shoulders like a mosaic through his leather jacket. lighter’s control became frantic, guiding your body brutally, the sensitive waves of your previous orgasm washing into this one. lighter grit his teeth, groaning heavily as the coil tightened even more, the intensity of his climax terribly foreign. every muscle in both your bodies ached and wildly tightened with desperation as ecstasy washed over you both.

as you rode out your familiar pleasure, lighter rocked his hips, bucking them, milking out every bit of sensation he could from inside you. lighter covered his face with one hand, peeping one eye out of the gap between his fingers, as the other hand’s nails dug into your bare flesh. “fucking hell, oh, shit…”

you don’t think you’ve ever heard lighter say such vulgar things, especially not swear that much in a minute. as his grip on your waist and hip loosened, it immediately sought out your hand, prying your dominant hand away from his shoulder and interlacing your fingers with his as he heaved. “fuck, you think you’ll let me do this again? as many times as i want?”

#hello mini-ism nation i have returned #lighterisbae #lighter #lighter zzz #zzz lighter #lighter lorenz #zzz #zzzero #zenless zz #zenless zone zero #zzz x reader #zenless zz x reader #zenless zone zero x reader #lighter x reader #reader x lighter #lighter lorenz x reader #reader x lighter lorenz #mdni

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azrielwingspan · 7 months ago

Text

A TACTICAL PLOY (AZRIEL X READER)

Summary : You knew Azriel had been pining after you for a very long time but you NEEDED him to make a move. So in order to give him a little push, you made use of a very tactical weapon : Jealousy.

Warnings: None

Blue eyes. Green eyes. Brown eyes. Eyes trailing you across the room, whispering across your skin , feeding your ego. Yet your eyes sought out the hazel ones.

Shades of gold, green and brown that set a trail of fire across your skin. Eyes that made you feel. Eyes that made you want. The gold pierced through your skin, peering into your heart and soul. The green trailed across your flesh, making you yearn for things that plagued your dreams. The brown spoke of a future if you only dared to take that first step.

Ah, that was the obstacle. The first step.

You had one simple rule when it came to males.

You never chase.

So as you walked through the room, your blasé attitude making you all the more enticing, your heart betrayed you ignoring the rules your mind had set. It searched for him, desperate for the hit of ecstasy he would induce.

Once it found him, the decadent hit of euphoria rushed through your veins, leaving behind a crack in your mask. It was intentional. Every emotion, every 'slip' of the tongue, every word, every glance. He was the spymaster after all.

He glanced your way and tipped his chin in greeting.

You raised your glass, taking a sip and watched his eyes trail over you.

Longing, desiring and denying.

That was all he ever did. Denied himself of you.

You would be lying if you said you understood why he did what he did. You would be lying if you said it didn't make you doubt yourself. However, you knew for a fact he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

You would've been dense to not notice the heat in his eyes, the glances filled with unfulfilled promises, the softness behind his words and the kindness in his actions. It drove you mad some days. Drove you to the brink of breaking your rule.

You never chase.

You yearned to be wanted. You yearned to be fought for. You yearned to be loved, cherished and indulged in. So you had waited... and waited...and waited. A small part of you believed you were foolish enough to keep waiting for however long it took. Yet as a female, you had your wants and needs. There was only so much patience you could exhibit and you were currently running out of it.

Therefore, you decided to give him a little...push.

Tactic I : The art of heedlessness

You shook hands, kissed cheeks, hugged bodies , all the while never looking his way. Of course, you were aware of his presence acutely. It made it all the more fun. At one point, you had walked right past him talking animatedly with one of the guests. His scent had overtaken your senses and you had to physically stop yourself from responding to it.

His eyes, trailing you, lighting your skin on fire , the tension gasoline.

Watch me. Come to me. Talk to me.

Your eyes were fixed on your companions, their words a cacophony compared to the conversations the both of you had shared. The wine was making you bolder, impatient and lulling you into thoughts you kept at bay.

Tactic II : The art of flirtation

A subtle tuck of a strand of hair behind your ear, a soft tilt of your lips, a soft huff of laughter, an inch closer. You looked away from the male in front of you to glance down at your wine. Empty.

How many more glasses would you have to guzzle down before the spymaster grew some balls?

You pulled your hair to one side, the heat starting to stick to your neck. Looking up once again, you noticed that the males gaze in front of you was transfixed to the slope of your neck. Wonderful. Time to leave.

"Well, I should go." Turning around before he could respond, you walked away in the search of more wine.

Tactic III : The art of impelling

You didn't meet his gaze as a group of you stood near the balcony overlooking the Sidra. The flow of the water reached your ears, the sound a welcome distraction. Closing your eyes momentarily, you let the memory of the coolness of the water wash over you.

"I'll be heading home now." you spoke into the night, your companions voicing out their interjections. A small smirk and shake of the head later, you walked towards the exit not bothering to say goodbye to the male with no balls.

A few kisses on the cheek, soft smiles and polite goodbyes on the way to the exit.

"I'll drop you home." the voice swept over your skin like a shadow trailing its fingers across your skin.

"I'll be alright." you said, head turned over your shoulder.

There he was, finally...

"I insist." No arguments. That was final.

"If you insist." you say, wrapping your scarf around yourself.

Silence was the third being accompanying the both of you. You let it play its part, choosing not to say anything. It was entertaining, watching him struggle to say something...anything. He was doing a good job at hiding his emotions but he could never truly hide them from you.

After watching him suffer for a few more minutes , you say "If you're done struggling, we could teach you a thing or two on how to talk to females."

His face turned red, as his shadows skittered around.

Your house had come into view, the star lit night casting soft shadows around the both of you.

"Well.." you turned to him and said watching him under the moonlight.

"Well..." he replied watching you through his shadows.

A pang of disappointment rushed through you as you took a step back from him. "Good night then."

"Good night." he said, his voice dropping.

Giving him a final nod, you turned around not wanting him to see the look of disappointment on your face. You would never be desperate...no matter who it was.

Legs feeling like lead, you forced yourself to take that first step towards your house mustering all the will power within you. Just as you had lifted your leg off of the ground, a shadow wrapped around your wrist and tugged you backwards. A yelp made its way out of you as warm hands caught you, goosebumps making their way across your skin.

For a moment only two sets of heavy breaths could be heard. Maybe he could hear your heart thudding out of your chest. You lost track of what happened in the next few seconds as the shadowsinger pulled you into a ravishing kiss, igniting your body and jumbling your thoughts.

Lips coaxed your open, tongue sliding in to give you a taste of whisky and something darker and heady. Hands travelled down your sides, stopping at your hips only to give them a gentle squeeze. Your hands were on a path of their own, travelling into his hair and giving it a gentle tug.

All your senses were attenuated to the male in front of you. You were lost in another universe, a universe of want and need.

Suddenly, he pulls back to look down at you, his eyes wild and predatory. "I couldn't put into words what I felt..."

You brushed your lips against his, eyes fluttering shut. "Then show me...."

You could feel his lips split into a devilish grin before the both of you were engulfed by shadows.

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passingnotions · 11 months ago

Text

On Set | Jihyo

smut, 900~ words

You find yourself balls deep in Park Jihyo and in front of a DSLR camera with a very, very bright studio light setup. You both have your knees up on the cheapest couch imaginable—white, tacky, stiff—as your arms hook and pull around hers. Her back has been arched like this for the better part of two minutes, tits presenting (and bouncing) for the camera as dictated by the director. When you finally let go, she moans. It’s performative, satisfactory. But you also know it’s real.

See, you and her go way back. A few years worth. Jihyo has been in the industry for so much longer than you and, despite it having been your first scene together all those years ago, you blew her back out like she fucking deserved—her words, by the way. Phew, that was new. What’s your name again? It stuck with her and you’re vainly proud of that, so much so that every time you’re arranged for a new scene together, she brings in gift baskets and goodies; pampers you in hopes that you fuck her the only way you know—the right way.

As if you’d ever disappoint.

And it’s funny that you’ve never hooked up off the clock—a shame. There’s always a point in conversation, during prep time, where you both laugh at the thought. You have always thought it’d be disastrous in the best of ways. Have to keep the magic on screen, however.

Something important to note, to digress: this crew sucks at everything. Your agencies both wanted in with a new fledgling studio, your manager called it. Their content is good, consistent, but you’ll be damned if it’s not generic. However it goes and however trite their camerawork, they’re making bank, and you’re there to profit off both of your names alone.

There’s a before, during, and after to things. The latter two are good: a pretty girl with a pretty face gets railed by some nondescript cock and some part of her ends up glazed white. The former, however, leaves a lot to be desired. Best summarized? Solid creative vision. Near-zero technical prowess.

So, the sound guy needs another break. Something’s off again, he says as you’re mid thrust. The director yells cut for the umpteenth time and you bury yourself to the base to check in with your costar.

“You’re fucking kidding.” Jihyo says under her breath, head turning back to you. She sets her toned arms on the backrest of the couch and lays her head. “How long has it been?”

“Two hours.”

It should have taken three, but the timer will count four by the end—

You take another long back-and-forth drag inside of her warm, tight cunt.

—Not like you mind.

Jihyo starts pushing back onto it; an experimental one-two, hips bucking ever so slightly with the majority of your cock still inside her folds. You figure she likes the way your balls brush against her clit. You do, too.

“It’d be a shame if—” She shimmies a little side-to-side. “You filled me up and the cameras weren’t rolling.”

Edging for the last hour. How would you say the question lands?

Jihyo snakes a hand under her body to reach for where you’ve started to fuck, slowly, slowly, purposefully. She runs circles with her middle finger, and with a very serious tone: “Keep going.”

Your hands land right where her ass overflows onto her hips when she spreads the knees a bit further apart. Her arch settles. With a long drag back—and a tight grip of that muscled frame—you fuck into her. Once. This firm thrust that makes her whole body shudder. You catch her profile as her lips curl a smile.

“Keep going.” Her fingertips move faster.

And when Jihyo’s asking—“sure”—you keep fucking going.

Okay, the shoot does end up taking four hours, but not because of the staff’s lack of equipment know-how.

You are fucking. Truly, unequivocally, fucking. Like you’ve missed her (you have—she’s fun), like she’s missed you.

The sheer force it takes you to not cum right then and there—to help her reach that ever sought-after climax—is the same force with which you pound Jihyo into the cheap, faux leather couch. You’d swear, later on, how she near melded with the piece of furniture: nail scratches on the surface, the imprint of the seams on her skin. She loves all of it. It’s guilty-pleasure levels of abrasive. You don’t fuck like that on camera. Authenticity can’t be quantified on a payslip.

And for that short amount of time, the set dissipates; the crew vanishes.

