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joshym · 20 hours ago

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Le Morte d'Arthur: Chapter 8 (teaser)

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hi, lovelies.🤍 i know — it's been a bit since you've heard from me. but, here's a little snippet of this next chapter. one of my favorites so far. (& yes, i say that about every chapter. but, i mean it! LOL. when i say this part has been in the works for a long time...yeah.)

this is a little (4k words) of Jake's pov just before/after he's landed in London. &, as i'm sure you've guessed by the header, we'll be introduced to a certain someone in this chapter. someone i've been dying to include for a long ass time.

so, with all of that said, i hope you enjoy this tiny piece of something much larger. 🤍

warnings: allusions to sex, (Chris is a bit of a ladies man) Jake being the dramatic, poetic king we know him to be, (with all the love in the world) mentions of deceased parents/grandparents/end of life, a tiny (& heartbreaking) trip down memory lane

In less than half an hour, I’ll make my descent to a place that has been yearning for me to ground my boots for the better part of my life. The place that, as the tide that separates us would surely have it, will behold the rest of my days.

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Jake’s point of view;

The sky has been my home for more than eight hours now. The silent cathedral of the winds surrounds me. My steel wings catch the silver clouds, gliding me further from the place that bore witness to my pain. The ocean beneath me, a mystery expanding miles and endless miles, lies between my new home and the home that saw me into the man that sits patiently within this metal casing as, reaching its destiny.

And that is as it should be.

Y/n was right – her life isn’t one that can be uprooted by the summon of the wind. How could I expect her to follow a dream that isn’t truly hers? Whether I believe it to be or not is truly of no consequence – if she doesn’t believe it, then it can’t be so. That isn’t how fate works. I can’t place the ocean between her and her pain like I can my own. She has to make that choice, and she won’t allow anyone to decide that for her.

It pains me. It rattles every bone in my vessel to know that I have left her behind, living with a wound thats festering isn’t acknowledged by the one bearing its sting.

She can’t see it the way those around her do – those who surround her with an intent of her best interest.

That aim does not reside in the soul of my younger brother. His vow lies on the surface layer of his skin, collecting the invisible (to him) dust and dander of her pain. It doesn’t sink any further into his being – only to be cleansed from him and given right back to her with a single embrace, a kiss that beckons nothing more than the thrill of further shattering the broken shards of glass that have become my spirit.

A moonlight kiss crushed the parts that had not yet been broken, and I still chased after her. I knew, all too well, that any effort I could make therein after would be one of wasted breath. I can’t be the light that she follows if my light isn’t the one she’s drawn to. If it’s my brother, I must let it be.

But that’s the ache of it – I know her soul doesn’t long for him. She’s led herself to believe that it does. It’s a guard, a barrier she’s built to keep herself from the affections of the man who chose to leave her behind.

She’s read herself that narrative enough that she believes that untruth. And there was nothing more I could do to rewrite her own marrow of the matter before I embarked on my early departure.

I knew I had to do it. And not just for my own sake — she needed me out of her orbit as much as I needed to chase the horizon, to follow the clouds to my next venture. The earlier flight was a choice made with a single breath. No second thought, no first thought. It was the only way. A band-aid that tore the skin as it was ripped off. The sting will last for a long while, and the scar will last even longer.

I miss her.

I miss her more than any one soul could yearn for another. Hers is embedded into mine, stitched where the tattered threads of my upbringing hung loose until she found her way to me.

All the same, she’s the reason for new rips and shreds that can only be sewn back together with her hands.

But, those pieces will heal. Not now, and not anytime soon. I must give father time the reins to let the moments pass by without forcing them to pass by quicker.

Or slower.

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The air feels different. Not in a bad way, yet not necessarily good.

It’s interesting. Air is a universal element. It flows everywhere throughout the entire planet – sustaining us, filling our lungs with life. It has no look, no smell of its own accord. It isn’t created by man, it isn’t tariffed. Yet, it changes. From one side of the globe to the other – it’s not the same air I breathed in Michigan. It’s not the same air my parents breathed when they walked the earth, nor my grandparents when their bodies were above the dirt.

It’s certainly not the same air filling y/n’s lungs at this very moment.

No – it’s simply different.

The eventide moon, its silver light cast upon me while I wait for my ride outside the bustling Heathrow airport…the echoing truth lingering in my bones reminds me that y/n isn’t looking at the moon right now. It’s still daylight in Michigan — there’s no moon to cast the noir sky in a ghostly hue at this hour.

The moon no longer looks at us with the same eyes. Only at different times will we be stationed under its gleam. And that is a truth I’ll have to let time mend. But for now, in these first quiet moments of my boots touching London ground, it cuts a clean slice through my heart.

Different time zones. Different air. Different worlds.

Is there a world worth living in without y/n?

A question I will be forced to find the answer to. An answer I wish I’d never have to search for.

“Oi, you Jacob? Jacob, er, Kiszka?”

Hearing my name brings not only my body, but my mind back to the present time that I’ve placed myself in. Not Michigan time, London time.

And, back to the reality that it’s time for me to settle myself in my new home – a journey that will begin with the taxi driver sent by Oxford to fetch me. I’m just grateful he was warned appropriately of my earlier arrival and showed up, I assume, on somewhat short notice.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say to him. Before I can say much else, this tall, gangly man with a black flat cap is already by my side, gathering my belongings for me. He’s handling nearly every piece of luggage I have in one go, apart from my leather duffle and guitar case that’s still next to my feet. I decide to reach for it – I can’t stand here and let him treat me like royalty. “Thank you sir, but I can certainly manage –,”

“No need,” he interrupts with a joyous disposition, looping two fingers around the handle of the one bag he doesn’t have and stealing it right from my hand with the warmest smile along his age-weathered teeth. “Ain’t no reason you should be carryin’ your own bags. Not when ol’ Georgie’s here to help ya.”

I can tell, without a wandering doubt, that he is happy to be helping me. Georgie is seasoned, tucking all my luggage away inside the boxy black cab so quickly – I’m not sure how he’s done it. A professional, through and through.

“‘Sides, it’s bloody cold out here and I can’t let ya slow me down,” he chuckles, his thick accent far from anything I’ve ever heard from my homestead.

And he’s absolutely correct – it is bloody cold. There’s a new kind of frigid in the air this evening. Well, new to me.

He takes a few steps towards me once more after securing my things in the cab, glaring at my bag and case as if prepared to carry those too. He scoops the leather duffle with ease, but I stop him before he can take the guitar case.

I won’t let him take this one – I can do something. And, beyond that, it’s hard for me to relinquish any hold on my guitar. Even the most unassuming thing, like packing it in the car – I can’t let him do that. Can’t let him touch it. It was my carry on for the flight for a reason.

His wrinkled face scrunches into a knowing smile as I lift the handle. With that, his patent boots shuffle back to the car, tossing the duffle alongside the rest of my things.

“C’mon then, lad,” he says, standing beside the opened back door of the cab. “Let’s get you out of this nip and off to your warm flat. Got about an hour's drive but we’ll g’there in no time.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” I say, scurrying into the car, laying my guitar case flat along the floorboard. He shuts the door behind me and makes his way to the driver’s side – the opposite side of what I’m used to.

Strange. But, the pleasant kind.

“First time to Oxford, yeah?” Georgie asks, swinging the black cab onto the main road. Driving opposite what I would consider normal certainly feels like living life backwards at the moment.

“Yeah, postgrad studies at Magdalen. Literature.”

I have to suppress any desire to shout all the air from my lungs when Georgie takes a sharp left turn onto the next street, nearly toppling the already top-heavy cab onto two wheels. Enough to send my duffle crashing into my side. This fucker is heavy – filled with hardbacks I wouldn’t dare part with.

“Jesus,” I huff though a breathy laugh, gripping the handle above the door with a white-knuckle hold as Georgie takes another harsh turn. To the left this time. My duffle, now crashing against the other end of the backseat.

“Aye, your dig bein’ the Ivy House’ll be perfect for ya,” Georgie beams, impressed and altogether paying no mind to his unconventional means of operating a vehicle. “Proper posh, that is. Ya came to the right place for it, lad.”

Good old Georgie, the generous and awful cab driver – he’s certainly correct.

Under the glow of the moon and the city streetlights, the image of the town is one of pure cinematic beauty. A scene from a classic film depicting the beauty and mystique of a city steeped in centuries. Time has folded in on itself here – it’s as though the city fell asleep in 1800 and never opened its eyes to the modern world.

I reach to pull my phone from my back pocket and snap a few photos of what my eyes are witnessing. Josh will surely appreciate this stunning scene. It may even inspire a short-film or two. Timeless beneath the fog of the night, shining beneath the moon. A place built upon conquest and virtue. I can’t begin to fathom its beauty in the daylight, and I won’t have to wonder for much longer.

I’ve called Josh once already, letting him know I safely crossed over the Atlantic. I promised another ring the second I make it to the house, god willing Georgie doesn’t smash this thing into a building before then.

If it made any sort of sense, I’d let Georgie haul my luggage and I’d walk the rest of the journey to my new home. Allow myself to take it all in, enjoy the nighttime beauty of the cobblestone city, echoing with silent history.

Perhaps then I’d have a better chance of making it there in one piece. I’ve heard these little tires screeching against the pavement more times than I can count. My body has slammed against the door enough that my shoulder bone will surely have a lovely purple spot by sunrise.

Georgie, seemingly unaware (or unphased) by his reckless ways, pulls a Marlboro from his breast pocket and lights it effortlessly with a single hand.

“You’ll be knee deep in books and dead poets,” he wheezes through a puff of smoke that fills the car, a sweet and bitter scent that I’ve found myself craving since I boarded my flight all those hours ago. “But you’ll love it.”

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I’ve knocked on the door, twice now. But, it’s a futile endeavor.

I’ve an overbearing fear that whomever my flatmate is, isn’t here. Or, perhaps he’s asleep.

No matter the details, I’m stuck outside of the Ivy House, freezing my ass off all the while. In the wake of a brutal day of travel, all I long for at this moment is a bed to rest my physical and mental state of utter exhaustion. I realize it’ll take me days, perhaps weeks to settle myself here. But that isn’t a matter I am concerned with at the present moment. I just want to lay my head down on a pillow, rest.

Another knock leaves me fruitless, standing out here like an utter buffoon with the essence of my livelihood – what I deemed significant enough to bring with me – circled around my boots. The handle of my guitar case, of course, is bound fast within my fingers. Worn as the case is, I’d hate for it to sit on the cold concrete any longer than it has to.

This man, my lovely flatmate Chris, has already caused me grievance after fucking grievance. And I’ve not even had the pleasure of meeting the bastard yet. I’ve not been given a phone number, a fucking Instagram handle, for godsakes. All I know is he knew to expect me tonight. He was prepared, just the same as Georgie.

He and his house issues (that have yet to be fully disclosed to me) are the reasons I’m here weeks earlier than previously planned. A discrepancy beyond our hands was the only justification I was offered when I was made aware of the need for me to come early, if I wanted to keep my housing.

I very much do want to keep this housing. The Ivy House is one of the most sought after homes on Oxford property, so I was told. And, that’s just it – it’s a home. Not a dorm, not an apartment. A two bedroom, two bathroom house with every amenity one could ever need for. All in one glorious, old Victorian home. It’s dark, yet the warm glow from the outside lights illuminates the place just enough.

Tucked away beside a quiet cobblestone street, it’s no more than a few minutes’ walk from Magdalen college. Deep red brick, tendrils of decayed ivy, dead from the winters’ cold, clinging to the window frames. The front door is painted a forest green, with a few chips of color missing along the frame. Beautifully exquisite and charming. A home depicted in centuries old tales.

Every home on this block, the very same time-worn, elegant style. The light of day will surely display its beauty all the more.

So, here the hell I am. Weeks early, all for the purpose of being able to keep my place here. (Though, I can’t truly complain. Not about being in London, at least. Getting away sooner rather than later was a favor of divinity.)

If I could just get through the goddam door, I’d certainly feel a lot more at peace. Jesus.

I pound my fist against the hard oak again, and this time, I will not stop until someone comes to my call. “Chris?” I shout, keeping my voice to as dull a roar as possible. I’d prefer not to disturb anyone else on the east end of St. Clements street. “It’s Jake, Chris. Your new roommate from –,”

The creaking hinges squeal as the old door swings open, so abruptly that the motion creates enough wind to blow my hair from my shoulders.

Fucking finally.

“Jacob!” beams the man who tossed open the door. He stands a few inches taller than I do, no more than two or three at the most. A moustache above his thin lips, a patchy goatee on his chin. Shoulder-length hair of the same color that lays a tangled mess on top of his head. So messy, almost as if he…

A woman suddenly comes barreling out of the front door, giggling after planting a kiss to his cheek and shoving her way past me. “Talk to ya later, Chris!” she yells, bolting her way down across the street and walking inside the house directly adjacent from ours. Her own place, surely.

My lips are left agape at the suddenness of it all. Baffled doesn’t quite state it. My hand still rests on the doorframe, fingers curled tight as I try to steady the sudden spinning in my head. My first introduction to my new flatmate – flatmate, not roommate, as I keep reminding myself – comes wrapped in the scent of sweat and sex, a whirlwind that leaves me…well, speechless. No words. None at all.

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate,” Chris chuckles, smoothing the frayed strands of hair that I’m just noticing are sticking to the layer of sweat against his skin. “Had to, uh, take care of some business.”