Jihyo is cumming—you know this, her tells. Goosebumps all over her skin, from the top of her thighs up to her rippling, reddened cheeks, and the way her moans turn to breathy coos and needy whimpers. You revel in knowing you can split her apart. That same satisfaction ends you in tandem.

Because there’s no other way you would have it, without a doubt. This short burst of fire burns right through your core. Your hands grasp her skin for dear life as your legs cease and stiffen their motion. All of it—the money shot—coats Jihyo’s pulsing cunt in an instant. It sends ripples through you both as you struggle to maintain a semblance of composure. The load washes over your length in this pleasing warmth that has Jihyo shivering through the remainder of her orgasm. Slow quivers. A bit of contented laughter.

“Fuck yes,” escapes her lips before the crew fades back in, curses and yells accompanying an attempt to catch whatever’s left of your unsanctioned stunt.

You’ll take the extra hour.

#kpop smut #twice smut #jihyo smut #male reader #reader insert

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annewithaneofthegreengable · 8 months ago

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Kinktober - Day 6

6th — love bite/ marking/ vampire!AU, Oscar Piastri

The previous day I The next day I Kinktober masterlist I Main list

A/n: I'm sorry I must have hit the wrong button and got this deleted.

Prompt: A story about Oscar as a vampire. He has a young maid who has a secret crush on him. One day to save him she lets him drink his blood but unexpectedly the night that follows while he is making love to a girl he can hear her thoughts, and let’s be honest those thoughts are very filthy.

—--------------------------------------------

Oscar had always been a vampire of restraint. Centuries ago, he mastered the art of control. Control over his hunger, his desires, and the fragile line he walked between predator and protector. He lived alone in his mansion, surrounded by a sparse staff who knew little of his true nature. One among them was Alice, his young maid, who always moved about the house with a silent, doe-eyed reverence. Oscar had hired Alice about a year ago when he found out that upkeeping his large mansion was too much to do alone.

Alice had been over the moon getting the job. She was provided with her own bedroom, with an en-suite. She was also allowed to use the smaller maid’s kitchen at the back of the house.

Oscar greatly enjoyed her company and adored her. She was a bright, bubbly young girl with a heart of gold. She had a laid-back attitude towards life, which Oscar really liked about her. It took a lot to get her wound up or angry, in fact, he had never seen her even slightly angry or pissed off. She was attentive to his needs and always cheered him up if he was having a bad day.

Alice was smitten with her master. He was very kind to her, and always made sure she had whatever she needed along with an amazing wage every month. He was easy to talk to; they always had a laugh together. But over the course of the year, she found herself more and more in Oscar’s company during dinner in the main kitchen. Alice had a secret, a crush that lingered beneath her every glance, woven into every word she spoke to him. She adored Oscar in ways she never dared admit, not even to herself. The way his eyes held centuries of knowledge, his dark hair falling effortlessly across his brow, and his very presence dominated a room without effort—it all left her breathless. But to him, she was merely a servant.

That night, however, changed everything.

Oscar had been wounded, a rare encounter with another vampire who sought to challenge his power. Blood dripped from his wounds, his strength fading faster than it should. Alice had stumbled upon him in the parlor, half-conscious and in need of blood, the only thing that could heal him. She knew the risk, knew that offering her blood was more than an act of servitude—it was an invitation to something much deeper. But she couldn't bear to see him suffer.

“I can help you,” Alice whispered, her hands trembling as she approached him. Her pulse quickened at the thought, a strange mix of fear and desire thrumming through her veins.

Oscar’s eyes, gleaming with hunger and vulnerability, met hers. "Alice, no... you don’t understand."

But she did. Her neck was exposed, and before he could protest further, she pressed it against his lips. Oscar's instinct took over. He bit into her flesh, drinking deeply. The warmth of her blood flowed through him like fire, reigniting the strength he had lost. But there was something different about Alice’s blood—something intoxicating, something that pulled him closer to her than he ever imagined.

He pulled back, gasping, as the wound healed almost instantly. Alice collapsed into his arms, weak but alive. There was a flicker of something in her eyes as she gazed at him, her lips parted as though she wanted to say more. But the words never came. Exhaustion claimed her, and Oscar carried her to her quarters, ensuring her safety before retreating to his own.

Later night a few days after, Oscar found himself in the company of another—a woman he had been drawn to for the past few days, her presence a distraction from the chaos of his existence. They made love under the dim glow of light, her breathless moans filling the room. Yet, as he sank into the moment, something strange began to happen.

Thoughts. Not his own, but hers—no, not the woman beneath him, but Alice’s.

They flooded his mind, sharp and vivid, breaking into his consciousness. And they weren’t innocent thoughts. They were... filthy.

“I wonder if he knows how long I’ve wanted him.”“I’d let him take me—anyway he wants—if he only asked.”“I’d do anything for him... anything.”

Oscar’s breath caught. The connection—Alice’s blood—had done more than heal him. It had forged a bond between them, one that allowed him to hear her innermost desires, the ones she buried beneath her soft smiles and lowered eyes. He could hear every heated, lust-filled thought as though she were whispering them into his ear.

Beneath him, the woman sensed his distraction, her hands pulling at him to keep him present. But Oscar’s mind was somewhere else—on Alice, on her secret longings that now pulsed in his mind like a dangerous temptation.

“I want to feel his hands on me.”

He clenched his jaw, trying to push the thoughts away, but they only grew stronger, more insistent. Alice’s fantasies unravelled in his mind—images of him, of what she wanted him to do to her, how she wanted to surrender to him in every possible way. She was so innocent on the surface, but beneath, her thoughts were anything but.

Oscar’s control, the centuries of restraint he had built, began to waver. He could hear her even now, miles away in the safety of her own bed, likely still weak from the blood loss. She was thinking of him—no, desiring him. And now he knew it all.

As the woman beneath him moaned, Oscar found himself pulling away, the weight of Alice’s desires drowning out everything else. His breath was ragged, his eyes clouded with conflict.

How could he face her now, knowing the depth of her secret obsession? And worse—how could he ignore the dangerous pull of his own growing hunger for her?

The night had begun with him taking her blood to save himself. But now, it was her thoughts, her wanton desires, that consumed him, threatening to undo the very restraint he had fought so hard to maintain.

As the woman beneath him moaned, Oscar’s mind was elsewhere, consumed by the rush of Alice’s hidden fantasies. She, who had seemed so innocent and reserved, was secretly obsessed with him, her thoughts growing filthier by the second. His centuries of restraint faltered as he found himself drawn to her in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The bond between them was becoming dangerous, and Oscar knew that what began with saving his life could lead to a passion that would consume them both. Alice, once the shy maid, was now the centre of Oscar's growing hunger, her desire and submission pulling him into a darker, more dangerous realm of his own making. The night that began with a single sip of blood would be the start of something much deeper and far more uncontrollable.

In the days that followed, Oscar couldn’t escape the pull of Alice’s thoughts. They invaded his mind when he least expected it—while he paced through the empty halls of the mansion, while he fed, and especially in the quiet moments before dawn when the world went still. Alice’s desires played on a loop, her fantasies vivid, graphic, and relentless. What had once been hidden behind her modest demeanour was now fully exposed to him, and the more he tried to block it out, the louder it became.

He’d catch glimpses of her throughout the day, going about her duties, unaware of the storm her thoughts were causing inside him. But now, every brush of her hand against his or even her quiet presence in a room sent his senses into overdrive. She was no longer just Alice the maid; she had become a living embodiment of temptation. And he couldn’t stop thinking about her blood—the way it had tasted, how it had awakened something deep and primal inside him.

One evening, after a long stretch of fighting against the bond, Oscar decided he needed answers. He found Alice in the kitchen, her hands busy scrubbing a table, lost in her own world. She didn’t notice him at first, but when she looked up, her eyes widened, caught off guard by his intense gaze. There was something different about him—something dangerous. He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate.

“You… you’ve been thinking of me,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine.

Alice froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no idea how much he knew, but the way he was looking at her made her knees weak. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, trying to maintain her composure.

But Oscar wasn’t fooled. He reached out, brushing his fingers against her wrist, and in that instant, he heard her thoughts again—clear as day.

“God, I want him to touch me… to take me right here…”

Her mind was an open book now, and she couldn’t hide from him anymore. The connection between them had become too powerful, the blood bond tying them together in ways neither of them had anticipated. Oscar could feel her desire as though it were his own, and it took everything in him not to give in to the temptation that was pulsing between them.

“You’ve wanted this,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “For so long.”

Alice’s breath hitched, her body betraying her with the way it leaned into his touch, craving the contact she had only dreamed of. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I’ve wanted you… always.”

The confession sent a surge of heat through Oscar. His restraint was unravelling fast. He could hear her heart racing, and smell the intoxicating scent of her blood coursing beneath her skin. Every fibre of his being wanted to sink his teeth into her again, to claim her fully, not just as a servant but as something much more.

Oscar's hand slid up Alice's side, his touch possessive and hungry. He could feel her trembling beneath him, her body betraying how much she craved this, craved him. With a low, animalistic sound, he sank his fangs into her neck, piercing deep.

A moan escaped Alice's lips as Oscar began to drink, her body arching into him. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Every pull of his mouth sent a wave of pleasure through her, the bond between them amplifying every sensation. As he drank, Oscar's hand moved lower, finding the hem of Alice's skirt. He pushed it up roughly, his cold fingers tracing patterns on her bare thigh. “Oscar,” she whimpered, her head lolling to the side as he continued to drink from her.”

His thumb circled her slowly, in rhythm with his drinking. Alice's breathing grew shallower, her hips bucking against his hand. She was drowning in sensation, the line between pain and pleasure blurring. “Oscar, please,” she gasped, her voice hoarse with need.”

With a growl, Oscar tore his mouth from her neck and stood up, lifting Alice onto the kitchen counter. He shoved her skirt up around her waist and buried his face between her legs, his mouth devouring her soaked panties. He licked and sucked at her through the thin fabric, the taste of her arousal making him dizzy with lust. Alice cried out, her hands fisting in his hair. In a flash, Oscar ripped her panties off and threw them aside.

Oscar looked up at Alice from between her thighs, his eyes glinting with dark intent. " Spread your legs wider," he commanded, his voice low and dominating. "I want to taste all of you."

Alice hesitantly spread her thighs wider, exposing herself fully to him. Oscar growled approvingly, burying his face back against her heat. He licked and sucked, his hands gripping her thighs painfully tight. "You're so sweet, Alice," he muttered against her. His fingers joined his mouth, slipping inside her as he suckled her most sensitive spot. Alice's hips bucked against his face, her hands scrambling for purchase on the cold countertop. "Oscar, I... I can't... it's too much..."

"You can take it," Oscar said firmly, his fingers pumping into her as his mouth suckled hard. "Come for me, Alice. Show me how you like my touch." His words were like a trigger, sending her over the edge.

Alice threw her head back, a scream tearing from her throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. Oscar continued to lap at her, his fingers curling inside her to draw out the sensation. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice hoarse with desire.

Alice's eyes fluttered open, gaze meeting Oscar's as he finally pulled away from her dripping pussy. He stood up, his face and hands covered in her juices. "Now, it's my turn," he said, his voice dripping with possessiveness. "Undo my pants," he ordered, his eyes boring into hers. Alice hesitantly slid off the counter, her legs shaking from her release. She reached out trembling hands and fumbled with his belt, her eyes flicking up to his as she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Oscar's erection sprang free, hard and throbbing. He grabbed Alice's hair, forcing her to her knees. "Worship it," he demanded, his grip tightening. "Show me how grateful you are for my attention." He rubbed the swollen head of his cock against her lips, smearing them with precum. As Alice timidly stuck out her tongue to taste him, Oscar's hold on her hair gentled. He let out a low groan as her tongue caressed him, her hesitancy making the act all the more intimate. "Like that, my Alice,"

He guided her head forward, helping her take him deeper. "Use your hands too," he encouraged, his voice lower, less demanding. Alice tentatively reached out, wrapping her small hand around the base of him. She looked up at him as she took him deeper, her eyes watering slightly.

Oscar's breath hitched as Alice's hands and mouth worked him over. He threaded his fingers through her hair, gently guiding her pace. "That's it, my sweet," he whispered, his eyes locked on hers. "You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth."

"Can I... can I touch myself while I do this?" Alice asked, her voice muffled by him. Oscar's eyes darkened at her request. "Yes, touch yourself," he encouraged, his voice hoarse. "I want to feel you come undone while you pleasure me." Alice slid her hand between her thighs, touching herself in rhythm with her bobbing head. The dual sensations sent Oscar over the edge. "Alice... I'm going to..."

Alice nodded, her eyes widening as she felt the first hot spurts against her tongue. Oscar gripped her hair tightly, his hips jerking forward as he finished in her mouth. When he finally pulled back, Alice licked her lips, swallowing every last drop. "Good girl,"

He praised, his chest heaving. Alice sat back on her heels, her face flushed and her hands shaking slightly. Oscar reached out and gently pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. "You did so well, my love," he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. He pulled her up, kissing her deeply as she tasted herself on his lips. "Now it's my turn to make you feel good," he said, guiding her to the bed. He lay down, patting his chest. "Climb on, my love."

Alice straddled him, positioning his hardening member at her entrance. She looked down at him, her heart racing with excitement and affection. Oscar smiled up at her, his eyes warm with love and possession. "Ride me, Alice," he commanded softly. "Make yourself feel good on my cock.” Alice sank down onto him, throwing her head back in pleasure as he filled and stretched her. She began to move, finding a rhythm. Oscar's hands gripped her hips, guiding her motions. "That's it, my love," he praised, watching her breasts bounce as she rode him.

Leaning forward, Oscar captured one of her bouncing breasts in his mouth, suckling as Alice continued to ride him. Her hands braced on his chest, her movements growing faster, more desperate. He released her breast, looking up at her. "Touch yourself again, my love."

Alice obeyed, sliding her free hand between her thighs to rub her clit in time with her movements on his lap. The sensation was overwhelming, and she threw her head back, crying out as she reached her climax. Oscar helped her, pressing his thumb against her clit as she came hard on his lap. Her limbs went slack as she slumped forward, spent from her release. Oscar flipped their positions so that he was on top. He grabbed her legs, throwing them over his shoulders as he thrust into her hard, his own release building. "Good girl, Alice," Oscar praised, his voice tight as she milked him with her inner muscles. With a few more thrusts, he joined her in release, burying his face in her cleavage as they clung to each other, spent and satisfied. "You are now my equals, Alice,"

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golden-cherry · 9 months ago

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deal - cl16 (39/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Addicted is the only word to describe Charles.

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of sex, male masturbation, cunniligus, breeding kink and choking (if you squint)), angst and fluff

Word Count: 3.8k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: tbh, I'd be on my knees for this Charles in a heartbeat. feedback is appreciated!

Your fingertips on Charles' naked thigh make his brain short-circuit.

Your unexpected, gentle touch shoots like lightning through his skin like lightning and then through his veins until the heat spreads throughout his body and his muscles are on fire. His heart is beating so hard that he fears it will break his bones and jump out of his chest. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears, goosebumps are spreading across his skin – but when he looks at you, he can no longer think clearly.

He never would have expected you to be so close again. He could never have dreamt of it.

After the night before yesterday, he no longer believed that he would be able to feel your touch again.

The memory of you fleeing from the bed is as deeply ingrained in his thoughts as your touch and your expression when you came on his thigh.

He had to hold back the whole evening the day before. To be honest, he had struggled with himself and forced himself to behave normally, even though all he could think about was you sitting on his lap and him rubbing you over his bulge until his damn phone rang. And even though he jerked off in the shower after his workout, it definitely wasn't enough to satisfy his craving for you. His hand is not you – and by God, he's addicted to your touch.

When you touched his hand in the car on the way to dinner with his family and played with his fingers as if it were the most natural thing in the world, it had taken him an incredible amount of strength and willpower to keep the car in the lane and not to pull over to the nearest lay-by or parking lot and rearrange your guts.

He is extremely embarrassed by how much like a horny teenager he acts as soon as you are around.

Since you first shared a bed and you unconsciously pressed against him in your sleep, he can no longer get the feeling of your body against his out of his head. The way you snuggled up against him, how your curves perfectly matched his. And you still had your pajamas on then.

He feels very ashamed of how good you felt when you lay in his arms and cried. How soft your skin was on his, how warm you were – how perfect. He would have liked to give himself a slap or two because your dilemma had been so profitable for him personally. That he could hold you and protect you. That he could feel you.

And your touch hasn't stopped since. Your fingertips on his bare shoulder, your palm on his stubbled cheek when he told you he was jealous of Lando and your friendship, even though that was never entirely true, of course. Your legs between his, your hand on his chest and your lips on his neck as you poured your hearts out at dawn and purple skies.

But even though he is addicted to your closeness and the feeling you evoke in him like a drug addict, it's not as if he actively or consciously sought your touch. Like two magnets, you hadn't been able to separate after the night, whether it was at breakfast or when you were in his embrace when he told you how good your touch felt and that you shouldn't stop.

And as if his prayers had been answered – you definitely hadn't stopped. You had intertwined your fingers, felt his heartbeat under your hand. And for a moment he had enjoyed it and let himself be carried away.

His hands on your hips, his palms on your cheeks and his nose on yours. None of his touches had been conscious, but the result of his desire, which he suppressed so as not to jeopardize your friendship. How can a simple touch make his cock so painfully hard that he has to arrange his erection in his pants so that it is not visible to everyone?

He can't even imagine what would have happened if Pierre and Kika hadn't entered your apartment without getting a raging boner.

It would definitely be smarter if he at least made a reasonable effort to stay away from you a little and not look for your touch every second. But even when you were sitting in the car with Kika and Pierre, he had longed for you. And it had taken about three turns in Pierre's SUV before he had reached out for you and wrapped his long fingers around a calf. Thank heavens you even held out your leg so that he could grab it better.

From that moment on, he became more shameless around you, even though he cringed inwardly every time. For example, when you were standing in front of the bed in the furniture store and he whispered to you that you should lie down on the bed so that he could see what you looked like in it before he bought it. And that he insists that you continue to share the bed. Of course, only under the pretext that you can sleep better if you fall asleep snuggled up together.

He didn't hesitate for a moment to lift you off the couch and onto Jori's terrace, only to lie down on it himself so that he could then pull you onto him with your full weight. He had seen the insecurity in your face, the way you shifted from one foot to the other, but he had also seen a sparkle in your eyes – desire perhaps? – and nothing in this world could have stopped him from feeling your weight on him.

You felt perfect on top of him when he wrapped his arms around you and pressed you against him so hard that there was a chance you might leave an imprint of your head on his chest if you ever got up again. His lips found their place on the crown of your head and his hand found your bare skin under your shirt as you snuggled up to him and giggled that he was very comfortable despite his muscles.

What went through his mind when he offered you that he could lie on top of you, he doesn't know himself. But something about being able to burn all the things that have caused him so much pain in the last few weeks had made him brave and maybe a little crazy. His hand in your hair, the other under your sweater on your spine. His lips on your nose and forehead.

Then let's stay here. On this couch. It's not as comfortable as our bed, but at least I'll have you lying on top of me.

Charles fears he is losing his mind.

He lost his mind when he asked you if you would snuggle with him and his heart skipped a beat when you assured him that friends can snuggle too. When he put your leg over his hip. When you pressed your face against his neck and inhaled his scent. He had to move your leg down onto his legs, otherwise you would have felt his hard-on. And all because you touched his neck.

He didn't even know how sensitive his muscular neck was until you brushed your lips over the soft skin there. And as if there was a switch in his body, blood shoots to his cock every time you come anywhere near his neck. As if his body were programmed to react to your gentle touch. Just as his heart reacts to your closeness.

He couldn't wait to introduce you to his family. The fact that his maman had already taken you into her heart had only encouraged him more to keep you close to him – in whatever way. Be it as a friend, as it was unspokenly agreed, or as more – as his family now saw you.

Another crucial point that made him more bold. Because if you didn't want to address the matter and clarify it, then surely you have no problem with him leaning far out of the window and demanding your closeness?

Are you a good girl, mon amour?

He is so happy that you get along so well with his family and that they have apparently adopted you outright. The way they have taken you into their midst – even if it meant that he had to sit on that damn stool all evening. But every time he looked at your beaming face, it was worth the back pain.

He would do anything to see you happy. And he definitely wasn't lying when he told his mom that you're “the absolute best thing that could have happened to him.”

He has never felt so good or so loved by anyone else, even if you only consider him your best friend. This is a fact that he tries to ignore, but it is repeatedly brought to his attention whether he likes it or not.

Every time he looks at you, he hears Joris voice in his head, whispering best friend to him, along with the question of whether he loves you, which he has left unanswered. He can't answer the question, he doesn't want to answer the question, because if he were to answer it in the affirmative, then – then –

Your hands on his naked back, your ass on the back of his thighs, your palms on his chest.

If you only see him as your best friend, how come you looked so indescribably divine when you came on his leg? Why do you assure him that nothing changes when he touches you intimately, when his whole world is shaken by the way you cling to him and moan when he runs his tongue along your neck?