I match his smile with a quiet one of my own, though I know the truth of it – it’s fake. After traveling, all fucking day, he couldn’t eve offer me the courtesy of letting me inside when I got here? He allowed me to stand out here for more than twenty minutes, so he could get a quick fuck in?

If I wasn’t so goddamn tired, I’d rip right the fuck into him for that. But I haven’t the proper amount of energy to allow for that at the moment. He’ll hear from me later. Right now, I just want to fucking sleep.

“Come on in, mate,” he says, lazy smile still glued to his blushed face. “Welcome to the ol’ dig.”

Another fake smile graces me as I reach for my things, only able to carry one more bag alongside my guitar in my left hand. How Georgie managed all of my things in one go (sans guitar, of course) will forever remain a mystery to me.

Chris leans forward, brow lifting in amusement. “Ah, let me help with tha – aye! You a shredder?”

“A what?” I ask, purely lost on his words. Stuck in the haze of a single thought – getting to my room.

He echos his question once more, but this time with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. It’s only when I take a few more steps into the living room that it dawns on me.

In the far corner of the space rests three guitars on individual stands. A blue Fender Strat, a Gibson Les Paul standard, and…a fucking 1930 National? Holy fuck. Only those most dedicated to the craft own a resonator such as that. A catalyst of the blues, a relic of the Delta – of sweat and dust and songs born from pure heartache. A staple in any place that houses a player who lives in the sweet spot between soul and sorrow.

My tense shoulders drop, breath stuck in my dry throat as I take it all in. The battered wooden floors, the faint scent of last night’s beer lingering in the stale air, the unmistakable aura of a house that lives and breathes music. Amps ad wah pedals, wooden crates of records, stacked nearly to the ceiling on the opposite corner from where I’m standing. And him, standing there with that crooked grin and a wrinkled Muddy Waters shirt, (how did I not notice that?) suddenly no longer the brash asshole who left me in the street.

“Jesus, man,” I utter as I take a closer look, suddenly becoming all too aware of the wrinkled Muddy Waters shirt he’s wearing. He’s a guitarist. “This is astounding.”

“Ya like her?” he laughs, moving closer and nudging the point of his elbow into my side. “She’s been by my side for a decade now. Can’t imagine playin’ without her. What about you, mate? What’s the ol’ girl you bring along, then?”

“Yeah, uh – it’s a Gibson, Gibson SG.”

“Ah, going straight for the throat with that one!” His grin grows even wider, his hand coming down heavy on my shoulder, squeezing tight as if he’s known me for years, not mere minutes. “A man after my own heart, you are!”

He breaths a low chuckle, offering a sly pat to my back. Taking the empty case leaned up against the wall, he opens it and places the 1930 inside.

Then, he takes it and walks past my things, still scattered about the floor, stepping into his own brown suedes sitting by the cracked open front door.

“Aye, Jake — I know it’s a bit sudden, having just met you and all,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a soft grin. “But, I’m playing at a pub down the road tonight, Sandy’s Piano Bar. I know I’ve not heard ya play yet but, I reckon the blues are callin’ us, yeah? Care to steal a jam with me?”

The question hits me straight in the chest, sending a jolt through the marrow of my bones. My fingers’ grip on the guitar case tightens, the worn leather somehow anchoring me in this new world I’ve found myself in.

My instinct, the first word that tickles the tip of my tongue — no.

It’s too soon. Too sudden. Unexpected in every sense of the word. I’ve not found my footing yet. Hell, I’ve not even seen my goddamn room yet.

I’ve not played for anyone since…well, since her. Since Lenny. The mere idea of it — stepping right back into this piece of myself, barring something that I’ve kept safely behind lock and key — it terrifies me.

But, Christ. I can almost hear the whisperings of old songs my dad used to play, the ones he used to teach me the ways of this very instrument. The tunes my grandparents would request, ghosts of chords I’ve haven’t dared to touch in too long.

The song I played for my grandpa as he slipped away from this world — Cross Road Blues. Dads J-45 acoustic carried me through Robert Johnson’s old tune. That very guitar, still at home in Michigan, the only thing left in my almost empty closet.

To this day, no living soul knows that was the song I played for him — the song title he uttered with one of his final, fragile breaths.

Fuck. My stomach is twisting in tight knots. All of the things I thought I was leaving in Michigan…I wasn’t prepared to be confronted with them on my first night away.

Then, as if quieted by a presence much stronger than my own, the blaring, doubtful noise begins to silence itself. And in its place, the voice of my father.

My timid, Jell-o legs carried me across the wooden stage. A crowd of forty or fifty people — it might as well have been a thousand in my ten year old mind. “I’m proud to introduce my boy Jake this evening,” dad announced to a roaring applause, the brightest smile donned his lips as he reached his arm out for me, wrapping me in the kind of hug only he could offer. “He’s a natural, folks. I can’t wait for you to hear him.”

That moment is sealed forever in my memory — my first time playing in front of people who weren’t my family. Not being taught by my dad, playing alongside him. He raved over how proud he was of me, that he knew I was born to play music. But, what he didn’t know — what I wish I’d had the chance to tell him — I was proud to be playing with him. So, so proud.

Every nerve built up within me vanished the instant my dad and I, together as one, strummed the first chords of Petty’s Learning to Fly.

I’d never understood what being a natural meant until that moment. But when my heart flooded through my fingertips, playing a tune my dad and I cherished together, it all made sense.

I’ll never forget what he told me when he handed me the SG. “Don’t ever put this thing down, son. Keep it with you — let its strings play the melodies of your heart.”

I let him down. I did exactly what he told me not to do.

I put it down for a little while after he died, but I put it down almost indefinitely after grandpa died. I let it sit, collecting the dust of wasted time. Until…

Until her. She brought me back. She killed the stagnant version of myself I’d become after so much loss. She is responsible for the death of me — the death of the man who‘s harbored so much despair in his heart. That isn’t the man my parents or my grandparents raised.

And I don’t have her anymore. I’ve lost her, too. Jesus...sometimes, it feels like I've lost everything.

But, there is something I still have — my guitar.

Chris is right — the blues are calling. Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to let them in again.

Without her...

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a/n: sound off, babes! what do we think will happen next? 🤔 this certainly won't be easy for jake but...i think - if he decides to play - it could be a huge healing moment for him. so excited to share the rest with you.

thank you to those of you who have supported/continue to support this story. words will never suffice to express my gratitude — it simply means the world to me. i know this tale won’t resonate with everyone, but to those of you that have found even a semblance of solace through it, please don’t ever be afraid to reach out to me. i’d love to chat with you about this story, about anything. we’re here to build community with one another, & there’s truly nothing that i cherish more. 🤍

see you all soon. 🤍

taglist:

@jakeyt @alwaysonthemend @sacredjake @jakesgrapejuice @misshunnybee @reesetrippingthelight @way-to-go-lad @sinarainbows @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @klarxtr @watchingover-hypegirl @brinlygvf @stardustjake @gretavanbear @devilat-thedoor @literal-dead-leaf @gvf-ficreads @jaaakeeey @capturethechaos @neptune2324 @jaketlove @thetroublegetssoloud71 @myleftsock @sanguinebats @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @joshskittytickler @aflameforgoinghome @heckingfrick @fitalich @starshine-gvf @audgeppp @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @ninas-tearsofrain @torniturntomyarrow @beautifulcrayola @writingcold @welllauragvf @loveisonaroll @itsafullmoon @gretasfallingsky @i-love-gvf @kiszkas-canvas @mackalah @gvfmarge @jordie-gvf @gretavansara @highway-tuna @vikingsisthenewsexy

#jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka fanfiction #greta van fleet fic #le morte d’arthur

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leechaeryeonqs-moved · 11 months ago

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MARK's acrostic poem for ❛ WALK ❜. *other cereal brands are available.

#johnny suh #mark lee #mark #johnny #nct #nct 127 #nct gifs #*mine #tw eyestrain #malegroupsnet #neohours #heymax #userbexrex #useryenas #when i say this had me in pieces. i mean i was collecting parts of myself from all around the house #absolute losers. complete goofballs. i am horrendously endeared by them both #'kelloggs cereal?' johnny when i find u its on sight. put em up we're gonna tussle you big fuckin NERD #hate him <3

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lalo0 · 1 month ago

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INSIDE AESPA EP. 3┃ Still Think I’m Soft?

Male reader x Ningning Word count: 6.8k Tags: facefucking, anal, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2

She didn’t slam the door.

That would’ve been easier.

Karina just stood there. Her hand still on the knob. Eyes on me.

Not on Giselle. Not the bed. Not the scattered clothes or the marks still cooling on her skin.

Me.

I’d never been looked at like that. Not with disgust. Not even with shock.

Just... like she was measuring my worth.

Like she was pulling up a chair in her mind and watching me bleed without touching the knife.

Giselle pulled the sheet tighter around herself. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Her face was flushed, lashes damp, mouth still kiss-bitten. She looked like what she was — someone who’d just been fucked hard and loved every second of it.

And now she was trying to hide it.

Karina’s gaze didn’t move.

I sat there. Half-covered. My breath still uneven. Muscles tensed in places I hadn’t known were still working. My shirt was somewhere on the floor. My jeans, still open. The air was warm, but I felt cold.

“Karina,” Giselle finally said, voice soft. Unsteady. “This isn’t— I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

No answer.

From behind her, I heard another voice. Softer. Curious.

“Is everything okay?”

Another followed. Lighter, with a spark.

Karina stepped forward slightly. Just enough for the other two girls to peer inside.

I didn’t know their names.

But I knew when people were sizing me up.

One of them let out a low whistle. “Huh.”

The other didn’t say anything.

Karina’s voice was level.

She didn’t yell.

Didn’t ask what happened.

Didn’t call security.

Just looked at me like I already didn’t belong here.

And said: "You need to leave."

I looked at Giselle.

She was already standing. Bare feet on the floor. Sheet wrapped around her like a robe, but it couldn’t hide the tension in her shoulders. Or the bruises shaped like fingerprints on her thighs.

“No,” she said. “He’s staying.”

Karina didn’t blink.

“Giselle.”

“I invited him.”

Silence.

The girl who whistled leaned against the doorframe like this was all a performance. The other just watched, unreadable.

Karina’s voice dropped half a degree. "We're not just talking about you room, Giselle. We're talking about this house. About all of us. And you brought a stranger into it like it didn't mean anything."

Giselle’s jaw clenched. “I’m not ashamed of this.”

“Doesn’t mean it was smart.”

Karina didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t scold.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the way she looked at Giselle — like she expected better.

And in the way she looked at me — like I had no business being there.

This wasn’t about sex.

It was about respect.

About the lines you don’t cross when you’re part of something bigger than yourself.

No one moved at first.

Not Karina. Not the two girls flanking her. Not even Giselle, who stood like she was bracing for a slap that hadn’t landed yet.

It didn’t matter that I wasn’t ashamed.

The silence made me feel like I should be.

Karina turned without another word, the door swinging wider as she walked out. The girl who’d whistled followed a beat later, still silent but smirking, like she was filing the whole thing away for later.

The last one lingered.

She looked at me — not like Karina had, not like I was a stain on the rug — but like she was curious. Her head tilted slightly, just enough to let a piece of her hair fall into her eye. She didn’t move it. She didn’t say a word.

And then she left too.

The door stayed open.

I sat there, bare-chested on the bed, trying to remember how to breathe.

Giselle was already moving — collecting my shirt from the floor, tossing it onto the bed like it was a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” she said, without looking at me.

Her voice was sharp. Not angry. Just embarrassed — not at me, but because of the situation.

“You don’t have to be,” I said.

She pulled a hoodie from the back of a chair and tugged it on. Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks still blotchy with sex and tension. Faint bruises were already blooming on her thighs — places I’d gripped too hard, places she hadn’t told me to stop.

She looked like someone who wanted to be anywhere else but here.

I slipped my shirt over my head and stood, grabbing my jeans off the edge of the bed.

“Maybe I should go.”

Her eyes snapped up.

“No.”

Then softer, almost like she regretted how fast that came out.

“I mean… unless you want to.”

I didn’t answer right away. My fingers fumbled with the button on my jeans.

There was a sound down the hall — a door closing. Then another. The house had that strange, eerie quiet big places always had when something loud had just happened.

Giselle exhaled through her nose, pacing. “She wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

“I figured.”

She gave a hollow little laugh. “Of course she’s early. Karina’s always early.”

I sat back on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, waiting for the panic or guilt or even anger to kick in. Nothing did.

“You in trouble?”

“With her?” Giselle asked. “No. Not really.”

She paused.

“But if she decides to make it a problem... I’ll know.”

“You regret it?”

She didn’t answer right away.

She was sitting beside me — not touching, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.

The hoodie she threw on hung off one shoulder, and her hands were curled around the edge of the mattress like she needed to grip something solid.

Then: “No. Not even a little.”

She said it too fast. Like she wanted it out of her mouth before she could change her mind.

I nodded slowly. “Good.”

She glanced at me. “You?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

I met her eyes. “You want me to lie?”

She smiled. Not her flashy stage smile — the real one. Small, unguarded, like I’d caught her off balance and she didn’t hate the feeling.

“That’s the part I wasn’t ready for,” she said softly. “You… not treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re not.”

“Some people act like I am. Like if they say the wrong thing, I’ll cry or call my manager.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Only if I need to.”

That got a laugh out of me.

She bumped her shoulder against mine.

I let it linger.

We sat there for a while, quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. Like the room itself knew something had shifted and didn’t want to jinx it.

Her hand slid across the blanket and brushed mine.

I took it.