He would have liked to throw you on your back and rip your shirt open to get to your naked skin faster. He would have sucked, licked, bitten, if you had let him. He would have pushed his face between your thighs and tasted you on his tongue until you came for him several times, burying your hands in his dark hair and moaning his name.

But you weren't ready yet. And he definitely wasn't going to risk everything.

Look at me, mon amour. Look at me when you come for me.

Even if he suffered a severe concussion in the next race, he would never be able to forget the look on your face. What his hand looked like on your throat. How your ass felt in his hand.

How you left the bed because you felt uncomfortable because of him.

He doesn't know where it all went wrong. One moment you were moaning his name, his fingertips had felt the curve of your boobs and you had snuggled up to him – and then you were gone, unreachable and distant. He didn't buy the excuse that you weren't tired for a second. But why would you leave him?

Had he crossed a line? Did you feel pushed when he rocked you back and forth on his thigh to make you feel pleasure? What happened in the few minutes you were lying in bed cuddling that you found his closeness so unbearable that you had to flee the bed?

Was he too forward? Too – too non-platonic, that he frightened you with his behavior? Did you feel so uncomfortable about his touch, his comments, that you saw no other way out than to create an insurmountable physical distance that unconsciously shattered his heart?

He had sworn to himself that he would do everything to maintain this friendship. And if that meant giving you this space, not touching you anymore, not calling you mon amour, then he would do so without hesitation, even if it hurt him more than he would ever admit.

Calling you mon ami felt strange and forced. Your cheek burned on his palm as he touched you one last time. A selfish move he couldn't suppress, that he had to claim for himself before moving away from you so that you wouldn't give up on this friendship.

The night on the couch had been hell – and not just because the cushion was uncomfortable. Charles had barely been able to get any sleep because his thoughts revolved only around you, the look in your eyes and the tears that had rolled down your cheeks.

He would keep his distance, as little as possible and as much as necessary, so that you would continue to tolerate him around you. He would do anything to save this friendship, even if it meant swallowing his feelings.

He didn't know what was happening to him when you brought him breakfast the next morning. Apparently, the night on the couch had been the right direction, the first right step to keep you around, which is why he invited you to his boat as a makeshift solution – under the pretext of having to take photos for his Instagram profile – but had forwarded the tickets he had booked for the two of you to Pierre so that they would at least not expire.

There would be time to visit Paris during Christmas. Hopefully.

The day on the boat went much better than he had imagined. Although he held back and didn't touch you under any circumstances, you had been as close emotionally as friends could be, which was certainly due in part to the alcohol. Or maybe it was his honesty when he called to you over the roar of the ocean that he was afraid that things between you would never be the same again. That he would lose you.

And you looked so beautiful lying next to him on the sun bed. So carefree, as if nothing had ever happened between you. As if you had never been anything but friends. And when you assured him that you would like to work with him, he would have liked to kiss you until there was no air left in his lungs.

You would work with him. Spend time with him – voluntarily. You would travel the world with him, see the most beautiful places and get to know different cultures – with him. And maybe, just maybe, you would fall in love with him at some point during your journey together, give yourself to him, just like you did once before.

An imagination he clung to as he touched himself in the shower a short time later. How your lips would feel on his. Your mouth on his cock, your tongue on the soft underside of his dick.

He imagined you lying on the bed in front of him – his new bed – face down, ass up, while he slowly and deeply pushed into you, knocking you over the edge. How your skin would feel, naked and warm as he filled you up with his load, how it would run sticky and hot down your thighs, only for him to catch it with the tip of his tongue and lap it up and stuff it back inside you until you were crying with pleasure and overstimulation.

He sincerely hopes that the walls of the boat were thick enough.

What he had hoped for, but couldn't have imagined, was the moment when you smiled at him the next morning. After he had confessed to you, without thinking about what boundaries he would cross or what ocean he would cross, that he couldn't be without you anymore – and you had replied that you couldn't live without him either.

Another step in the right direction.

Another step when his mother told you that she had prepared your bed – singular – for you – and you didn't instinctively refuse to share the room with him. You could have gone home, you could have asked Charles to sleep on the couch or to get another room.

But even when he looked at you and promised you that he would do everything in his power to fix this friendship and to keep you from turning away from him completely, you didn't push him away. He had laid his heart open to you as much as he could without having to answer in the affirmative to that lingering question.

You are the first thing he thinks about in the morning. You are the person he looks forward to seeing most when he comes home.

And even when he revealed to you that he couldn't stop thinking about how you feel, you didn't back down. When he confessed to you that you may be his best friend, but you're also so much more and that he craves you.

You didn't leave.

Quite the opposite.

The thought that he carried around with him for a whole day, that you feel uncomfortable around him, that the distance between you is the right thing, is swept away with just one touch. Erased. Non-existent.

He wants to kiss you, feel your skin against his, claim you for himself. But all he can do is stare at your hand lying on his. He doesn't even feel the tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. All he feels is your hand on his.

He can't answer the question Joris asked him with words, without risking losing his heart to you forever, but the Monegasque can squeeze your hand. Twice.

Your fingertips on Charles' thigh make his brain short-circuit, as your hand squeezes his.

Twice.

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blueblossomrose · 1 month ago

Text

This special post is part of the Twisted Parents Series.

Content: Post-canon, FLUFFY, TOO MUCH FLUFFY 😭 my obsession with old Disney movies screaming, fem!afab!MC, family n children, MC having a dream of getting married, reference very slightly to Cinderella (1950) obviously, diasomnia boys having their happy ending.

Note(s): I AM SO SO SO SORRY ABOUT THIS HIATUS, GUYS 😭😭😭 My mind was so busy these last few months with all my works thinking about writing that fluffy fluffy special to make up for my days of writing block after going on vacation for Carnaval 👽 I hope you guys love it as much as I... that cried writing it 💀 and I hope this excuses this long inactivity ☠️

All gifs edited by me, but divider got from here.

Consider checking out my aesthetic blog!

Comments and reblogs are very welcome ♡

A Wish Your Heart Makes

Have faith in your dreams and someday Your rainbow will come smiling through No matter how your heart is grieving If you keep on believing The dream that you wish will come true

“Are happy endings fairy tale's thing?”

Malleus couldn’t say. Human inventions had always been a mystery to him. He always had a distant and almost skeptical view of the happy endings that human stories so extol. To him, these narratives were like the light breeze of a summer night, pleasant and fleeting, but difficult to grasp and truly understand. As a fae, his nature made him see the world from a different perspective, and the idea of an ending — whether happy or tragic — was, to him, a human thing. He found it curious how humans always yearned for a definitive outcome, as if it were a vital necessity of their ephemeral existences. They sought in stories the hope that, in the end, everything would work out.

Malleus had never given much thought to his own dreams. Not in the others sense, at least. He understood dreams as manifestations of the mind, echoes of the subconscious, scattered fragments of reality shaped by desire or fear.

To him, dreams were almost tangible, an intrinsic element of his own magic — and yet he had never stopped to consider what it was that he, Malleus Draconia, truly desired.

Not that Briar Valley didn't have its own stories... but thinking about it that way, humans are far removed from theirs.

Happy endings… the concept was foreign to him. Fairy tales were — ironically — human stories, created to comfort fragile hearts, tales where love always prevailed and heroes were rewarded for their virtue.

Dragons like him, however, were supposed to be the obstacles that prevented such happiness. Beautiful and powerful beings... but lonely.

But then, there was [Name]. The magicless human who one day appeared in his life and in a few months, made his already apparently consolidated worldview turn upside down.

It was [Name] who taught him to dream.

She spoke of dreams as something beautiful and fragile. When they were still in school, he had heard her whisper to herself, with a twinkle in her eye, about how she wanted to marry one day. Because she wanted true love.

“A dream is a wish your heart makes,” she had said once, and it's been stuck in his head ever since.

Such a simple explanation for something that took him a long time to elaborate. Maybe that was the simplicity that comes with such a short life. He admired it, even back then.

The thought did not linger, however. No, he knew. He was in love. Happy endings...

The great hall of Briar Valley Castle glowed with enchanted candlelight, reflecting off the stained glass windows that adorned the ancient stone walls. The air was filled with the soft melody of a waltz as nobles and ambassadors watched with interest as the king and queen’s eldest daughter, Princess Aurora, danced with her suitor, as her pink gown swirled gracefully.

It was a grand celebration, the 16th birthday of the half-fae princess.

The old senators of the council, those whom Malleus deeply despised, were present, but they kept to themselves. Their accessibility was limited, limited by the changes Malleus and his human had brought about over the years. There was still resistance — whom Malleus called idiots and fools when he was particularly angry — but most of the councilors and palace staff had already surrendered to the strength of [Name]’s kindness, which contrasted with her husband's sometimes skittish temperament.

Aurora, the star of the night, twirled around the ballroom, she looked a beguiling sight, wearing the pink gown she had specially ordered for the occasion — certainly influenced by a certain bat fae she referred to as 'Grandpa Lilia' — along with the jewelry she received as a gift from her great-grandmother, Maleficia.

From where they stood, Malleus and [Name] watched in silence. His green eyes shone with something between pride and nostalgia.

“She’s beautiful,” [Name] murmured, a soft smile on her lips as her eyes followed her daughter’s every graceful movement.

Malleus watched her for a moment before answering. “Yes… but I confess I didn’t expect this day to come so quickly. I still remember when she had to climb on a chair to reach my stomach.”

[Name] chuckled softly. “I guess now she might just look at you.”

Malleus let out an amused sigh, but his gaze returned to his daughter with a touch of melancholy. “Humans grow up too fast...”

Before [Name] could respond, a movement beneath one of the large buffet tables caught her attention. She frowned as she noticed two small silhouettes sneaking stealthily between the legs of the furniture.

The six-year-old twins Magnus and Kyrval were under the table, trying to steal sweets from the silver trays. Their green eyes glinted with mischief as they reached out for honey cakes and candied fruit. But before they could escape with their stolen candies, two soldiers scared the two by pulling them out from under the table.

“My lords... you can't just crawl through the royal hall like that!” one of the soldiers scolded, the respectful but firm voice.

“But we're hungry!” Magnus protested, holding a piece of cheese as if it were a precious treasure.

“And small meals taste better!” Kyrval added, blinking innocently.

“Magnus! Kyrval!” she scolded them almost immediately as Malleus held back a laugh.

“They inherited Lilia’s mischievous spirit… and a little of yours, perhaps.”

[Name] gave him an indignant look. “Mine? Malleus, I don’t remember myself going around stealing sweets at royal balls!”