Her fingers curled around mine like they’d been waiting for permission.

“I don’t do this,” she said.

“Invite guys into your room?”

“Let them stay.”

I looked at her profile — the way lips compressed when she was unsure, how her gaze kept dancing around the room like it was safer to look anywhere but at me.

“Do you want me to go?”

She hesitated.

“No,” she said. Then, quieter: “But maybe you should.”

“Because of Karina?”

“Because of all of it.”

She looked at me then — really looked — and I saw it: not fear. Not shame. Just the recognition that something real had happened. And real things had a way of changing everything around them.

“This wasn’t how you planned it, was it?”

She looked down. Her fingers picked at the edge of the sheet.

“No. Not really.”

“You mean, it was supposed to be casual.”

“Controlled,” she added.

“You mean you were supposed to be in control.”

She didn’t argue.

I didn’t leave right away.

I thought I would. Get dressed, find the door, disappear before anyone changes their mind.

But I didn’t.

We sat there a few more minutes — her with her legs drawn up and her hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, me with my elbows on my knees, trying not to think too hard about what came next.

Eventually she stood and stretched, the fabric of her hoodie riding up just enough to tease. She caught me looking and didn’t hide her smirk.

“I should get dressed for real,” she said.

I nodded and stood, brushing off my jeans.

“I’ll give you a minute.”

She didn’t say anything, just watched me head toward the door like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop me.

Out in the hallway, it was darker. Quiet.

I didn’t get two steps before someone was there.

Shorter than me. Wide eyes. Long dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail and a silk robe she hadn’t bothered to tie properly.

She was leaning against the wall across from Giselle’s door, arms folded, like she’d been waiting.

We locked eyes.

She didn’t look surprised to see me.

“Hey,” she said, like we were old friends who’d just run into each other in line at the grocery store.

“Hey,” I replied, slower.

She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not very good at sneaking out.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

That got a little grin. “Bold.”

I nodded toward the far end of the hall. “You standing guard?”

“I’m standing.”

“Right.”

We both looked at each other for a second too long.

Then she pushed off the wall and took a few steps closer. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood.

“Just so you know,” she said, voice lower now, “I don’t think you should feel bad.”

“About what?”

“Whatever happened in there.” She glanced toward Giselle’s door. “She’s not stupid. And she doesn’t usually let people in like that.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

Ningning gave a little shrug. “Well. You got past the front gate. That’s something.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

She stopped in front of me. Not close enough to crowd me. Just close enough to see her eyes weren’t as playful as her tone had been.

“You have a name?” she asked.

“Mylo.”

Her lips curved just slightly. “I’m Ningning.”

I nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

She leaned in — not to whisper, just to keep the moment between us.

“You’re already causing trouble,” she said. “Might as well enjoy yourself while you’re here.”

Then she walked past me, back toward her room, not looking back.

The hallway felt colder after she walked away.

I stood there for a few seconds, staring at the space she left behind. Then I turned, walked back to Giselle’s door, and knocked lightly before pushing it open.

She was sitting on the bed with her legs folded under her, now in a fresh pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Hair combed, skin scrubbed, no makeup — just her. The kind of raw, pretty that didn’t need effort.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She nodded, but something in her expression told me she’d been thinking too much.

“I ran into Ningning.”

Her mouth twitched. “Let me guess. She flirted with you.”

“Little bit.”

“She’s shameless.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Clearly.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Giselle looked up, hesitant. “You’ll text me?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She walked me to the door, barefoot. No words this time. Just stood in front of me, fingers playing with the edge of her shirt.

“I liked tonight,” she said.

“Me too.”

Her eyes flicked to my mouth. “Don’t ruin it.”

I smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She leaned in and kissed me. Quick. Soft. Final.

Then she nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room’s second door on the left.”

I smiled. “So I’m not kicked out after all.”

“Not yet.”

She opened the door.

The sheets were too clean.

That was the first thing I noticed when I lay down. Everything smelled like detergent and linen spray and something vaguely floral — nothing human. No warmth. No breath. Just a pristine bed in a house too big for comfort.

I lay there with one arm behind my head, eyes on the ceiling, not really thinking. Or maybe thinking too much. Giselle’s kiss still sat at the edge of my mouth. The way she looked at me — not like an idol, not like someone who knew how to pose for cameras — it stuck.

I heard footsteps.

Soft, then softer. Slowed just before my door.

I didn’t move. I waited.

Nothing.

Then another step — this time toward the guest bathroom. A creak. Running water. Silence.

The door across the hall clicked.

I closed my eyes.

I should’ve stayed in bed. Should’ve slept. Should’ve done anything but what I did.

But I got up.

I cracked the door open just as her light went on — a soft gold spill from the room across the hall. Her door wasn’t shut. Not fully.

And I swear I saw her silhouette pause at the mirror. Then her eyes flicked toward me.

And then?

She walked out of sight.

Leaving the door half open.

I didn’t knock.

I told myself I would. Told myself I’d stay on my side of the hallway, be the respectful guy, the guest with boundaries. But the door was cracked just enough — just wide enough to whisper you can instead of you shouldn’t.

And I stepped inside.

The room was warmer than mine. Not just physically. It had that lived-in feel — cluttered vanity, a hoodie draped over the desk chair, perfume bottles scattered like forgotten glass chess pieces. Her phone was face down, glowing faintly. The music was low, some soft synth line playing under a steady pulse. And Ningning?

She was brushing her hair.

Slow, methodical strokes. Like it wasn’t about untangling anything. Like it was a ritual.

She caught my reflection before I said anything.

“I was wondering how long you’d wait.”

“I wasn’t—”

She looked at me through the mirror. “Yes, you were.”

I didn’t argue.

She kept brushing. “You sleep okay in the showroom guest suite?”

“Haven’t tried it yet.”

Ningning set the brush down and turned on the stool, crossing one leg over the other. Her robe had slid halfway down one shoulder. Not by accident.

“You don’t strike me as the polite house guest type.”

I shrugged. “You left your door open.”

“Did I?”

She stood slowly and padded toward me barefoot, the hem of her silk robe swaying just above her knees. It wasn’t tied shut. Just overlapping at the front, loosely. One wrong movement and it’d fall open.

I didn’t look away.

She stopped in front of me. Close. Not touching. Just hovering at that delicious, unbearable distance.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“You’re not.”

That got a smile. “Fair.”

I waited. I didn’t know what for.

She moved first. Her fingers brushed the hem of my shirt, light and deliberate.

“You already broke one rule tonight,” she murmured. “Might as well break a few more.”

I caught her wrist gently. Not to stop her. Just to slow it down.

“This isn’t a game,” I said.

Her eyebrow arched, amused. “Sure it is.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Her hand twisted in my grip, fingertips sliding up my forearm. “That’s why it’s fun.”

Her other hand came up, palm flat on my chest. She didn’t push. Just let it rest there.

“You’re not mine,” she said, low. “I know that.”

“I didn’t say—”

“But you’re not hers, either.”

I hesitated.

“That’s what makes this okay,” she added, stepping even closer, pressing her body to mine. “We’re not breaking anything. We’re just… seeing what fits.”

Her lips brushed my jaw — a test, not a kiss. Her breath smelled faintly like green tea and strawberries.

“Still thinking?” she whispered.

I didn’t answer.

She pulled back, just a little, and looked up at me. “You can leave. Right now. No hard feelings.”

I didn’t move.

“Or,” she said, fingers sliding down the front of my shirt, “you can stop pretending you don’t want this.”

I kissed her.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of kiss that says I’ve already made my decision. She tasted exactly like she smelled — bright and sweet with something darker underneath, something playful, biting.

Her arms slid around my neck. Mine found her waist. The robe shifted.

“I thought you were the quiet one,” she breathed between kisses.

“Only when I’m not being kissed like that.”

She laughed, and it turned into a moan as I sucked lightly on her lower lip.

Then she pulled back, just a step. Enough to look me over.

“Take off your shirt.”

I did.

She let her eyes roam, open and slow, not shy about it. She stepped forward again and ran her fingers across my chest, down my stomach. Nails dragging. Barely.

“Don’t get shy now,” she teased.

“I’m not the shy one.”

“Oh? You think I’m shy?”

I gave her a look.

Ningning stepped back and shrugged off her robe in one fluid motion. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Not lingerie. Not a bra. Not even a pair of shorts.

Just skin and heat and that cocky little smirk she wore like armor.

“Well,” she said. “Now you know I’m not.”

I stared for a second too long. She knew I would. Her body was smaller than Giselle’s, but just as dangerous — smooth lines, delicate curves, a kind of quiet athleticism that said she could climb you like a rope and make you thank her for it.

She climbed onto the bed without a word.

Then looked back at me, on her knees, hair falling over one shoulder, mouth parted.

“Your turn.”

I stood at the edge, shirt off, hard as hell, pulse drumming behind my ears. She looked at me with her legs folded underneath her, hair slipping down one shoulder. Her nipples were already hard, rising and falling with her breath like she was trying not to pant.

“You're gonna stand there and admire me,” she said, licking her lower lip, “or are you gonna do something?”

I didn’t answer.

I crawled onto the bed.

She gasped when I grabbed her hips and pulled her forward in one clean motion, forcing her to lie back. Her head landed on a pillow, eyes wide but hungry. My mouth met hers hard — no teasing, no soft warm-up. Tongues colliding. Teeth scraping. Her moan vibrated against my lips as my hand slid between her thighs and pressed.

“F—fuck—yes,” she breathed, hips lifting into my palm.

Wet didn’t even begin to cover it. She was soaked. Dripping. Her legs opened wider without me asking, one hand gripping the sheets like she needed something to anchor her.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” I said into her mouth.

She nodded fast, whining a little. “Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

My fingers slid through her folds, and she choked out a moan, already squirming.

“You like it messy?”

She didn’t answer — just bucked her hips again.

I kissed her neck, dragging my teeth along her collarbone, and pressed one finger inside her pussy. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then—

“Aghh—ahh! F-fuck, yes…”

I pumped once, twice, watching her unravel with just my hand. Her hips rolled like she couldn’t decide if she wanted more or was already overwhelmed.

“Another,” she gasped. “Give me another—fuck—yes—there—right there—”

I added a second finger and curled them just right. Her back arched. Her thighs trembled.

She reached for me blindly, nails scratching down my back, pulling me close enough that her breath hit my cheek.

“I want your cock so bad—please, please—just—God—”

I pulled my hand away.

“No—!”

She whined, actual frustration in her voice.

“I didn’t say stop…”

“You didn’t say please.”

“I did—!” she gasped. “Twice—fuck—please, please—”

I reached down and grabbed a pair of panties from the floor. Light blue, still warm, still damp. I balled them up and brought them to her mouth.

“Too loud,” I said.

Her eyes widened, then darkened.

And she opened her mouth.

I stuffed the panties in slowly. She moaned behind the gag, lips closing over the fabric as her hips rolled against the air, searching.

“Good girl,” I said, kissing her jaw. “You’re gonna stay quiet now.”

She nodded — barely — and I could see her trying to breathe through her nose, flushed from the buildup, thighs squeezing together.

I pulled back just enough to admire the view.

Ningning. Spread open. Gagged with her own panties. Dripping wet and twitching under me like she was wired to explode.

“You ready for it?”

She moaned against the gag. Nodded hard.

“Don’t cum until I tell you.”

Her eyes rolled.

And then I slid down the bed, hands pushing her legs apart, breath brushing her soaked cunt — tongue about to meet heat.

I didn’t ease into it.

The second my tongue met her, she convulsed — thighs twitching, toes curling, a desperate muffled moan vibrating behind the panties stuffed in her mouth. I flattened my tongue against her clit and dragged it slow, deliberate, from bottom to top. She clenched hard.

Her taste was perfect. Salty-sweet, slick, fever-hot. Her pussy was already swollen, soaked, begging. And I hadn’t even used my fingers again yet.

She whimpered behind the gag — soft, choked, and feral.

I reached up and pressed a hand flat against her stomach, holding her down as she tried to grind against my mouth. Her hips had no rhythm now — just jerks of raw need. Her body couldn’t decide if it was trying to run or pull me deeper.

She tried to say something behind the gag. Couldn’t. Just a desperate, high-pitched moan.

I circled her clit with the tip of my tongue, then flicked harder — faster. I didn’t stop. I didn’t let up. She was panting through her nose like she couldn’t take it.

Then she started crying — not sobbing, not pain. Just overstimulated tears that spilled sideways from the corners of her eyes.

Her whole body writhed.

She was right on the edge.

And I didn’t stop.

I locked my arms under her thighs and kept eating. Tongue lapping, lips sucking, eyes locked on the way her stomach kept twitching under me. Her muffled voice was wrecked now — whines and moans bleeding together, hands clawing the sheets, one leg jerking involuntarily every time I sucked hard.

She tried to shake her head. I looked up.

Her eyes were wide. She was trying to tell me something.

I reached up, pulled the gag gently from her mouth.

She gasped the second it came out, chest heaving.

“C-Can I cum?” she begged. “Please, please—Mylo, fuck—please let me—”

Her voice broke.

I growled against her pussy, then nodded once.

“Do it.”

She shattered.

Her scream ripped from her throat as her thighs locked around my head. Her back arched clear off the bed, hips bucking like she was being electrocuted. Her pussy clenched and throbbed, gushing against my tongue — so wet I could feel it drip down my chin. Her hands tangled in my hair like she couldn’t tell if she was trying to pull me off or keep me there forever.

“AHH—ahh—fuck, fuck, I’m cumming—!”

I didn’t stop.

I kept licking. Slower. Then faster again.

Her scream cut off into choked moans — then laughter, then moaning again, her voice completely undone.

“Ohmygod—oh fuck—stop, I—I can’t—”

I didn’t stop.

She started shaking.

Her hips lifted — then collapsed — then lifted again.

“No—no—fuck—too much, too much—!”

Her body betrayed her. Another orgasm slammed into her out of nowhere — a second wave she didn’t see coming.

She sobbed through it.

And I kept going.

I pulled back only when she physically tried to crawl away from me — legs twitching, voice wrecked, pussy throbbing and red and soaked.

I crawled up her body, licking my lips.

She was breathless.

Hair tangled. Face flushed. Drool at the corner of her mouth. Her nipples were stiff, her chest heaving, and her thighs still trembled.

“Y-You’re a fucking psycho,” she whispered, half-laughing.

I smiled.

“You’re not done.”

She turned her head slowly. Met my eyes.

Then smirked.

“No,” she said. “You’re not done.”

She pulled one leg up, bent at the knee. Her fingers slid behind her, teasing herself — then stopping just long enough to say:

“Do me here.”

I blinked.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip. “I want you in my ass.”

I didn’t move.

“I want to feel all of you,” she whispered. “Stretch me out. Use me. Don’t be gentle.”

Then she grabbed her panties from where they were still damp on the sheets.

Smiling, breathless, glowing.

“I’ll need these.”

She said it with a smirk, voice rough and breathless, holding out her damp panties like she was giving me a challenge. Her legs were still trembling, her chest flushed, lips parted with that smug, post-orgasm haze painted all over her.

I took them from her hand.

But instead of turning around for me — instead of staying soft, pliant, desperate — she rolled onto her side and gave me a look. A raised brow. That same spark from earlier, only sharper now. Hungrier. Dirtier.

“You’ve got no idea what to do with me, do you?”

I blinked once.

She tilted her head, dragging her nails across her thigh, slow and deliberate.

“That little tongue act? Cute. Real cute. And maybe that sweet-boy edge works on Giselle, but me?” She ran her fingers between her legs, deliberately collecting the slick I’d left there, then licked them clean while holding eye contact. “I need more than a guy who thinks making me cum twice is enough.”

I didn’t speak.

“Thought you were dangerous,” she added, voice soft and mocking. “Right now, I feel like I should pat your head and call you adorable.”

That did it.

I grabbed her by the hips and yanked her hard, dragging her onto her stomach. She yelped, legs kicking instinctively, but she didn’t resist — not really. Not when I shoved her thighs apart. Not when I spread her ass and let that second of silence stretch.

She was soaked, still twitching. Her cunt glistened. Her asshole clenched when the air hit it.

“You sure you want this?” I asked low, voice near her ear as I leaned over her.

She grinned into the sheets.

“Break me.”

I poured lube straight down the middle of her, cool and slick. She gasped, just once, and then pressed her hips back against my hand. Shameless. Eager.

“You gonna take it like a good girl?” I muttered, lining up behind her.

She looked back over her shoulder, eyes gleaming.

“I’m not a good girl.”

I shoved the panties between her lips.

“Then shut up and take it.”

She groaned — deep, needy — and her hips twitched the moment the head of my cock touched her. I pushed forward slowly at first, watching her face, her body, the little flinch of resistance.

And then I didn’t wait.

I pushed all the way in.

Her scream was muffled by her own panties, loud and broken. Her hands clawed at the sheets, body bucking underneath me as I buried myself inside her tight, tight ass.

“Ffff—fuck—mmmph—!”

I stayed deep for a second, feeling the way she clenched around me. Then I pulled back — almost all the way — and slammed into her again.

Her body jolted.

Again.

And again.

Harder. Rougher. Her ass rippled with every thrust, every slap of skin echoing through the room. She moaned into the gag, messy and half-strangled, drooling now, her face wrecked and twitching.

She tried to push back against me — match my pace — but I grabbed her wrists, pinned them to the bed above her head, and really started to fuck her.

Brutal.

No rhythm, no mercy. Just sound. Just flesh.

She couldn’t form words anymore.

Only screams.

Only sobs.

Her legs started to give out. Her face smashed into the pillow. Her body trembled violently with every thrust. But I didn’t stop.

I was going to ruin her like she’d fucking asked.

And she was loving every second of it.

Half-screaming into the panties stuffed in her mouth, drool running down her chin, her entire body trembling under me like every nerve had been lit up and exposed. Her wrists strained against my grip, but not to escape — just reacting, raw and helpless, twitching under the weight of every thrust.

Her ass was red now, every slap echoing. My cock slammed into her with no softness left, just wet heat, friction, and tight, relentless pressure. I was buried to the hilt every time. She took it. Every inch. Every time.

And she didn’t stop moaning.

Not once.

She was gasping around the gag like she needed air between sobs, but her hips still pushed back on instinct. Her cunt was soaked — dripping onto the sheets — and every time I bottomed out, her body clenched again like she was trying to milk me from both ends.

She was shaking violently.

Her legs twitched. Her toes curled. Her arms gave out and her face dropped to the pillow. Her back arched like she was being held in place by invisible strings.

Still, I didn’t stop.

I grunted as I leaned forward, yanked the panties from her mouth, and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up.

“You still think I’m soft?”

She tried to speak. Nothing came out but a broken sound — part laugh, part sob.

I slowed down just enough to let her catch one word.

“More.”

It wasn’t even a whisper. It was a prayer.

I growled and pulled out.

She collapsed face-first, moaning when I let go of her wrists. Her whole body quivered. Her ass stayed high, begging. Her pussy was glistening and wide open, twitching like it hadn’t been touched in hours, even though it had just been flooded with her own juices and my cock rubbing past it.

I pushed her flat onto her back. She groaned — too limp to help me move her, but not resisting. I kissed her once — slow, rough — and grabbed her thighs.

“You want more?”

She nodded weakly. Then smirked.

“Don’t slow down now.”

Her voice was wrecked, hoarse, scratchy with use — but that smile. That cocky little curl.

She wasn’t broken.

Not yet.

I caught the glint of something on the nightstand drawer- a small toy, black and sleek, the switch already worn from use.

I spread her legs, grabbed the vibrator on the drawer and turned it on. The hum was low. She flinched when I pressed it to her clit.

“No—no—fuck—” she gasped, laughing like she couldn’t believe it. “Mylo—Jesus—oh my God—”

She screamed.

There wasn’t a better word for it. Just a ragged, full-body cry as her pussy clenched around me again — hotter, wetter, tighter than before. Her legs locked around my waist and her nails clawed my back, but I didn’t stop moving.

“You’re insane—ahh! Fuck, I’m gonna cum—don’t—don’t—don’t stop—”

I didn’t.

She came again.

Hard.

Her body jerked. Her voice cracked. Her whole core clenched like she was trying to push me out and pull me deeper all at once.

I felt her break.

Her arms went limp. Her hands slapped against the mattress. Her eyes rolled back for half a second, and a drool thread slipped from her open mouth.

She moaned like she couldn’t help it.

Again. And again.

And then?

She laughed.

This breathless, dizzy little laugh.

“Still think I can’t take it?” she choked out.

I slowed.

Then pulled out.

She blinked — dazed.

“What—?”

I grabbed her by the jaw. Lifted her chin. My cock pressed against her lips.

“Open.”

She blinked again.

Then smiled — half-wrecked, all heat.

Her mouth opened slowly, still catching her breath, eyes half-lidded and lips glistening from moans and drool. I gripped my cock at the base, slid the tip across her bottom lip, and watched her tongue dart out like instinct.

She wasn’t broken.

She was starving.

I didn’t slide it in gently.

I pushed past her lips, past her tongue, to the back of her throat.

She choked once — a reflex — but didn’t pull away. She looked up at me with tears brimming, gagging around the thickness like it was nothing new.

I groaned. “That’s it.”

I grabbed a fistful of her hair, both hands now, and started thrusting — short, controlled strokes at first, then deeper. Sloppier.

Her moans vibrated around me, low and wet, her jaw flexing as her spit ran down my length. Her eyes didn’t close. She stared up at me while I used her mouth like it belonged to me.

Then I said it:

“Touch yourself.”

Her brows twitched. Her hands slid down.

“Yeah,” I growled. “Rub that ruined little pussy while I fuck your throat.”

She obeyed.

I felt it before I saw it — her body shifting slightly, hips squirming, legs twitching. Then her moan turned desperate. Higher. Faster.

“Good girl,” I muttered.

Her eyes rolled back as I pushed deeper, forcing her nose to my skin. She gagged, eyes fluttering, and I pulled back just enough to let her breathe before I rammed in again.

Again.

And again.

Her spit coated my shaft, dripping down her chin, mixing with the mess already painting her face. Her fingers moved faster between her legs now — wild and sloppy — and every time I bottomed out in her mouth, her thighs flexed.

“You want to cum?” I asked, hips slamming forward again. “Make yourself cum. I want to feel you fall apart while you choke on me.”

She whimpered, barely audible, her throat full.

I didn’t stop.

Her nails dug into her thighs. Her legs trembled. Her moans grew frantic, desperate little gulps of air between strokes. Her whole body jerked when I stayed deep just a second longer.

Then she started to twitch.

Her thighs clenched.

Her pussy clenched around her fingers.

She was cumming.

Sobbing and choking around my cock, her whole body writhing as she came for the fourth — fifth? — time tonight. Her scream was trapped inside me. Her lips sealed around the base. Her eyes rolled back.

I was close.

I gripped her hair tight and let go — thrusting deep, staying there.

“Fuck—take it—take all of it—”

I came hard.

Down her throat.

Hot, thick, pulse after pulse, and she took it — moaning as I filled her, drool and cum leaking from the corners of her mouth, her body still twitching, her hand still working her pussy like she couldn’t stop.

When I pulled out, she gasped once — then let her tongue loll out, panting, face soaked and wrecked.

I dropped to my knees and kissed her.

Hard.

Tasting myself. Tasting her. She moaned into my mouth, and I felt her legs give out.

We sank down together — breathless and shaking, sprawled across the sweat-damp sheets, skin to skin and fucked clean out of words.

And just before she drifted off — eyes fluttering shut — she mumbled it.

“Mylo…”

Then, softer.

“Goddamn.”

I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I woke up to her laughing.

Not loud. Just this low, breathy giggle, like she was trying not to move too much but couldn’t help herself.

She was lying sideways across the bed, one leg thrown over mine, face buried in a pillow, bare ass peeking from under a sheet. Her hair was tangled, lips shiny and pink, and when I shifted, she blinked slowly like she’d forgotten I was real.

“That was you,” she murmured. “Huh?”

I rubbed my eyes. “You're just figuring that out?”

“No,” she said, yawning. “Just processing.”

She flopped back beside me, arm stretching over her head.

“Damn,” she whispered. “I thought I was gonna break you.”

I snorted. “You tried.”

“I succeeded.” She poked me in the ribs. “You were shaking at one point.”

“You were sobbing.”

“You gagged me!” she laughed.

“You handed me the gag.”

She smiled, smug and satisfied. “I know. And I stand by that decision.”

The room was quiet again for a beat. She curled up beside me, head nudging into the crook of my shoulder, like it was a habit she hadn’t realized she had.

I ran my fingers slowly down her back. She hummed at the touch.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Better than okay,” she said. “Just… quiet.”

Her hand moved to my chest, resting flat.

“People always think I’m loud,” she said. “Like, nonstop. Funny. Bubbly. That’s what they want, you know? The energy.”

I stayed quiet.

“But I like quiet, too,” she added. “Like now. After.”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

She looked up at me. “Do you always fuck people like that?”

“Like what?”

She laughed again. “Like you’re trying to prove a point.”

I didn’t answer.

She traced slow circles on my chest.

“I liked it,” she said. “Just so we’re clear. You’re not in trouble.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Mmhm.”

Another beat.

“Do you think Karina heard anything?”

I blinked. “I—what?”

“I mean, her room’s down the hall.” She stretched her arms above her head. “And I was loud.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“She’ll pretend she didn’t. But she’s definitely going to say something passive-aggressive at breakfast.”

I groaned and dragged a pillow over my face. Ningning cackled.

“She’ll be fine,” she said. “Eventually.”

“Right. Because she loves me.”

“No. She doesn’t.” Ningning rolled onto her side. “But that’s not your fault.”

I peeked at her under the pillow.

“She’s under a lot of pressure,” Ningning said, tone softer now. “She has to be the leader, the oldest, the one who keeps it all together.”

She paused.

“People forget that it takes a toll.”

I stayed quiet. Let her keep going.

“She’s always expected to protect everyone. Keep us moving. Carry the image, the team, the weight. But nobody ever really stops to think…”

She trailed off.

“To think what?” I asked.

Ningning’s gaze flicked toward the ceiling.

“Who protects her?”

It sat heavy and quiet in the room, louder than her laughter, more grounded than her teasing.

After a moment, she sighed, shifting so her cheek rested on my chest again.

“You should go soon,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” I said.

Neither of us moved.

I dressed quietly.

Ningning didn’t move much — just curled deeper into the mess of blankets, her breath soft and even, one arm tucked under her head like she’d melted into the bed. She was flushed, glowing, hair fanned out on the pillow like the aftermath of a storm.

For a second, I didn’t want to leave.

I pulled my shirt over my head and watched her shift slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible. Her lips parted, then closed again.

I grabbed my jeans. Shoes in hand.