He chuckled softly, leaning toward her. “No… but I do remember a certain young lady who stole my heart many years ago.”

[Name] felt her cheeks flush, but she smiled sweetly almost automatically with the phrase. “... Do you regret that, your majesty?”

Malleus didn’t answer right away. His green eyes roamed the hall — his children, his wife, the castle lit up in celebration... faes, half-faes and even some humans... not alone.

Then he looked at [Name] again, his expression softening in a way only she could see. “Never.” He gently took her hand, bringing it to his lips.

He never imagined he would have something like this.

Everything changed when the girl from another world appeared. No fear. No hesitation. No one knows why the magic mirror brought [Name] to Twisted Wonderland... but honestly? Malleus was glad it did. She was the deepest desire within his heart. His dream.

Dragons aren't usually given happy endings. Maybe, just maybe... he was an exception to the rule.

He looked at [Name], his eyes meeting hers with a soft glow. And he’s happy with it.

To dream is to wish.

Lilia had been thinking about this idea for years. In his long life of over 700 years, he had experienced many misfortunes, losses, and sorrows — wars that devastated kingdoms, bitter goodbyes, and the feeling of carrying the weight of everthing on his shoulders.

But he had also been able to find happiness.

In raising Silver, in the tenderness of caring for Malleus, in the moments of pride in watching Sebek mature, even if in fits and starts.

He had never really dreamed of anything more than that. If he were honest with himself, his wish was simple: peace. How it would come, in what form, with whom — it didn’t matter.

But, as always, life had decided for him. With his children grown up, with their own homes, paths and families, he thought it might be time to explore the world. To wander. To be in distant cities. To sleep under the stars, free from worries. But that was not what happened.

A sweet wife from a distant world without magic and lively triplets had made his life much more noisy. And he wouldn’t change a thing.

The kitchen was scented with lavender and some sweet-smelling incense he had bought on a trip they took a year ago. He remembers getting a huge scolding from [Name] for buying so many, but he light them almost every day. Lilia, wearing an apron embroidered with small berries — a gift from the girls last Father's Day —, washed the dishes while humming softly.

“Dad, come see!” Aisha’s voice cut through the air with excitement. “I’m humiliating Arista at the Kart again!”

Lilia raised his eyebrows with a smile on his lips. With a light snap of his fingers, the utensils began to wash themselves, floating gently around the sink. He took off his apron, drying his hands with a cloth and headed to the living room.

“Humiliating me?” Arista replied with a joking frown. “All I saw was you losing it and pushing all the buttons!”

It was Lilia's first time raising girls, and it was in this chaotic and adorable process that he came to an inevitable conclusion: raising children would always be a constant learning experience — regardless of your experience in the subject.

“Battle tactics, you wouldn’t understand!” Aisha declared with exaggerated confidence, lunging forward as if that would speed up her character in the game.

“I win.” Arista said in a calm and satisfied tone, leaning back on the sofa like a queen on a throne, the controller resting gently on her lap.

"Whaaat?!" Aisha screamed, jumping from where she was sitting as if she had just been stabbed. Her wide eyes stared at the screen where the dots shone mercilessly: Arista - 1st place.

Lilia, who was watching the scene from the kitchen door, laughed softly.

"Wow, Arista..." Adela said softly, briefly looking away from her book to her older sister. She wasn't the most competitive, but she was always there to support her sisters, even with her shy and quiet personality. At the moment, she was gently stroking the silky fur of one of Lilia's bats, which was sleeping curled up in her lap like a fluffy, furry ball.

Count Fabulous — as [Name] gave him when she and Lilia were still studying at NRC — was the most spoiled of Lilia’s bats. Ever since Adela was a baby, he had followed her around, perching on nearby furniture or on her head as if he were her personal protector. Now, he dozed heavily, his ears fluttering slightly, lulled by the girl’s soft voice, but with Aisha and Arista moving on the couch, he ended up waking up and squeaking when he looked at the screen.

“Even Count is surprised,” Lilia murmured humorously, watching the bat stir fluttering the fabric of Adela's dress.

Adela smiled, stroking his back with a finger. “He bet on Aisha, I think.”

“Cute little traitor.” Arista said, smiling despite the line.

With the girls still vibrating with the echoes of the game’s contention, the front door opened with a soft creak, followed by the familiar sound of [Name]’s footsteps. Lilia looked up with a soft glow in his red eyes and smiled as he saw his wife’s figure crossing the threshold of the house.

Without saying a word, [Name] walked over to the couch where the triplets were spread out and, with a theatrical movement, threw herself gently on top of them, like a human blanket. She didn't press too hard, of course — just enough to cover them with her body and elicit immediate reactions.

"Mom!!," Aisha protested between laughs, trying to free herself.

"Rescue mission! Fabulous, save us!" Arista shouted, laughing, while Count Fabulous just opened one lazy eye on Adela's lap before settling back down, oblivious to the commotion.

"Mama, you're feel cold... stay a little longer..." Adela murmured, hugging her mother's arm affectionately.

"My days off are coming..." [Name] said, her voice muffled between her daughters' hair and the pillows. "I missed my noisy gang so so so much~"

Lilia approached the couch with his hands on his hips, his eyes half-closed and a mischievous smile curving his lips. “Can I join you?” he asked with false innocence.

Before any of the four could respond, the couch rocked gently, and then, with a soft green glow, it tilted forward as if it had a life of its own, gently dumping all of the girls onto the living room’s plush carpet. A bundle of giggles, messy hair, arms and legs all jumbled together, collapsed to the floor like a pile of animated pillows.

“AH! Dad!!” Aisha and Arista shouted in unison, Aisha louder than Arista, actually.

"I was comfortable, papa!" Adela grumbled, sitting down with Count Fabulous all ruffled on her lap, flapping his wings indignantly before landing again, huffing softly.

"I can't believe it, Lilia!" [Name] said, trying to look angry, but already with a smile on her lips and her eyes shining with laughter. Lilia approached slowly, as if he were going to seal a peace agreement with a kiss, and so he did — he leaned over, laughing softly, and kissed her forehead sweetly before lying down on top of everyone like [Name] did moments ago.

"Not agaaaain!" the three shouted in unison, between laughter and attempts to escape from their father's arms.

Still stretched out on the rug, the girls pointed to the ceiling, commenting excitedly on the floating ornaments — small enchanted lights that spun gently like fireflies caught in a whirlwind. They were souvenirs left by 'big bro' — Silver — on his last visit.

To some people, the idea of a house still full of young children might seem like the complete opposite of a peaceful retirement. And by traditional standards of rest, it was.

But to Lilia it didn't matter. It never mattered. Being with his family was what he dreamed of. It was all he wish for. “In dreams you lose your headaches, whoever you wish for, you keep.”

There was his rest. Not in the empty spaces, but in the constant presence. In the sound of clumsy footsteps in the mornings, in the voices calling "Dad!" throughout the house, in the tight hugs, in the fights over the last cookie, in the notes left on the table and the stories told under blankets.

Yes, he still traveled. He had his moments of adventure, exploring new places with the girls strapped to backpacks, [Name] with the map in hand. It was in family. It was messy. It was noisy.

This was Lilia’s rest. A rest in true Lilia style: full of voices, chaotic, but overflowing with love.

Silver knew dreaming well. It was what he had done for most of his life, and it was also an instinctive part of his own magic. Dreams were a sweet treat, a place where his worries melted away and all that was left was the best, most beautiful sky and peace.

“Have faith in your dreams and someday, your rainbow will come smiling through,” When he thought of this, what came to mind was his desire to serve Malleus, to be the knight that Lilia trained him to be. At the same time, he wanted to be with his family and friends, but he didn’t expect to fall in love.

It came subtly, with dreams. He saw her. A charming girl, who in his opinion was beautiful. She was there, in his deepest dreams, and he did not understand who she was… until he saw [Name] for the first time.

He was lying on the couch, his head resting on [Name's] lap. She was gently stroking his hair, her fingers running through it like a gentle wind. With the book on one of her hands, she was quietly reading an old story, pausing only to smile at the faces Silver made when his bangs fell into his eyes because of her caresses. He had returned from work tired, not with the same chronic drowsiness of his adolescence, but with the normal tiredness of someone who dutifully fulfills his duties. As one of the most trusted knights of the king, Silver carried great responsibility on his shoulders. But at home, with them, he could truly rest. The sound of pages turning mingled with the distant ticking of the wall clock and the rustling of leaves outside.

"Daddy!" Hana yelled happily, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she ran across the room. Without stopping, she threw herself at Silver with an enthusiastic hug, nearly knocking him off the couch. Her blond hair flew like gold threads in the wind, and her auroral eyes sparkled with joy. Silver jumped a little on the couch, a gasp escaping him at the impact—more from surprise than pain.

[Name] let out a light laugh, covering her mouth with her free hand as her gaze danced between her husband and daughter. Silver, even exhausted, gave a gentle smile, his half-closed eyes opening a little wider to look at his beautiful — literal — princess. And she loved being called that. Every time she heard the title come out of her father's calm voice, her little face lit up.

Hana wasn’t old enough to know exactly everything about her family, so Silver tried to tell her what was appropriate for a child to know, sometimes with the help of Lilia and [Name]. He had long realized that his daughter loved the concept of princesses. But not political princesses, more 'real' ones— she liked the ones who sang with the animals of the forest, the fairy tale ones. He would never forget the almost heavenly glow in her eyes the day Malleus bowed slightly, placed his crown on Hana’s little head, and said with a faint smile: "There, now the princess has a crown." Hana was ecstatic. She spent a whole week wearing tiaras made of flowers or paper.

“Daddy, you came home early today!” she said, her adorable little voice filling Silver’s ears like sweet music, while those little arms wrapped tightly and lovingly around his neck.

"I was able to be released early by order of General Zigvolt, my princess." Silver said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

[Name] laughed again. She gently tugged at a lock of Silver’s hair. “Sebek released you? Now that’s a surprise,” she said, raising an eyebrow humorously.

Silver couldn’t help but laugh at [Name’s] words. Sebek was adamant about schedules most of the time, and that was no secret to anyone. On the one hand, it was good. He kept everything in order, like a true general. On the other hand… well.

Hana, who was squirming between her parents with the energy that children normally have, rolled over with such excitement that she almost slipped off the couch, but Silver was faster. With a fluid movement he caught her with one strong hand, wrapping it around her waist and pulling her back safely.

“Careful, princess,” Silver said, his auroral eyes resting on her with tenderness and attention.

Hana lifted her chin proudly, her little hands on her hips and a glint in her eyes. “I knew Daddy would catch me, so I’m not afraid!”

Silver smiled once more. “I will always catch you, but take care of yourself too, my flower,” he said, his voice as serene as ever.