Careful.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in low amber light from the sconces. Quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful — the kind that felt like it was watching.

I crept down the hall, heart beating faster than I wanted it to. Not fear, exactly. Just awareness. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this hallway, not on this floor, not in this part of the story.

I paused at the top of the stairs.

The house was beautiful in the dark. Expensive without being loud. Sculpted. Stylish. But sterile, too. Like every piece had been approved by a manager and a stylist before it earned a place on the shelf.

Like nothing here belonged to them. Not really.

I started down.

Halfway to the landing, my phone buzzed.

I flinched. Fumbled it from my pocket.

Giselle.

A text.

The last thing she’d sent: "Tell me if you leave?”

I stared at it.

Then I looked away.

I kept moving.

The front door came into view. I reached for the handle — paused when I caught my reflection in the glass.

Shirt rumpled. Hair a mess. Lips swollen. Scratches across my neck.

No hiding what happened.

The guilt wasn’t sharp. Not a stab. Just a slow curl in my chest. A twist.

Giselle and I weren’t anything. No promises. No label. But there had been… something.

Connection.

I hadn’t forgotten it.

I just hadn’t known what to do with it.

I stepped outside.

Cool air hit my face. Night still hanging low. The stars blurred into the city haze and the wind carried just a hint of jasmine from the garden. I breathed it in and closed the door gently behind me.

The driveway was empty. The gates were still open.

I walked.

No noise. No music. Just the sound of my shoes on pavement and the thoughts I didn’t want to hold onto:

Giselle’s hand in mine. Her voice. Her breath in my ear when she told me she wanted me again.

The way she looked when I kissed her goodbye at the door.

I wasn’t sure what I’d say if she asked.

If she looked at me with that half-smile and said, Did you miss me?

I didn’t know.

But I was starting to wish I had.

A woman’s voice pulled me back. Soft. Familiar.

Across the street, a mom was helping her kid into a carseat. Brushing the hair from his face.

“Come on, sweetie. It’s for our own good, remember?”

My stomach twisted.

I stopped walking.

The words echoed in a different voice. One I hadn’t heard in years.

"It’s for our good, okay?" My mother. Not looking at me. Not meeting my eyes. The hallway light yellow and sick. A man in a suit smiling at me. An envelope changing hands. The click of a door closing. The sound of a zipper.

I blinked.

Came back.

The woman was gone. Just taillights now. Fading around a corner.

I breathed out and rubbed at my face with both hands.

Kept walking.

I didn’t know where I was going.

But it wasn’t away from her.

Not anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED... PART 4

#ningning smut #aespa #aespa smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #male reader

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prythianpages · 8 months ago

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A Light That Never Goes Out | Azriel

Azriel x Rhysand's sister (reader) | The aftermath of Azriel kissing you in front of everyone in the Court of Nightmares.

warnings: angry Rhys, angry High Lord, brief mention of Tamsand, mating bond snapping

word count: roughly 3K, around 3.5K if you read the bonus scene

a/n: This is a part two to this but can be read as a stand alone. I had fun writing this but I worry this sounded better in my head. I was tempted to turn this into a crack fic bc of this trending tiktok sound.

Azriel kisses you, consequences be damned. His hand slides from yours to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer. You kiss him back with the same intensity, years of longing and love pouring into this single moment. Your mind and thoughts tangling with his, the bond between you surging with emotion. Desire and hope. He’s still in disbelief that tonight was the first night he told you he loved you.

But in truth, Azriel had been telling you all along—in every glance, every touch, every kiss that held more than words ever could.

Azriel’s shadows recoil as the two of you pull apart, breathless. The Court of Nightmares had faded away, the two of you lost in each other. It’s just you and him, as it is meant to be…Until the distinctive footsteps of your father approaching echoes throughout the ballroom. Your eyes are wide, too many emotions swirling within their depths.

But Azriel is relieved that regret is not one of them.

“Azriel.”

The High Lord’s voice is calm and collected but the fury flickering in his violet eyes is unmistakable. He stands no more than two feet away, the authority radiating from him as cold as it is absolute. Beside him, Rhysand watches, his expression unreadable.

Your father lifts a hand, wisps of darkness and starlight spilling from his fingertips. The orchestra resumes under the silent command and driven by some invisible force, the guests resume dancing and drinking. As if nothing had happened.

“Come with me,” your father says, his tone leaving no room for argument. His command is directed solely at Azriel. “I’d like to have a word.”

You try to hold on to Azriel, to keep him close, but he slips his fingers from yours, bowing his head in quiet submission to your father. Without another word, he follows after him. And though his command had been directed solely at Azriel, the weight of the situation falls on the both of you.

So you step forward, determined to follow after them. But just as you step outside the ballroom, Rhysand grasps your arm, forcing you to a stop.

“You stupid, foolish…,” his voice trails off in frustration. “What have you done?”

You spin on him, eyes flashing with anger as you yank your arm out of his hold. “What have I done? What about what have you done? Planning marriage alliances behind my back? Like I’m some pawn on your chessboard?”

Rhysand’s gaze softens for a brief moment. “Y/n, I–”

“No.” You interrupt sharply, starlight beginning to swirl from the fingertip you point at him. You don’t want to hear his excuse, whatever justification he thinks will make this right. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Cassian and Mor making their way toward you, slipping through the dancing couples and out of the ballroom.

The starlight seeping from your fingertip glows brighter, ready and poised to attack. However, it’s your words you speak into his mind that make the blow instead.

“You know, if you love that runt from Spring so much, why don’t you marry him yourself?”

Rhysand’s eyes widen, his brows furrowing as the meaning of your words hit him. The revelation that you know his secret. Where he’d sneak off to some nights. Why the scent of crisp rain and earth lingered on him when he’d return. You and Azriel had pieced it together after Cassian had mentioned that his book on Illyrian training and methods suddenly went missing. Given your secret, you and Azriel had kept that information to yourselves, waiting for the moment Rhysand would feel comfortable to tell you himself.

It takes him a moment to regain his composure, for his gaze to harden again. His lips curl into a snarl–a warning. “Y/n.”

He leans in forward but you take a step back and winnow away, only one thing on your mind. Finding Azriel.

The walk to the High Lord’s private office in the Court of Nightmares is silent but the sense of foreboding is nearly deafening. Azriel is tense, his shadows quiet and burrowing into his leathers. Too many possibilities and consequences storm through his mind, each one more damning than the last.

Does he regret kissing you in front of everyone? No.

That kiss was the first honest, uninhibited thing he’d allowed himself to do in years. It was freeing, exhilarating to be able to show everyone, especially the sons of Spring and Autumn that you were his and he was yours. He could face death for this—for touching the High Lord’s daughter. For kissing you so openly, so brazenly, in front of the entire court.

But why? Why should it be so wrong for him to love you? Because of his birth? The scars of his past that marked him as unworthy? He’s served loyally. Bled for this court.Tortured for this court.

He’s watched from the shadows as lords and sons, full of false charm, have circled you like vultures, eyeing you as nothing more than a prize to be claimed. And yet, when he—who knows you, who cherishes you—shows his love, it is considered a crime.

It isn’t fair. But Azriel has never been afforded fairness.

The heavy doors to the High Lord's office swing open with a wave of his hand, and Azriel steps inside. The air is thick with tension, and every muscle in his body tightens. The High Lord gestures for him to sit, but Azriel bows his head, respectfully declining. Standing feels safer. Less vulnerable. He wonders if his refusal will anger the High Lord further, but the single shadow curling at his ear reports no rising fury.

He can feel the weight of the High Lord’s gaze—it’s heavy, scrutinizing, like the cold press of a blade against his skin. He keeps his eyes forward, even though his heart pounds in his chest. If there’s punishment to be had, Azriel will accept it.

The High Lord moves to his desk, positioned beneath an oculus, where moonlight spills through and dances across his features. He gazes up at the starlit sky as if searching for answers—or perhaps, waiting.

“Normally, this is the part where people like you should be begging for forgiveness, for a way to rectify your mistake.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens. “I haven’t made a mistake.”

“No?” The High Lord’s gaze snaps back to him, piercing as if he could peel away Azriel’s very skin to lay bare his soul. Azriel wonders, for a brief moment, if your daemati powers had been inherited from your father. Could the High Lord see into his mind, his thoughts? Have kept this power to himself all these years as a secret weapon?

“You sound so sure of yourself,” the High Lord continues, his tone sharpening. “Tell me, how long has this... affair been going on?”

“For decades.” Azriel admits, knowing that there was no use in lying. The truth was already written in the way he kissed you, in the way he looked at you as you broke away from the kiss.

“For decades?” The High Lord repeats, his expression darkening, violet eyes narrowing. “You took my daughter’s first dance tonight of all nights.”

Azriel’s silence says everything. Both of them aware that Azriel had taken more than dances, more than a kiss.

“You’ve taken her innocence. You’ve ruined her…” The High Lord continues to seethe in that cool, unnerving tone.

Azriel’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for his dagger. Not to defend himself, but because it’s his only comfort in moments like these.

But this is not a battle to be fought with daggers or swords. This is a battle of love, of politics, of status. One he’s had no training for yet one he’s willing to fight. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d fight against all odds.

“Whether she marries Spring or Autumn, she will become a lady of the highest esteem and forge a strong alliance with my court. Laden with all the riches and wonders only a High Lord can offer. What can you offer? You don’t even have a proper last name to give her, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel swallows thickly, the weight and shame of his low-born status crashing into him like the violent current of Illyria’s river. It feels like he’s sinking under it, drowning in it. He knows he can’t offer you what any son of Spring or Autumn could. He had reminded you of that—again and again.

It’s as if you can feel his doubts creeping back in, the poison of guilt and worthlessness seeping in. Your presence—soft, warm, and steady—enters his mind. You bring forth the memory you had shared with him moments ago on the dance floor again.

“I can’t give you much,” his voice had dropped to a whisper, barely a rasp as he leaned his forehead against yours. His nose brushed against yours, his lips hovering just over your own. “But I can give you everything I have.”

“That’s all I’ll ever need,” you had replied, the words echoing now in his mind, like an antidote to the venom of doubt. That’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all—

“I asked you a question, Azriel.” The High Lord’s sharp voice cut through the memory, yanking him back to the cold, oppressive reality of the Court of Nightmares. “What can you offer in exchange for my daughter?”

Azriel’s knees buckle beneath him before he even realizes it. He drops to the floor, bowing his head low. His shadows stir, swirling around him in a frenzy, urging him to stand. To stop him.

“My life.”

“Your life,” The High Lord muses. He lets out a dark, humorless chuckle. “You love my daughter enough to give your life for her?”

“Yes,” Azriel says, his voice firm and steady, even as his shadows coil tighter around his arms, trying to pull him back from this path. But he stays rooted to the floor. His life, his soul—it all belongs to you anyway. What was it worth, if not to protect you? To be yours?

The High Lord’s eyes narrow as he studies the swirling shadows, dark and restless, wrapping themselves around Azriel’s form. Shadowsingers are rare. Their power is precious. They can see and hear things others can’t. The only known living one kneels before him now.

Despite his low born status, the Shadowsinger had also proved himself a formidable, Illyrian warrior. A Carynthian. It’s why he appointed Azriel as the Night Court’s spymaster.

And now this powerful and strong male is offering his life.

To have a Shadowsinger as his spymaster is rare, a gift in itself. To have Azriel’s loyalty, his strength, his skills bound by magic for life. A weapon of mass destruction, at his beck and call. No room for betrayal, no worry over him leaving his court for another.

All in exchange for your hand in marriage?

Now, that sounds like a deal.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, voicing his consideration. He could give Azriel a title, raise him from his bastard status. At his will, darkness begins to rise from the floor. The power of the bargain hovers in the air between them, ready to etch itself into both their skins.

Azriel finally lifts his head, meeting the High Lord’s eyes with no fear. Only the light of determination. He is willing to give his life to your father if that’s what it takes to be by your side.

The cloud of darkness begins to separate, its dark tendrils moving toward him, the binding magic poised to seal his fate, to chain him to this bargain for the rest of his life.

But before it can touch his skin, before the deal can be made, a bright light erupts in the room. A sharp hiss escapes the darkness as it recoils, retreating back into the shadows where it had come from. Azriel’s own shadows seem to shudder in relief.

Both Azriel and the High Lord’s heads snap toward the source of the light. You stand at the doors, your eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears, your hands glowing with pure, raging starlight.

“No!” you cry, the word trembling on your lips as you step forward, the glow around you growing even brighter.

Your eyes lock with Azriel’s and something tightens in his chest, crawling up his rib cage. It’s sharp and breathtaking. His hand grabs at his chest and yours does the same.

”He will not be your slave,” you say, turning to your father with the same determination flashing in your eyes. “There has to be another way.”

The High Lord’s features morph into a scowl. “Another way? My star, he is a bastard—”

“I love him!”

That tightening in his chest finally snaps and Azriel’s breath catches. He feels that light in your eyes, perfectly reflecting the one in his. It sears into his soul, as fierce and unrelenting as the starlight glowing from your hands.

Your father doesn’t notice the shift in the air, the change in Azriel’s posture, in his chest. Or in yours.

“You think that means anything?”

Azriel’s shadows whisper a warning into his ears, of an oncoming raging darkness. Different but similar to the High Lord’s. He barely hears his shadows, too focused on you, on the bond thrumming between you. His mind is consumed with you.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

“You and mother—” you begin.

“Do you think your mother and I love each other?” The High Lord interrupts sharply, his voice cold and cutting. He breaks out into a laugh.

Azriel snaps out of his trance. Anger flares within him at the shock, the devastation that takes over your features. He watches as you shrink back slightly, his instincts roaring to protect you from any harm, whether verbal or otherwise.

Because he’s your mate. Because he loves you.

“You think I would marry your mother, a low born seamstress by choice? What your mother and I have is different. It’s complicated. A special bond. One that gave me Rhysand and you and–”

A sound like thunder crashes through the room, reverberating off the stone walls as darkness swells in every corner. One moment, Azriel is on his knees. The next, he’s slamming into the cold marble floor, the force of Rhysand’s power pinning him down. Tendrils of Rhysand’s darkness coil around Azriel’s form, fighting with the shadows that instinctively rise to defend him.

“How long?” Rhysand's violet eyes blaze as they burn into Azriel.

“And I am beginning to think you both are nuisances to my existence rather than gifts...” The High Lord mutters followed by an exhausted sigh.

“How long have you been fucking my sister?” His words are a snarl as he slams Azriel harder into the floor, advancing toward him with clenched fists.

“Rhysand!” You let out a cry, rushing to the two males to separate them.

Your brother whips around, his anger igniting into something fiercer at the sight of you. “Stay out of this!” he snaps, his hand raising. He’s too angry, too heated. So much that he doesn't even notice the force of darkness he aims your way.

Rhysand’s magic hits you hard, knocking the breath from your lungs. A choked gasp escapes as you stumble backward, struggling to keep your footing. A burst of bright sapphire explodes from each of Azriel’s siphons, a deep and low growl rumbling from his chest. He breaks free from Rhysand’s magic, standing to his feet. His wings flare behind him, shadows swirling like a storm.

The look in his hazel eyes is nothing short of feral, dark and ancient, a fierce and possessive glint that makes Rhysand falter and surprise flash across the High Lord’s features.

You fall to the ground with a thud, palms scraping against the stone and pain flaring in your hands. Rhysand turns toward you, the anger that had been simmering in his violet gaze immediately dissolving into guilt and regret. “Y/n, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t touch her.” Azriel growls, standing in between you and your brother, his shadows forming in an additional protective barrier. Some shadows flutter toward you, helping you stand and bringing you to Azriel’s side. Your hand instinctively seeks Azriel’s, fingers curling into his and you squeeze it, letting him know you’re alright.

“By the Cauldron…” the High Lord’s voice comes out in a low murmur, his gaze darting between you and Azriel. His eyes narrow as he finally notices the subtle shift in the air, in your scents. The scent of a bond.

“You two are mates,” he says, tone laced with resignation. Because even he, a High Lord, is not above going against The Cauldron.

It feels like a punch to the gut for Rhysand. His best friend and his sister. Fate’s inevitable design had been right under his nose all along. “What?” Rhysand breathes in shock, chest still heaving from the exertion of his magic.

Azriel’s hand tightens around yours. His gaze softens as he turns to you, the fierce protectiveness from earlier easing into something gentler. And when your eyes meet again, it’s there—the unmistakable light of the mating bond. It shines bright and steady between you. Just like your love for each other does.

A light that never goes out.

bonus scene

Once the shock of the bond had worn off, the High Lord excused himself, muttering about damage control. “Spring will be the hardest to deal with,” he had said.

Rhysand’s body tensed as his eyes found yours. But you’d only given him a small, reassuring smile. Though it is something you would like to talk about, his secret would remain safe with you.

Your father would soon announce the bond to the Court of Nightmares, already making plans for a grand mating ceremony. You’d much rather have something private, intimate. But a public celebration seemed like a small price to pay for the lifetime you’d get to spend beside the male you loved.

Rhysand turned his gaze back to Azriel, his expression still unreadable. “You never answered my question,” he said, voice calm but edged with something darker. “How long?”

Azriel hesitated before answering, unlike the way he had with the High Lord. This was his best friend standing in front of him. The one he grew up and trained along with, survived the brutality of the Blood Rite with. Rhysand was like a brother to him and he went behind his back for years.

“A decade.”

“A decade?” Rhysand blinks in surprise.

A whole decade of secrecy. Of Azriel sneaking around with his little sister. It all made sense now. Why Azriel became more reserved, more private. Why Azriel no longer indulged himself with the pleasures of the females at Rita’s or the Illyrian camps like he and Cassian did. Why you spent more time at the Moonstone palace, instead of the House of Wind, where you had grown up and been raised by a handful of Priestesses. It hadn’t been to learn about the politics of the courts but to be closer to Azriel.

And then, with no warning, Rhysand swings.

The hit lands squarely on Azriel’s jaw, so swift and unexpected that neither you nor Azriel’s shadows had seen it coming. Azriel takes the blow without protest, silently commanding his shadows to stand their ground and not fight back.

“Rhys!” you snapped, your brows furrowing into a scowl.

Rhysand huffs, shaking out his hand from the impact. “That’s for going behind my back,” he says. He pauses for a second and then, he lets out a low chuckle. Full of disbelief and relief.

“I’m still angry at both of you,” Rhysand admits, and Azriel lowers his head, bracing for more. “Not because it’s you—though I’ll admit, seeing you together is... strange. But because you kept it from me for so long, putting both of your lives at risk.”

Then Rhysand’s voice softens, his gaze following. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

Azriel lifts his head back up in surprise as Rhysand holds out his hand.

“You’re a good male, Azriel. Better than most. And I know you’ll protect her. Love her in a way no one else can.”

Azriel stares at Rhysand’s outstretched hand before finally clasping it, the tension between them easing. Your chest warms at your brother’s sincerity.

The sound of footsteps, heavy and hurried, echo through the stone walls. They grow louder with each passing second and moments later, Cassian and Mor appear at the entrance of your father’s study. Cassian braces himself against the doorframe and Mor leans on him, their chests rising and falling rapidly.

It’s clear they’re winded from the endless stairs they must’ve taken to reach the floor of your father’s private study. It was located between the Court of Nightmares and Moonstone Palace, warded so that only those of his bloodline could winnow directly inside.

Their eyes dart between the three of you.

“What did we miss?”

a/n: hope you enjoyed! here’s a little HC (idk what to call it?) of Rhys’s sis & Az if you’re curious 💙

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

fic tag: @noisyinfluencerstrawberry, @tothestarsandwhateverend, @tulipbite, @kylaisra, @stressed-reader

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #azriel x rhysand's sister #rhysand's sister x azriel

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chaoryn · 2 months ago

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𓏲 ʚ pick a pile: 𝓦hat makes your s/o go feral for you ɞ

disclaimer: this reading is for entertainment purposes ONLY so take it all with a grain of salt. this is a collective reading for the shifting community!!

take a deep breath and choose the kitten that catches your eye the most or that your intuition tells you to.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist | paid services | tips

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile one ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

your s/o’s are literally your personal bitches. they are down SO BAD for you, and this is NOT an exaggeration!!! seriously, they are obsessed with everything about you, and they would do ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING for you. and when i say anything, i mean ANYTHING. they would lie, steal, kill – hell, even die for you if they had to. so, honestly? there's nothing that doesn’t make them go feral for you because the simple fact that you exist is already enough. they might struggle to put their feelings into words, but what they can’t deny is that THEY LOVE YOU SO F*CKING MUCH. seriously, their communication skills are kind of a mess, and it's hard for them to express what they feel or think, but they are this close to telling you the truth because they literally cannot keep this bottled up any longer.

for some of you in this pile, you and your s/o aren’t together yet, but something tells me you love playing hard to get (or maybe some of y’all are in a whole enemies to lovers situation LMAO). either way, your behavior is driving your s/o INSANE. but like, in the best way possible (you're in the "enemies" part, and deep down they're in the "lovers" part LMAOO). what’s hilarious is that they do not want to deal with these feelings, at all. they don’t even wanna deal with the concept of love itself, so much so that they keep searching for reasons to convince themselves why you two shouldn't be together. but it’s all a waste of time because, deep down, they think you’re perfect. you are someone they see as worth it. so yeah, they can fight it all they want, but they’re not going anywhere. LMFAOOOO. even if they don’t show it much, they miss you when you’re apart, and they HATE seeing you cry/sad. what’s even funnier is that YOU’RE NOT INNOCENT EITHER, PILE ONE. especially those of you who aren't with your s/o yet (or are in an enemies to lovers dynamic), you’re also in denial. deep down, you’re scared of being alone, and you’re stuck in your own internal battle too. so now BOTH of you are out here pretending you don’t care about each other when literally the entire multiverse knows you do. except you two. lol.

but your s/o doesn’t blame you for feeling this way, and they hope you don’t blame them either. love is complicated as hell. honestly, they are gathering the courage to confess because they cannot take the pain of holding it in any longer. these feelings are eating them alive. they’ve tried to forget you, tried not to smile when they think of you, tried to act like they don’t care, because if they tell you how they feel and you don’t feel the same way… they know they’ll be picking up the pieces of their shattered heart for the rest of eternity.

and if you are in an enemies to lovers situation, it’s like… they’re ASHAMED that they don’t hate you. like they want you to give them a reason to hate you because you’re not supposed to have feelings for your enemy, right? 🙈 but idk, things don’t always work like that lol. they literally wonder if you’re going through the same internal crisis they are lol. listen. years could pass, and your s/o would still be head over heels for you. nothing will change their mind because they are 1000% sure they’re the right person for you. (cocky much?)

also, their favorite physical feature of yours? your eyes. oh, and they are possessive over you, which is hilarious because a lot of you aren’t even in an official relationship with them and they’re out here like, “you’re my wife/husband 😠.” another thing that drives them crazy is that you’re not like the people they’ve been romantically or sexually involved with before. usually, their charm, looks, or player energy (LMAO) gets them what they want easily, but you? you’re like, “nah, i'm not your doll 🫸.” you don’t just let them have you, and that’s what makes things interesting. many of you have spent your past molding yourselves to please others, but you’re not doing that anymore, and that challenges them in a way they love.

oh, and both of you are jealous as hell. i can't even tell if they’re worse or if you are LMAO. some of you are out here side-eyeing your s/o just for looking at someone else 🤨 and vice-versa. my gods… your s/o needs therapy. they overthink EVERYTHING. like, they’ll sit there and analyze a situation to death until they convince themselves of some wild conclusion that only exists in their head. example: you mention you don’t like XYZ (which happens to be something they like). a normal person would just be like, "oh, they don’t like XYZ." your s/o? “they don’t like XYZ? or do they just not like ME? am i the problem? am i an inconvenience in their life? is that why they avoid me?” ...yeah. good luck with that lol. or this could be you, if that's the case for you, i say this with all the love in my heart, seek therapy!! <3

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile two ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

what makes your s/o go feral for you are the little details that make you who you are (it can be as silly as like your taste in music, your favorite drink, your perfume etc.). it’s like they feel they shouldn’t know this much about you just from observing you lol. but at the same time, while they notice these tiny things about you, they also want to get to know you on a deeper level, to know who you are when no one is watching. do you even know that yourself? that’s the real question. honestly, this could even be an invitation to self-discovery lol. overall, they think you two are a perfect match, and they just want you to go ahead and kiss them already (especially for those who aren’t official with their s/o yet). funny enough, this pile gives me the impression that you’re the one making more moves than your s/o.

okay, this was supposed to be a fun and lighthearted reading, but your s/o's are lowkey depressed in this pile, and i’m not gonna sugarcoat it. some of them could be seen as villains or just deeply misunderstood, struggling with low self esteem, and feeling like their mind isn’t in the best place because of all the heavy baggage they carry in their chest. it's a whole mix of unresolved trauma that therapy could actually fix!!! it’s like they’ve had their heart broken before, faced multiple disappointments, so when something (or rather, someone) good comes along, they assume there’s a catch, that it’s too good to be true. but honestly, they’re so tired of all this bullshit, and it’s like they want to take the initiative for once in their life… but instead, they just wait around, hoping you’ll randomly walk up and kiss them lol. it’s funny because they come off as the "dark and brooding" type *emo emoji meme*, the whole "my hEaRt iS bLaCk 🤪" aesthetic, but in reality? you know what they actually want? FOR YOU TO DEVOUR THEM, TO DOMINATE THEM, TO PIN THEM AGAINST A WALL LMAOOOOO I LOVE EXPOSING YOUR S/O’S BECAUSE AT THE END OF THE DAY, THEY’RE ALL JUST YOUR LITTLE BITCH!!!! they love when you take control like that, which is another reason they go absolutely feral for you. it’s like they can’t wait, even if it means getting knocked out by you (especially those with an enemies/rivals to lovers dynamic lol). if you hit them, they’d say thank you. if you told them to shut up, deep down, they’d love it. they like provoking you just to get a reaction out of you. in a way, this might be their version of affection, or maybe they interpret your resistance and toughness as a sign of love, yk? very much childhood trauma lol.

they know how you see them, or at least they think they do. in their mind, you either see them as “too much” in the overwhelming sense, or as “TOO MUCH” in the damn, they’re hot way. but if they’re being honest, they’re confused! because they lowkey think you’re just toying with them, even though you’ve raised their expectations so high that it irritates them. I SWEAR, THEY’RE SO FUNNY LMAO. they’re like: "you think you can win me over with your charm?fuck, you’re right." also, your voice?? yeah, that’s another thing that makes them go feral. they think it’s beautiful, attractive, and if they could, they’d listen to you talk all day, even if you were just saying the dumbest shit. your voice does things to them, though they’d never admit it out loud.

for those of you who are “just friends” (yeah, sure), your s/o is starting to realize that… oops, maybe you’re not just friends. some of you might’ve even been this close to kissing, but it didn’t happen 🤡. so now there’s this huge feeling of missed opportunity, like you can’t take that step because it would ruin what you already have. (but we all know you do want to ruin this friendship for a good reason cough cough kiss your each other cough cough but you won’t, because a lot of you are scared to take that leap of faith.) your s/o feels way more than just a simple crush on you, and while that makes them all warm and fuzzy inside, it also terrifies them. like… what if you don’t feel the same? what if they get crushed? OMGGG THEY’RE SO IN LOVE AND YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! seriously, they love spending time with you, even if some of them would never say it out loud, especially if you two are rivals/enemies, or they’re just not the type to express their feelings.

they basically want to breathe you in, to know what’s going on in your mind. they look up at the stars thinking about you and wondering what it all means (it feels like both of you are on some kind of journey). you make them feel incredible, and they wonder if you even have a clue how deep their feelings run for you. BUT THEY’RE ALSO OBLIVIOUS!!! IT’S SO OBVIOUS THAT YOU LOVE THEM, BUT THEY IGNORE ALL THE SIGNS 😫. gods, this is so frustrating LMAO.