“Okay!” Hana smiled at her father, that innocent smile that lit up the soul, before stretching backwards like a little cat in the sun. As her arms stretched lazily, her voice filled the living room, chattering about her day. Silver listened to everything with full attention, his calm eyes fixed on her, and his hands always ready in case she slipped off the couch again.

In a moment of pause, Hana began to play absentmindedly with the wedding ring on her father's finger, slowly turning it with her small, delicate fingers. Without warning, Hana simply sleep. She slid softly onto Silver’s chest, her breathing even and calm, her golden eyelashes resting on her rosy cheeks. Silver felt her soft weight and had to suppress the urge to laugh. Hana was a thousand times more energetic than he had been in his childhood, — which, honestly, wasn’t much of a feat, considering his old constant sleeping habits — but when she got tired, there was no warning. She would simply pass out, as if someone had flipped a switch in her.

Silver rested her little head on his shoulder and wrapped his arms around her, his hand resting on her back. He felt his daughter's heart beating softly, and the warmth of her pressed against his chest was all he needed to know that he was at home.

For a moment, all was silence and peace—the kind that only existed within the purest dreams. When he thought about his life now, about everything he had experienced—he never, not in a million years, expected to be graced with such happiness. His rainbow had come. And now it slept softly on his chest, in a little flowery dress, with her little hand still holding his finger.

"Daydreaming again?" [Name] whispered to him as she noticed his gaze.

"Living a dream, actually." He replied.

Dream? What he had was not a dream. It was conviction. A solid goal, an unbreakable purpose. He would become a knight worthy of serving Malleus.

Sebek trained until his bones ached, endured thunderstorms —literally— and never took his eyes off the goal. The half-human blood he carried? An obstacle to be overcome with discipline and hard work. “No matter how your heart is grieving, If you keep on believing...”

If anyone, back then, dared to insinuate that he would marry — how awful — a human, he would scream so loudly in their ear that their eardrums would beg for mercy.

But as a wise old man once said — or perhaps it was Lilia in one of his absurd proverbs: "The earth doesn't turn, it capsizes with style."

And now, here he was — Sir Sebek Zigvolt, General, loyal knight to King Malleus Draconia... beside his lovely human wife and their two radiant children.

“Ivan!” Sebek called, his voice still naturally strong, but intentionally softened— an effort he made for only one person. “Don’t pull on the reins so hard! You’ll hurt the horse!”

Ivan, atop a sturdy horse with a grayish coat and a mane that shimmered faintly, turned calmly to his father. His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I know, father. I was just testing whether he responded well to my voice,” he replied, with that subtle teasing tone that only Sebek recognized as a direct inheritance from [Name].

Nearby, sitting under the shade of a cherry tree with their daughter, [Name] held back her laughter. The pent-up sound still escaped in joyful sighs. “Where did you get that horse again?” she asked, arching an eyebrow with an amused smile.

Sebek huffs, trying to maintain his composure. "For training, of course."

"Of course it is." [Name] held back a slight loving eye roll at Sebek's words, that kind of response so typical of him.

She then watched him approach Amelie with affection visible on his naturally stern face—a softness that only emerged in front of his daughter.

As quietly as his voice would allow, he knelt down at her level and said, “Are you enjoying the stroll, my lady?”

Amelie looked at him with shining eyes. A small, bright smile spread across her face. “Yes, Daddy!” she answered happily, and raised her short arms toward him, asking to be held.

Without hesitation, Sebek picked her up with the greatest care in the world. He positioned Amelie against his chest, shielding her ears from the loud tinkling sound.

Ivan, who was watching everything from the top of the horse, arched an eyebrow as if he was about to make a sharp comment. But when he saw his sister nestled against his father's chest, her little fingers playing with the brooch on Sebek's clothes, he simply got off his horse and approached in silence.

"General Zigvolt, you are breaking the knightly protocol again," Ivan said, his tone exaggeratedly serious, but his eyes barely concealed the amusement.

Sebek gave him a half-closed look. "When you turn a father, you will understand that there is no protocol more sacred than that of protecting your children." He adjusted Amelie better in his arms. "And put on those gloves properly, Ivan. A knight must always be ready."

Ivan sighed at the drama. Then, he knelt down beside his dad, leaning down slightly until he was at his sister’s level.

“Are you having fun, Lie?” he asked softly, touching her nose with a finger.

Amelie laughed softly. “Yes! Ivan looks beautiful in his armor!” he declared, as if it were the greatest truth in the universe. Ivan blushed slightly, and [Name] could barely contain another laugh.

Sebek would be lying if he said he’d never considered having children. Perhaps, in some distant future—if he reached the pinnacle of his career as a loyal and worthy knight—he might be granted the honor of marrying a pure-blooded fae. It was the kind of future he’d always been pictured as: respectable, honorable…

But now… now, when he looked at his little Amelie against his chest, or at Ivan laughing as he receives a sweet stroke of his hair from his mother— the image seemed absurd. Almost laughable.

All his life, he had been taught, indoctrinated, encouraged — partially? Completely — by his grandfather Baul, to hate a part of himself. To deny it. To hide it. To regard his human half as inferior, weak, inconvenient. To view his own father with disdain. And for a while… he believed it. He carried that hatred like a banner.

He wasn’t crucifying his grandfather, of course not. Old Baul had fought in a cruel war, with countless losses. He was a marked veteran —scarred, traumatized, and horrified.

But the truth was this: Sebek was happy. Happy that this human girl without magic, from another world, had stepped through the magic mirror and—clumsily—interfered in his life. And stayed.

[Name] had changed him. More than anything else, anyone else. Sure, Silver, and even his insufferable classmates at Night Raven College had their part in deconstructing his prejudices. But the real turning point came with her.

He remembered well the day of his first visit to his old home. [Name] squeezed his hand. And he remembered the look in his father’s eyes. The way Mr. Zigvolt — that loving, always clumsy, always smiling dentist — looked at him with so much love… and no hurt. Even after all the years of rejection. Sebek bowed. And apologized. He saw his father’s eyes fill with tears. And yes — of course he had always been that emotional fool, and Sebek used to get irritated by it. But now, no. Now, he understood. And it didn’t bother him anymore.

In the middle of his thoughts, Sebek heard soft voices breaking through.

“Grandpa and Grandma will definitely make that recipe when we visit them next weekend. I mean, I bet great-grandpa will be there too,” said Ivan, with the confidence of someone who had already foreseen the entire menu and the habitual discussion from his grandparents' house.

“Haha, great-grandpa is so funny!” replied Amelie, swinging her legs back and forth. “He always fights with grandpa to hold us back..."

Sebek sighed with a tiny smile. The sight of Baul arguing with Mr. Zigvolt over who would pick up Amelie first was, in fact, more frequent than he cared to admit.

Sebek helped Ivan mount again, adjusting the saddle with practiced precision. When Amelie asked to climb on too, he didn't hesitate - his arms lifted her as if she were a feather, carefully placing her in front of her brother. She held the reins with wide eyes of excitement, and Ivan guided her with the same care that their father showed her. It was beautiful to see. It was in these moments that Sebek realized that he was indeed an example.

[Name] watched everything with a growing warmth in her chest. She would never have imagined — ever — that this half-impossible dream would end like this. No. It wouldn't end. It had started like this. A home. A family.

“The dream that you wish, will come true.”

And the funniest part? Sebek said,with all the letters, that he would never be like his father. But there he was, discreetly pushing a small, colorful package of magic candy into his children's hands after successfully dodging the horse.

"Don't tell your mother," he murmured, with a half-smile on his lips. [Name] watched the scene in silence, holding back her laughter. She saw Ivan and Amelie exchange knowing looks, make the silence symbol with their fingers on their lips and smile mischievously.

And that was true for Sebek, too. When he saw himself with a smile on his face — sincere, wide, light —watching his children share the candy, laughing and whispering among themselves… He realized. This was more than a dream. It was a reality.

His wish to become a knight, which had once existed only for honor, glory, and pride, had transformed. It wasn’t just for Malleus, or even for himself.

To protect his home. His wife. His children. That human part of him that he had once despised… but now, finally, he loved.

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fangswbenefits · 3 months ago

Text

The Arrangement (16) - When All Things End

Summary: Astarion would never forgive himself for having you die by his hands, even if indirectly. A choice is to be made, and one he has no control over.

Rating: Explicit/18+

Pairing: Astarion x Female!Tav

Warnings: Character death. Trauma. Gore

Word count: 5.1k

Series masterlist. AO3.

Thump.. Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…

If regret could kill, Astarion reckoned he would be buried underground with, at the very least, several hundreds of layers of scorching dirt imprisoning him. And deservedly so. He would seldom bother concocting antidotes, considering how little use he’d have for them. After all, he aimed true and with purpose whenever he coated his blades in lethal poison, never intending for his targets to live long enough to tell the tale of their vapid encounter.

And now he was paying the price for such… arrogance.

Both men holding him and keeping him at bay, quickly fell limpless on the ground when the familiar blinding rays of yellow hit them mercilessly.

Shadowheart.

Through roars of hurried incantations and deafening screeches of pain, the former servants of Cazador Szarr met their doom by daring to cross you.

Pain and anguish quickly took over him, as he managed to pick up his dagger before hurrying towards you, almost losing his footing as his senses blurred.

“No.”

The word kept tumbling from his lips like a prayer. The Gods above never took notice of his pleas – and if they did, they never bothered intervening. However, you weren’t him. He could perhaps understand now why such grace and benevolence wasn’t extended to him.

But you weren’t him.

Please…

You were you, and you didn’t deserve this fate.

“No.”

You didn’t deserve to have your last breath being drawn because of his past deeds.

Eyla still held on to you, blade fully lodged in your body and blood pouring out in an obscene quantity, drenching the fabric of your gown in an ever-growing stain.

The sight itself was enough to make his steps falter, but when the scent of your blood hit him, he audibly cursed. Unfortunately, his sanguine hunger was very much bound to you. Even in this moment of distress, he could feel his nature as a vampire being pushed to the surface, urging him to succumb to his desires.

It was enough to root him to the ground for a brief moment.

“Astarion!”

Shadowheart had clearly taken notice of this, her face of pure focus immediately shifting into something akin to sheer frustration.

His head snapped in her direction, and he almost lost his balance again as waves of disgust met waves of hunger within him. A raging war taking place as he tried his best to reach you.

Once he managed to lock eyes with your lifeless form lying next to Eyla, Astarion knew there and then that it was too late.

The realisation hit him hard, and he felt cool tears streaming down his face.

He was a master at poisons. No decent rogue could call themselves a deadly assassin if they couldn’t brew the deadliest of poisons. It was an art, but one that sought only to wreak pain and misery.

With the entire blade having been coated in it, there was no way you could survive it.

You were… gone.

Silence encased him at once, and he wasn’t sure if it was his mind blocking out any distractions, or if it was merely the sign that Shadowheart’s wrath was finally spent.

“You may kill me, but she goes down with me.”

Astarion gripped the handle of his dagger with such force, he feared he might snap it in half. His feet began moving once more, on their own accord, and he found the hunger inside him give way to something more primal.

Something he hadn’t felt since he had carved Rhapsody in Cazador countless times – a welcome source of immediate release that allowed him to find a semblance of revenge.

He wasn’t going to kill Eyla.

No.

That would be too kind, all things considered.

He would take his sweet time making sure she wouldn’t part this world until she was begging him for it.

The cruelty that was taking hold of his mind almost blinded him, and he found himself baring his fangs, embracing the creature he truly was. Over the past few weeks, he had learned how to conceal his more questionable emotions, locking them away inside.

But there’s only so much anger one can bury before it starts overflowing.

His steps quickened in her direction with a newfound purpose. Blinding rage swallowed him whole as he gained speed.

But before he could deliver an incapacitating blow, Eyla’s neck met the blade of a longsword, which effectively severed the head from the rest of her body.

“Tsk'va…”

Ropes of blood spurted from Eyla, as the head rolled over across the grass, painting it in crimson red.

Lae’zel was quick to kick the decapitated body away from under you, rushing to cradle you in her arms.

His knees wobbled momentarily once he reached the bench, greeted with a sight so revolting it made his stomach lurch dangerously, threatening to spill its contents.

Eyla’s warm blood was spread along your limpless face in a thin layer, and he wanted to hold out his hand to clean it off of you, but decided against it. He was still very much a vampire and his senses were now betraying him and urging him to feed.

Blood is the gift of life and… death, child.

Cazador’s words rang inside him and he stilled his movements at once, realising just how hard it was to deny his instincts, especially since he hadn’t properly fed in so long.

“Astarion…”

Lae’zel’s voice was a low, warning snarl, but it was enough to snap him from the haze that was quickly taking over his mind.

“Don’t remove the blade just yet.” Shadowheart was by Lae’zel’s side, assessing the situation with shaky hands.

“She’s going to die.”

Lae’zel wasn’t one to dance around inconvenient truths. It was a simple and clear statement, because anything other than the obvious would lead to unnecessary pain.

As if pushed down by an invisible force, Astarion finally dropped to his knees.

He wished he could take her place and be the one holding you instead, but he couldn’t bring himself to even suggest such a thing. Not when he could see your open eyes fading as your breath slowed down, small whimpers of pain getting stuck in your throat as life spilled from you, drop by drop.

Suddenly, your eyes found his and he wasn’t sure if it was the faintest of smiles that was ghosting along your lips.

A shell of that smile that had ruined his plan all along.

He had heard your footsteps and couldn’t help but to inwardly grin when you finally made your presence known by softly clearing your throat. Were you in search of some late night company? Had you found what you were looking for?

After all, the two of you had grown quite close over the past few weeks.

In fact, he found himself enjoying your company more than he cared to admit, much less voice it out loud. You had become more than just the person leading this group of… worm-brains while occasionally giving him access to your delectable blood.

But more importantly, you had begun to crawl your way under his skin, tugging persistently at the needles of his moral compass. What had started out as a mere plan to have you fall for him in exchange for protection – and mayhaps a little aid when it came to facing Cazador, if luck would have it – soon morphed into something he had never experienced before. Granted, his vampirism had warped his memories before he was turned, but he was certain that such a feeling wouldn’t be so quickly forgotten.

He wasn’t sure there was a name to describe how you made him feel. Obviously, it wasn’t love. The mere thought of ‘love’ nearly caused him to laugh aloud.

Affection seemed like a more appropriate term.

Whatever it was, it was weighing down on his conscience as time went on, causing him to question the very foundations of his being.

“Maybe one day you could teach me how to brew a poison.”

Oh.

How very… dull.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, and gave you a dismissive scoff instead. “Whatever for, my dear?”

You crouched next to him as he readied the campfire for nightfall, your penetrating gaze never faltering.

“Well, I think it would be rather advantageous to…” you started off rather sweetly, gentle fingers reaching for the satchel he had by his feet, “... you know, share some of your knowledge as a silent assassin.”

But before your fingertips could touch the vials carefully lodged in it, he caught hold of your wrist, abruptly stilling your hand.

“Poisons aren’t to be trifled with, nor are they bedside toys for unsuspecting children,” he said, his tone coming out harsher than intended, which he immediately regretted when you withdrew from him at once, as if burnt by his very words. “I… apologise.”

There was still a glimmer of kindness in disappointment when you gave him an understanding smile as you held his stare.

Astarion wished you would have been offended or hurt instead by his rash words. It would have made it easier to ignore the constant voice inside his head that kept goading him towards you. On good days, he was able to fully ignore it.

But whenever you were too close… whenever you displayed random acts of kindness around him… whenever he could almost hear the blood rushing through your body… he wasn’t as strong to resist the temptation.

After all, your blood had been his first.

He didn’t let go of your wrist, and instead glided his thumb to rub slow circles along the warm stretch of skin.

Your smile promptly widened, as he stilled the pad just above your artery, feeling its pulse quicken with each passing second.

He knew that smile and the offer that came along with it.

“You can feed on me tonight.”

The grip around you tightened.

On days like this, Astarion wished you hadn’t such a hold on him; that the two of you had never crossed paths, because he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to tolerate your absence if you were to leave him now.

With your free hand, you undid the laces of your chemise, exposing your neck to his gaze. Your heartbeat quickened and he could hear that delicious thumping he had grown so fond of.

Thump… thump… thump…

“Take her. All of her,” the voice taunted.

And so he did.

Astarion couldn’t bear looking in your eyes any longer, so he had no choice but to avert his gaze at once.

“No. Don’t you dare,” Lae’zel snarled in a menacing tone. “You don’t get to look away from what you’ve caused.”

Shadowheart’s voice was louder, still. “We must act fast, if there is any chance!”

Lae’zel didn’t seem quite as convinced of such urgency, and reluctantly lay your body along the blood-soaked bench.

“She’s not going to make it unless there’s an antidote,” she hissed, staring at Astarion. “Do you have one? Quick!”

Shadowheart had her palms spread across your chest and abdomen, uttering words of healing, as frosted beams of light surrounded the dagger lodged inside.

“Astarion!”

He shook his head faintly in utter defeat. “There isn’t one.”

Lae’zel grunted in response, cradling your face in her hands, her forehead touching yours, as your breathing slowed down and your blood stilled with each failed beat of your heart.

He had learned to listen to your heart long ago, out of necessity at first to ensure he could keep you out of trouble, but soon it turned into a meek way to connect with you when everything else about the two of you had crumbled down.

And now he had nothing left of you.

And it had come by his hand.

“Could you try a scroll of Resurrection?” Lae’zel suddenly suggested, caressing your cheek.

She laced her fingers together in prayer, keeping the magic afloat along your body. “It would only work if her body was whole, and she has lost too much blood.”

Thump….. Thump…… Thump…..

Your heart was giving up on you as his poison quickly took over.

“What can we do?” Lae’zel asked.

Shadowheart shook her head, brow furrowed in extreme concentration as foreign words spilled from her lips.

Astarion had never felt as useless as he did now. He could barely recognize the scent of your blood, since it was no longer yours. His poison was corrupting you from within.

“We might have a shot if we get Gale,” Shadowheart said after a while, sweat drops rolling down her forehead. “We need to portal Halsin.”

His head snapped in confusion. “Halsin?”

But Lae’zel was already gone, heading towards the house at lightning speed.

Shadowheart’s lips were pressed into a fine line and her hands moved past your neck, palms now pressed against your skin that was now losing all its warmth.

“The healing she requires is beyond my skill.”

Astarion felt a glimmer of hope burst within him, quickly dragging his knees across the damp grass, bringing both hands to frame your face.

“You’re the most competent cleric I know of.”

She gave a constricted snort, looking somehow less tense. “And how many clerics do you know of?”

“That’s beside the point,” he promptly said. “Why do you think Halsin can help?”

“Well, it just so happens that he's in tune with nature in a way I am not as he’s a druid.” She then turned to him. “You brew your poisons from plants and flowers, don’t you?”

Brilliant!

Astarion felt an uncontrollable urge to kiss Shadowheart for always being the brain whenever the situation called for it, but quickly decided against it. There had been enough casualties without the need to add another one.

Thump……………..thump……..

“There is a chance.”

He nodded.

Astarion wasn’t sure whether she was saying that because she truly believed it, or because she wanted to convince herself.

He glanced down at you, and he could have sworn he saw your lips twitching as he caressed your forehead with the pad of his thumb. Tears didn’t come easy to him these days, but he could feel the prickling in the corners of his eyes. Over centuries, he had committed acts that still haunted him, but he realised nothing would ever compare to this.

Shadowheart was struggling to keep her magic afloat, and it wasn’t enough to keep your heart from beating its last beat.

Thump.

And the silence in his head had never been so loud.

The sharpest of pains tore through you to the point of agony, stirring you awake at once. You tried to blink away the discomfort from the flashes of light high up above you, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. In reality, you weren’t sure if you could muster the strength to move, and felt as though an invisible weight kept you pinned down to the ground.

A warm breeze ghosted over your face, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of rain and… smoke?

Was something burning?

As the humid haze intensified, a jolt of alarm had you moving your legs and arms in an attempt at fleeing whatever was headed your way.

You blinked once more, and had to squint hard for a moment to help your eyes adjust to the new environment, and just as you had managed to get on your knees and hands without losing balance, you realised you weren’t in Baldur’s Gate anymore.

In fact, you weren’t quite certain you were still in Faerûn.

“What the-”

But your words were cut short as dust caught in your throat, causing you to cough violently, as your fingers dug through sand. Roars of thunder and flares of lightning slowly filled your field of vision, and you felt your body convulse slightly in place.

The wild magic within you stirred lightly as if rising from a deep slumber along with your numb senses.

Lightning came first, quickly followed by Fire.

Embers engulfed the palms of your hands and you felt despair overtake you.

It had taken you decades to master the chaos that you had been born with. Much to your dismay, the same lack of control you once felt as a child was now taking over, the elements no longer bending to your will.

“Please. No… no…”

The embers morphed into liquid fire that was now beginning to pool around you, and in a flash of panic, you tumbled backwards to escape it. You had realised at a young age that you had been graced with the chance to wield the elements, but also knowing you could fall victim to them.