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile three ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

your s/o literally sees you as some kind of fallen angel or divine being. no one compares to you in their eyes. literally NO ONE. they’ve put you on this pedestal so high it’s actually insane. just the mere fact that you exist is enough to make them absolutely feral for you. like fr, even if you were the walking embodiment of a red flag (which hopefully you're not 👀), they would still go blind to all the signs just to be near you. if you two are in a relationship or even just friends (but like, come on now) they lowkey believe that no one else out there is on your level. like it’s giving partners in crime, ride or die, us-against-the-world type beat. they are OBSESSED.

also? for some of y’all, there’s a celebrity/public image/ glamorous lifestyle vibe coming through. but with that glam comes chaos.it’s giving burnout, haters, no stability, relationship struggles, the whole "famous but dead inside" thing. and someone here (and idk if it's you or your s/o, the energy is messy) is running from their problems like it’s an olympic sport. there’s this self sabotage loop of relying on unhealthy coping mechanisms (like alcohol or smoking), and it’s just… a lot. but for real, whoever this is: YOU NEED A BREAK. like, go easy on yourself for once. if you’re the one going through this, please get help. seriously. whoever this is might not even wanna admit how broken they are just so they don’t have to deal with it. but babe… it’s gonna get worse if you don’t.

this pile is giving DEPRESSION™. like, darker than the other piles. pile three, are you okay? no? didn’t think so. you or your s/o are out here shattered, probably tried to live up to some fairytale or expectations and got hit with the brutal reality of life instead. now you’re like “f*ck it, hope you suffer” to whoever hurt you and honestly? valid. being good vibes all the time doesn’t fix sh*t, lmao. so now it’s “head up, pain in the chest, tears wiped, still sexy” energy and your s/o? they’re eating that up, it’s that “i may be dying inside but i’m still hot” attitude, and they’re OBSESSED. some of y’all are hiding how bad it is just to keep up appearances, and if that’s you? please take care of your mental health!!! seriously. seek help. this isn’t something you have to face alone.

this was supposed to be a fun reading and now it’s a damn funeral, i’m screaming, BUT I REFUSE TO SUGARCOAT IT. it’s hard to tell who’s going through it more (you or them) but what’s clear is that they want you close. like, BAD. being apart from you messes with them. your s/o might pretend they’re fine too, but babe, they're NOT. they’ve got walls up so high, they don’t even know how to express themselves properly, which leads to major communication issues between y’all. they wish they could tell you what’s really on their mind. they’re scared to lose you and hate themselves for not knowing how to love you the way you deserve.

the idea of you with someone else? oh god. that’s their villain origin story. the thought of you kissing or even smiling at someone else while they’re lying in bed thinking about how dumb they were for letting you go?? yeah, it haunts them. they play it cool but they would absolutely mentally self-destruct if they ever lost you.

if you're involved romantically or platonically they crave more from you. more calls. more messages. more effort. they want to feel like you’re choosing them as much as they’re choosing you. some of you might’ve even been their childhood friend or first love, and you helped them survive a dark past just by being there for them. they remember that. they hold onto that. random but some of you were literally their first (iykyk).

#shifting community #shifting blog #shifting antis dni #reality shifting #shifting motivation #shiftblr #shifters #shifting #tarot #divination #pick a card #pick a pile #shifting pick a pile #shifting pac #shifting pap #shifting reading #shifting realities

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vesipha · 12 days ago

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29th street | jeon jungkook

summary: it started with noise complaints and eye rolls, now you’re climbing his fire escape and making out on his bedroom floor. content: smut (mdni) + fluff ♡ 2783 words isla's notes: a big cheers (with pizza or not) to a very special girl out there—here's to hoping your day is as bright as you, my love! i love you ♡ and im with you til the end.

IT STARTED WITH a wall.

Not a metaphorical one... though, sure, you had plenty of those. No, this was a very literal, very paper-thin, godforsaken wall between your office and Jungkook’s studio.

He’s not even a bad musician. That’s the worst part. The tracks he works on are good, sometimes brilliant, but not when you’re trying to hit a novel deadline and a five-piece rock band is shaking your filing cabinet with an aggressive bass drop.

You fought, at first. A lot. Passive-aggressively, then full-blown yelling. One time you left a signed copy of your latest book with a note that read “For your ears, since you clearly have no taste in soundproofing.” He responded by playing a demo on loop titled “Writer’s Block.” It was just thirty minutes of typewriter sounds and the occasional scream.

But here’s the thing: enemies are only enemies when you don’t really know them. Then one day, his studio flooded and someone had to share their WiFi and space while the flooring got redone. That someone, tragically, was you.

And he was... human. Funny. Weirdly intuitive. Insufferably hot. The kind of hot that makes you reevaluate your type mid-sentence.

Weeks passed. He started bringing coffee. You started defending his stupid beats. One night, you both ended up at the same open mic night and accidentally-on-purpose sat together the whole time.

Now you’re here. Tipsy on cheap cocktails after a friend’s party, walking toward his apartment, giggling like idiots. And somewhere along the line, the wall between you—literal and not—fell away.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Jungkook says, wobbling slightly as he skips backward in front of you, hands animated in the warm blur of city night. His black oversized bomber jacket flaps open with the movement, revealing a sliver of soft, golden skin and the worn waistband of jeans he’s clearly had forever. “This pizza place? Will alter the trajectory of your taste buds.”

You roll your eyes, half-laughing. You had to, just to keep your brain from short-circuiting. The streets are quiet now, washed in orange glow from overhead lamps, the world that had been loud and dizzy with party people now humming low and quiet. “You said that about the Thai place and I spent twenty-four hours regretting my life choices.”

“Okay, yes, but that one was a heat miscalculation. You have the spice tolerance of a Victorian child.”

You side-eye him as you walk, kicking at a loose rock. “I’ve literally eaten ghost pepper wings on a dare.”

He tilts his head, mock offended. “You also made me scrape chili flakes off your slice last week.”

“I was hungover,” you snap. “And ok, perhaps also emotionally vulnerable.”

He grins, slowing beside you again, the laughter settling into something softer. The kind of ease that only arrives at 12:47 a.m. when your feet are sore, your head’s fuzzy, and your company is Jungkook—who smells like citrus shampoo and rain-drenched concrete.

He stops suddenly, holding his hand up like he’s taking an oath. “This time, I swear on Namjoon’s vinyl collection.”

You freeze mid-step, eyes going wide. “That’s blasphemy,” you whisper, scandalized.

“Totally,” he agrees, bunny teeth flashing in a grin that does irreparable damage to your judgment.

“You have no fucking clue to what blasphemy means do you?” you try to manage the adoration oozing from your eyes with very little success. You can only hope he just sees it as you being completely drunk.

Jungkook sways a bit, laughs through his nose, then grins wider. “No. Sounds nice though!”

And just like that, you find yourself laughing uncontrollably while following him across a crosswalk and into a sleepy, blinking pizza shop that looks like it’s closed but isn’t.

The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look surprised to see Jungkook. He leans in, slaps palms with him over the register like they’re in a secret club, and you stand off to the side, arms crossed, watching the interaction with something that might be fondness or envy.

“Two slices of the good stuff, Yoongiihh!” Jungkook says funnily, pointing at a half-empty tray of bubbling mozzarella and burnt-edge crusts. “And extra napkins, please. We’re messy eaters.”

“We?” you mouth behind him, eyebrows raised.

He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “You especially.”

The clerk, Yoongi, stifles a laugh and passes over a white paper box.

You’re still bickering about him not letting you pay as you step onto the gravel alley behind his building, where the fire escape twists upward into the dark like something out of a noir film. The metal is cold, sharp, glittering faintly under the streetlights. The kind of climb that feels vaguely illegal. The pizza box is tucked between you and Jungkook’s chest now, shared like a secret.

He glances up at the ladder after frowning and tucking his phone back into his jeans. “Jimin locked the bottom latch, again.”

You stop contemplating opening the box to snatch a clandestine slice for yourself. “And this matters because…?”

He turns toward you, grinning like he’s about to unveil a heist. “We’re going up the old-fashioned way.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, hell no.”

“The fire escape,” he confirms.

“For fucks sake, JK,” you mutter. “Is this a setup? Are you trying to murder me and keep the pizza for yourself?”

He laughs, that low rasp that always hits you too low in the gut. “If I were gonna murder you, it would be for your fancy gamer keyboard, not the pizza.”

You stare up at the rickety thing. “Do I look like someone who climbs structures in a midi dress and birkenstocks?”

He’s already got one foot on the lower rung. “You look like someone who’d complain the entire time and then act smug at the top.” when you don’t mention moving, he snatches the pizza box from your hands. “Come on,” he coaxes, “You even have a slit in your dress. Great mobility. Ok fine, I promise not to look up your—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll push you off the moment we reach the top.”

Jungkook grins like he wants you to try.

You glare, but your heart is thudding a little faster, and it’s not because of the climb.

When you reach for the first rung, your foot slips. A second later, you feel his hand on your waist.

Firm. Warm. Electric.

“I got you,” he says softly, right behind you, breath grazing your ear.

You freeze. Not because you’re afraid but because your brain has been thrown off a cliff. His palm doesn’t leave. In fact, it tightens just slightly, as if making sure you’re there, real, grounded. His fingers are splayed just above your hip, and the contact, simple as it is, lights you up like a struck match.

You nod once, then keep going.

But that touch... his skin on yours, through a thin layer of your favorite black dress, it doesn’t leave your memory, not even as you step through the open window into his bedroom.

His room smells like him.

Not in an obvious, cologne-heavy way, but something lived-in and layered. A little diffuser, some bergamot, hints of laundry soap and cedar. The lamp with a bandana on top in the corner casts a dim orange glow across the hardwood floor and the chaos of his space. Cords snaking under a desk, notebooks left open, a hoodie flung across the back of a chair.

It’s intimate. Personal.

It’s also, apparently, your new dining area.

He kicks aside a Hello Kitty plushie you start wondering where he got from, and then gestures for you to sit. You drop down onto a pillow by the wall, and he follows suit, setting the pizza box between you like a peace offering.

When your thighs touch, it’s casual. When they stay touching, it’s not.

“Cheers,” he says, holding up a slice like it’s champagne. You clink crusts. The cheese stretches dangerously between you both before snapping back.

You try to focus on the pizza. You really do.

But he’s watching you again. Like you’re the story he doesn’t want to stop reading.

And you feel it, down to your stomach, where butterflies seem to fly rampant. The way your breathing shifts, the heat that’s crawling up your neck, the fact that your thigh is still pressed to his and now you can feel the way he flexes it when he shifts.

He wipes a bit of sauce off his lip. You watch his tongue catch the rest.

It’s fine.

Totally fine.

Except then he leans back, resting his inked arm on the mattress behind him, and looks over.

“Do you ever think about us?”

The words hit like a piano falling from the third floor.

You blink. “Us?”

“I mean... yeah.” His voice is quieter now. The buzzed, post-party haze has faded into something slower. “We weren’t exactly supposed to like each other… I think.”

You snort. “We used to actively not.”

“I still have that post-it you left taped to the wall.”

You smirk. “Which one?”

“All of the ragy ones like ‘I’ll impale you with your drumsticks’.” He chuckles, eyes trailed to the window. “But then... I dunno. I started looking forward to your threats.”

You glance down at your hands. “If we are in a sharing moment, well... I think I hated how much I liked hearing you sing.”

Silence blooms. He shifts closer. Your hands brush. You don’t pull away.

“You have something...” he murmurs, reaching out to brush the corner of your mouth. His thumb lingers there.

You hold your breath.

And he doesn’t move.

Jungkook just looks at you, and in his starry eyes there’s that same soft ache you’ve seen when he listens to a song he’s trying not to fall in love with.

You exhale. “Are you going to kiss me or—”

He does.

It’s not gentle.

Not sweet like once or twice you imagined as you caught yourself fantasizing what he’d do, how he’d be.

It’s a storm breaking loose, all noise and heat and weeks of tension crashing down in a single, breathless second.

Jungkook’s hands are on your face, your neck, then your waist, gripping tight like he needs the contact or he’ll come undone. Your fingers thread into his thick hair instead, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

The kiss deepens, slower now, but heavier. He tastes like pizza and whiskey and something uniquely Jungkook—warm and just slightly out of control.