Another gust of wind and the flames along your hands turned into erratic bolts of lightning, and you felt the familiar cool of water coursing through your body barely giving you any time to adjust.

You whispered spells and words, seeking desperately to gain back any sense of control.

But then, up ahead in the distance, you witnessed a waterfall of molten lava falling into a pocket of air, which then quickly turned into a whirlwind that swirled across the jagged beds of rocks and trees. The sky rumbled with storms and thin layers of light that seemed to pour from the stars above. There was no sun or moon. No night or day. The sky was split in a vast array of dulled out colours.

None of it made any sense.

With much effort and no less amount of willpower, you managed to get on your feet, pausing briefly to steady yourself. Luckily, the sparks that were bursisting from your hands had come to a halt, and you could feel the conglomeration of elements inside you begin to simmer down.

Another burst of pain in your abdomen had you bending over, a hand instinctively coming to apply pressure.

And that was when you remembered.

You had died.

At least, you should have.

Tentative fingers prodded at the tear in the fabric of your nightgown, finding jagged edges that stretched along your skin from a blade. Upon glancing down, you saw no blood. And while the magic inside you had soothed into a lulling whisper, you knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

“I am sure you have many questions.”

You turned so fast towards the sound that you promptly fell on one knee, hissing in sheer pain once more.

Before you stood a young woman wearing simple robes and hair neatly pulled into a hairdo, loose strands swaying in the sandy breeze. Her body was slightly translucent in a hue of blue, and you could see the line of the horizon behind her where more fire whirlwinds emerged from every direction.

She remained still, waiting for you to compose yourself, and once you did and your vision cleared up, you realised you were actually looking at.

“Mother?”

A tender smile curled her lips, as she nodded curtly.

Back on your feet, the elements that had started to become dormant, flared up to the point you felt as if about to burst.

“It’s been so long, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

At this point, you were in full panic mode, glazing around and looking for an exit strategy.

Your mother was dead. She had been dead ever since you were merely seven. Whoever was standing in front of you had to be the result of some cheap trick. From the Hells? A curse? Was this the afterlife?

The figure took a few steps towards you. “You’re not dead, but I can assure you that fleeing will drain you into unconsciousness.”

Was that a threat?

“Where am I?”

Thunder cracked above your head and you flinched as she came to a stop. “You were always such a curious child. Want to take a guess?”

Anger snapped you straight. “I don’t care to play games.”

“Very well, then,” she said, lacing her hands together over her abdomen. “You’re in Limbo.”

You blinked twice in sheer perplexity.

Limbo.

The name triggered crumbling memories of old from when you were far too young to rummage through books that spoke of distant lands from this world and the next. And others that lay somewhere in between.

The Ever-Changing Chaos of Limbo.

In that moment, you felt tiny - so incredibly tiny you might slip through the grains of sand under your bare feet.

This revelation transcended you. There was no rhyme or reason to this plane, and it was evident by its chaotic nature that so fiercely rivaled your own wild magic. Elements were at war here, merging and bursting within each other, as if fighting eternally for dominance.

“You’re in the safe zone,” she spoke, snapping you from your thoughts. “Its size is dictated by the intelligence the individual controller possesses.”

You remained silent, assessing all this information that was coming back to you in bits and pieces. A quick glance around revealed a circular zone that evidently seperated the two of you from the utter chaos outside.

A delicate smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Fortunately for you, you didn’t take after your father.” She then extended one arm, and your gaze followed the swift motion, as an invisible force circled both of you, keeping the majority of the mayhem at bay, with only the occasional breezes and droplets of water passing through. “So long as you stay within the safe zone, no harm shall come to you.”

At last, you take in the image of the woman who looks exactly like your mother once did when she passed away. Not a day younger or older. In fact, you were now around her age, which only served to make the concept of this encounter even harder to grasp.

So much of you was from her, save for the eyes. Those were your father’s. Even though she appeared translucent, it didn’t lessen the pain of gazing at her once again.

“Who are you?”

“Your mother.”

You swallowed hard and balled your fists in defiance. “My mother is dead. Whatever trick this-”

She raised one hand and you fell silent. “I’m a projection of your mind, hence why I look this young. As such, my spirit lingers here and it’s given corporeal form by you.”

Somehow, the answer felt disappointing, even though it was the only logical explanation. Even then… “Why is your spirit here? Why am I here?”

She too was barefoot as she strode around you, keeping her distance. “Let’s just say that I meddled with what I shouldn’t have when I was younger. There are forces here that I cannot explain, nor do we have the time to exhaust such options.”

“Why not?”

More bursts of thunder burst overhead as she placed her hands behind her back, drawing closer with each step she took.

“You’re my daughter and they killed you.”

There was a hint of a sadness in her voice you hadn’t heard in such a long, long time.

And you were reminded of what had led to such a turn of events.

Astarion.

You expected a familiar skip of a beat that always came at the thought of him these days, and then you quickly understood why something felt off. Your heart was still beating, but at a much slower pace nigh imperceptible, to the point you could hardly feel it even when you placed your palm on your chest; your skin was tepid at most, and your breaths were shallow and spaced out.

“You’re fading, but you don’t have to,” she said with the same kindness from your childhood. “It matters only if you wish to go back.”

The proposition took you by surprise, mostly because while there were ways to cheat death, they weren’t cheap or easy to come by, and such graces were seldom handed out freely.

Seeing that you offered no response, she went on, locking eyes with you. “Or you can choose to stay.”

A deep-seated fear had taken root inside you, giving way to despair.

And if there was a chance…

“I want to go back,” you said firmly at once. “This is not living.”

Her expression softened in a way that brought memories of her breaking the news that playtime had prematurely come to an end. “It isn't dying, either. Hence the name Limbo.”

Your nails were digging into the palms of your hands, and you could feel it nearing the point of breaking skin and drawing blood.

“Let me out.”

She now stood so close you could see all the details on her face, and it was as if staring in a mirror. A few freckles dusted across her cheeks and nose and the same tender smile you remember Astarion adoring.

“If only it were that simple, child.”

“Was that what happened to you?” you said, your growing anger nearly bursting at the seams. “When you suddenly dropped dead in front of me? You had a choice and you chose to leave your child?”

For once, she was taken aback, her face twisted in a mix of pain and outrage. “Long before you were born, I made the foolish mistake of seeking answers in worlds that weren’t meant for the mortals, even those who treaded paths of pure magic such as us.”

You waited for her to go on.

Her voice faltered momentarily and she heaved a deep sigh. “I had read about this place and my stubbornness landed me here. At the time, I was pregnant with you, but I didn’t know it yet, and those who rule this place offered a bargain.”

The more she talked, the more it dawned on you that wherever she was headed with this conversation wasn’t a pleasant place, and at this point you weren’t so sure you wanted the answers to the questions you’d asked.

Still, you remained silent, simply crossing your arms.

“Those who come here aren’t offered a way out unless there’s something of value to be traded,” she said. “All those years ago, I was offered a way out if I allowed them to meddle with you.” Her eyes widened in alarm, realising the conclusion you’d immediately drawn. “I only learned about you that day. They knew of my wild magic and how powerful it can be, but there is never a certainty that it’s passed off to an offspring.”

The implication that dangled from her words was enough for you to figure out what was coming next.

She looked at your almost pleadingly, hands brought together close to her neck. “It was either that or I would have remained here and perished, and you along with me. So I agreed with the terms, and they branded you to ensure you’d have wild magic coursing through you.”

You tried to muster any words, but you couldn’t speak. It was too much to digest all at once, especially given the current circumstances.

She made a move as if to grab your own hands, but you immediately pulled back and away from her touch.

For a few seconds, you allowed silence to fall between you two, only occasionally broken by the elements that were trying to break into the safe zone.

“But when I left this place, you took something with you,” she said, curling her arms back against her chest. “Unbeknownst to them at first, but it didn’t take them long to realise they had made a mistake by embedding such power in you.”

Each revelation proved to be worse than the latter. “Took what?”

“Your magic manifested itself even during the pregnancy. I could feel it. Hells, even your father could. It wasn’t normal. I had no answers, but I knew it was related to this place.” She paused and you saw tears outlining her eyes. “You were born and it took all of my own magic to keep yours at bay. All the while I kept searching for a way to sever your connection to this place.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and for a split second you wondered if this wasn’t the work of some cambion merely playing mind tricks on you.

Then, surprisingly, a faint, sad smile settled on her lips. “As expected, they found out about it and I had to trade my life for yours. My magic wasn’t as valuable to them as yours, but it was enough to deter them from you until you one day died, and regardless of whether it was a timeless death or otherwise, you’d end up right here.”

It was all too much to process, and you weren’t sure how to feel about the woman you had mourned for years, wishing every day you had been strong enough to keep her from dying.

“You can loathe me and I expect it,” she went on, voice but a whisper. “But in the end, you can now take advantage of this and get a second chance at life.”

“So I should thank you?”

She shook her head. “No, but you can choose to go back and forfeit the afterlife.”

“So…” you drawled out, half perplexed and half outraged, “is that what you’ve come here to tell me? That I have to trade something off?”

She nodded.

“What is it?”

Before she replied, she took a look around. “The safe zone is shrinking. Time is running out.”

At this point, you were sure that if there was a chance you might go back and live the life that was robbed from you, you would take it.

“What is it they want?” you pressed, feeling yourself grow weaker as the barrier that kept the chaos at bay was now fading with each passing second.

Still not glancing at you, she spoke, “Your magic.”

This time, you did feel your heart skip a beat. “How so?”

Your mother looked you in the eye with that nurturing expression on her face that you adored so much growing up.

“If you go back, you will no longer possess magic,” she said. “If you stay, you can still wield it and learn to roam these lands under their watch. Or…” She paused again, “you can choose to pass on and fade away.”

Drop by drop, it started to pour, and in a few seconds you were drenched from head to toe. An uncomfortable jab in your upper abdomen stirred you from your state of shock.

“You’re bleeding.”

You pressed a hand to the open wound, feeling thunder and fire and water coiling under your skin, wanting to burst free. A quick glance down and you saw rivulets of blood seeping through your fingers.

“Tell me,” she said, closing the gap between you two, and pressing her hand atop yours, “what do you want, child?”

Your vision began to blur and your knees gave up under you.

“I want to live.”

AN: I have taken some liberties with DnD lore in regards to Limbo and healing/wild magic. For plot purposes, and because I believe that's the most fun you can have with DnD! Homebrew your own adventures hehe

Thank you all for the lovely comments and for waiting so patiently. I am still very much in love with this story!

#astarion x tav #astarion #the arrangement #astarion x female tav #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion x f!tav

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