You climb into his lap without thinking. He lets out a moan that punches straight through your stomach and down. Your dress rides up thanks to the flowy slit on your left leg, and his fingers curl into your hips, dragging you flush against him.

You gasp when you feel him hard beneath you.

He kisses you harder for it. His tongue sliding against yours with the slow, sinful certainty of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hands move on instinct, pushing his jacket off, dragging your nails across the warm skin of his neck. He shivers.

He pulls back for air, forehead against yours. “You’re unreal,” he whispers. “You feel,” he closes his eyes, biting the soft spot by your year, tugging on your hips as you roll them instinctively against his hard-on. “God, you feel fucking unreal.”

You smile, dazed, kissing him again, and it’s slower, much slower—exploratory, indulgent. His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, tongue teasing just below your ear again. Your breath stutters, and he groans when you arch into him.

His hands slide further under your dress, bunching it as they go. Fingertips skate over your ribs, reverent.

“Please tell me you’re not that drunk,” he murmurs against your neck, tongue flipping, teeth rasping. “That you know exactly what you’re doing to me right now- Please.”

But your hands are already on his shirt, tugging it over his head. Your answer is your body—your mouth on his collarbone, your fingers at the waistband of his jeans.

He tilts his head back, fingers on the verge of bruising you like he’s going to run out of time.

Like this, you, were something he’d earned the right to want and is terrified he might still lose.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, right before his hands slide from your thighs to your hips, spinning you slightly, and walking you back until your knees hit the edge of the rug. You barely have time to laugh before you are on the floor. Your back skimming the cool wood, his weight settling over you.

The way he moves feels more like instinct than choreography. Raw, imperfect, real.

He doesn’t undress you so much as he tears you apart.

Your dress is gone, flung to the side. His sneakers hit the floor with a muted thud. He kisses down your chest like he’d been dying to. Like he is memorizing you by mouth alone. When he reaches behind you to unhook your bra, his hand is shaking.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers, teeth grazing the top of your breast. “So many times.”

“Good,” you tug at his locks, arching.

Your fingers claw at his belt, jerking it loose with more desperation than grace. He sucks in a breath when your hand slides inside, wrapping around him, hot and heavy and so hard it makes your thighs clench.

“I swear to God,” he growls, “if you keep doing that, I’m gonna—”

“Then do something about it,” you whisper, biting and sucking his bottom lip.

That was all it took.

He drags your panties off with rough, impatient hands, mouth returning to yours with a new kind of hunger. The kind that leaves bruises. The kind that unravels.

You gasp at the cold air on your skin, then gasp again when his fingers slip between your legs, groaning when he feels how ready you are.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re so wet, baby.”

You tug at his waistband, wordless now.

He strips the last of his clothes, kneels between your thighs, and for one heartbeat, just one, he hovers.

Eyes locked.

Breaths heavy.

Everything suspended.

Then he pushes into you with one long, deep thrust, and you see stars.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, clutching his arms. “Oh– Fuck,”

The stretch, the heat, the fullness... he fills you like he belongs there. Like this is the only way your bodies are ever supposed to fit.

“Ah, yes, right there,” you moan, rolling into him. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He groans, low and guttural, rocking into you with slow, deep strokes. “You feel so good—fuck, you feel so fucking good.”

Your hands grip his back, nails scoring lines down his spine. “Harder,” you pant. “Just like that, oh—”

“Look at me,” he growls, hips snapping harder into yours. “I want to watch you.”

You do.

The slap of skin fills the room. Your gasps turn to throaty moans. You are unraveling beneath him, clinging to his shoulders, your legs lock around his waist, each thrust tearing another piece of you open.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he mutters against your mouth, kissing you deep and messy. “Ah, fuck.”

He swallows your moans, his pace relentless now. And when your body seize around him, pleasure tearing through you like lightning, you cry out his name like a vow.

“Jungkook,” you choke, trembling. “I’m— I’m coming—”

He curses, thrusts once more, deep and shuddering, and then he is spilling into you with a broken sound against your throat, collapsing on top of you in a mess of sweat and tangled limbs, your bodies still connected, your breaths shared.

You lay there together on the floor, sticky and undone, the air thick with everything that hadn’t been said, but was felt anyway.

He doesn’t speak for a while.

Just kisses your shoulder, your cheekbone, your jaw, like he can’t stop touching you.

And then he pulls back slightly, only enough to look at you. And look, he does.

Like you are the only thing he can see with those starry eyes of his. Like he wants to memorize you again.

Jungkook’s fingers tangle slowly through your hair, brushing it off your face, soft and slow, over and over, like it calms him just to touch you.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers, kissing the edge of your mouth, and then again, this time catching your bottom lip between his teeth. Gentle, possessive, drunk on you.

“Shut up,” you chuckle, unable to not press closer to his warmth.

Eventually, he nudges your nose with his. “You’re never gonna win another argument, by the way. You know that, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “That’s what you think, loser.”

And when he kisses you again, it isn’t about lust.

It is about every late night. Every fight. Every inch of space you’d carved into each other just to finally land here.

Right here.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ♡

#bts fanfiction #bts imagines #bts x reader #bts fluff #jeon jungkook #jungkook drabble #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #.txt

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gghostwriter · 8 months ago

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A Series of Happenstance

Spencer Reid x House!Daughter!Reader

Summary: The three times Spencer loathed to see you and the one time he pleaded to Trope:Angst; think post Tobias Spencer Reid w.c: 5.2k Disclaimer: I am no way a medical personnel, least of all a psychiatrist so there will be medical inaccuracies A/N: this is part one of my house!daughter series and it’s angst, babes. Spencer is just mean and lashing out here which is totally understandable. It also took a while since writing such heavy pieces of fiction takes a toll on me but I hope, especially to the ones who were excited for this series, love it still. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The first meeting

Spencer didn’t want to be here—here being in this cream colored, four cornered room, facing off the ultimate nemesis of profiler. Not an unsolvable case, not an unsub, but rather a psychiatrist contracted by the FBI for psych evaluation.

He was fine, he insisted to Hotch. He can compartmentalize well, he rationalized to Gideon. He just needed rest and the comfort of his own bed, he stated to the whole team. But protocols were protocols and his unit chief was a stickler to rules especially when it involved the care for his team.

That was how he found himself on a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in silence and watching the ticking of the clock as if it was the most interesting piece of art there was.

The tension was stifling. Spencer could almost see it tainting his vision red. Biting the insides of his cheek, he wanted to keep everything in.

No, he needed to.

He knew he was being rude, petulant even but for once, he didn’t have it in him to care. He didn’t know you. You were a complete stranger being paid by the government to report back any findings that could keep him out of the field. It wasn’t fair. You were just accepting the call of duty but you bore the brunt of his ire and hostile gaze.

In the normal setting, he would have found you intriguing. Your office colored in taupe—cold, distant, and linked to the desire to escape from the world but in the farthest side of the room was a shelf littered with books and small knick knacks that seemed to be collected over the years rather than curated to match the professional setting. The books ranged from published psychology dissertations, medical teaching materials, and collections of essays from well-revered and obscure writers.

You were dressed in black and white, standard for your importance, but your nails were painted in a pale pink color—close to looking natural but not quite. And lastly, your looks.

You were beautiful, don’t get him wrong, he may not have the same experiences as Morgan did with the opposite sex but he knows a beautiful attractive woman when he sees one. No, it wasn’t that, it was how young you looked—almost or maybe even sharing the same age as him.

A genius, then.

A prodigy in your own field just like him.

“Doctor Reid,” the low timber of your voice bringing him out of his musings. It sent a shiver down his spine when he first heard you speak. A reaction that he catalogued in his mind as a mystery to be revisited later on.

He subtly tilted his head to the side, an indication that you had his attention albeit reluctantly.

“Anything you say in this room is strictly confidential,” you gestured with your hand. “No file or notes will be passed to your unit chief or any personnels of the brass. I promise you.”

He scoffed, breaking his vow of silence. “That’s not a hundred percent true, Doctor. Lying to get your patient to talk can only get you so far.”

“I understand where you’re coming from but all I submit to the FBI is my conclusion if you’re fit to go back to work or not, patient-confidentiality still stands—” your delicate fingers feebly holding your pen. “Now, I sensed a little resentment. Is it coming from your self-loathing about having to choose a victim for Tobias Hankel or is it your displaced anger from separating with your team liaison, Agent Jareau?”

He glared at you. How dare you imply the seething anger from within him is directed at anyone but himself. “What? No, no, no. I’m not angry at anything or anyone! Maybe at you and this whole evaluation but never at JJ or—” he cut himself off.

“The suspect,” you continued on for him, jotting down notes on your black leather journal.

“The unsub. Unknown subject.” He corrected, second nature of him to do so. “We call them the unsub.”

You nodded, a lock of hair falling away from your bun. A distracting motion that momentarily rendered him speechless. “Alright. Are you angry at yourself and your decision to separate with Agent Jareau during the case?”

He scoffed but opted to stay silent. Spencer had already given too much of his emotion away by answering the earlier questions.

For any regular citizen, it may seem like the opposite but given the sound of you scribbling away on the pages of the notebook, you beg to differ.

You crossed your pant covered leg and stared into his eyes, a maneuver that could mean two things: 1) you were sizing him up, which was highly unlikely given the dynamics, regardless of his hostility or 2) you were trying to connect with him, a move backed by science that stated eye contact releases oxytocin—a bonding hormone.

A study he didn’t want to prove right at the moment.

“Do you perhaps feel remorse for the unsub?”

His left eye twitched. “Tobias Hankel.”

“Is there a reason behind why you’d prefer to call the unsub by name?” You further asked, having found a sore subject to poke and prod to elicit a reaction.

The answer was yes, of course. Tobias was just a victim as much as he, Spencer Reid, was—the unsub, in his eyes, was a victim of bad fate that resulted in fracturing his psyche but a shrink didn’t need to know that.

To be exact, the FBI didn’t need to know that he, an active and upstanding agent, felt remorse and guilt for not being able to save Tobias. Human emotion rarely had a place in bureaucracy and paperwork.

“How old are you?” Spencer nonchalantly inquired to throw you off his trail. “You look too young to be a Doctor contracted by the brass.”

You scribbled something again in your notebook before answering in a monotone voice as if your reply has been well rehearsed. “24, about to turn 25 and yes, I do look young. I graduated early due to my intelligence which I believe is the same case for you, Doctor—” you clasped your hands in front of you, leaning slightly forward. “—which brings us back to the topic, the anger inside of you, who is it directed to?”

His eyes shifted to the clock—5pm.

A small smile graced his face. The time was up.

“Well, I believe we’re done here, Doctor—” he proceeded to stand up, picking on an imaginary lint as he did so. “—I would say it’s been nice meeting you but that would be a lie you’d no doubt catch and analyze.”

Your lips pressed thinly together, imitating a smile but Spencer knew that move quite well—you were reining in any unsolicited and possibly inappropriate comment regarding his snappy behavior.

A small chuckle escaped his lips. If he, a profiler, considered you, a psychiatrist, his number one nemesis, there was no doubt you consider him the same.

As he was about to step out of the office, your slender fingers brandished a calling card.

“Here’s my number—” he gingerly took it as if it contained some unknown pathogen. “—and my door is always open when you’re ready to talk, Doctor Reid.”

He nodded once, a goodbye. “Doctor House.”

There was little doubt in Spencer’s mind that he’d never willingly stop by your office again but if he had been paying attention to your subtle patronizing words of farewell, he would have picked up that this encounter was far from over.

Especially when he found out on a busy Tuesday morning from Hotch that you had deemed him unfit to return back to the field—effectively barring him from the jet on its way to Idaho.

The second meeting

There was a series of rapid knocks on your office door.

As a psychiatrist with your own practice, it was highly unusual for clients to suddenly show up with no prior appointments or even a customary phone call.

It was a Tuesday morning and like clockwork, you’ve allotted the first half of the day in catching up with paperwork dealing with your office and evaluations for the FBI.

That gave you a pause, remembering a snipping agent who you deemed unfit for duty. Dr. Spencer Reid. The genius profiler who joined the ranks at the tender age of 22. A prodigy in his old field, just like you.

He was closed off, simmering with rage almost, and there was little doubt in your mind that he was the one behind the door, ceaselessly knocking. After all, when you sent in your evaluation directly to his unit chief, the stoic man’s face twitched with concern and maybe a little bit of annoyance in the paperwork it would entail.

“Come in,” you called out, hands clasping together on top of your desk. A perfect picture of professionalism.

The door swung open, revealing a tightly wounded Dr. Spencer Reid.

With a thick cardigan adorning on his body and a leather satchel draped over his shoulders to his front, he looked normal. But you knew better, his choice of outerwear represented a security blanket in the middle of September and his placement of satchel acted as a shield and its’ straps a stress ball. With just that one look you knew he wasn’t ready to back with his team.

“Dr. Reid, what can I do for you?” You asked, hand unclasping and indicating to the seat in front of you. “Please sit.”

Closing the door behind him, he shuffled closer to your desk but made no indication to sit down. “I’d rather stand, Dr. House, and I think you know why I’m here.”

A show of dominance. Right away, he wanted control the outcome of this conversation to his favor. It was textbook psychology, a taunt you wanted no part of.

A slight smile appeared on your face, one that could be translated as friendly for those open and condescending for those closed off. “I believe I don’t follow.”

“My evaluation, you made a mistake,” the left corner of his mouth lifting for a smirk. There was a vein visible on his temple, his anger and will to bottle it up manifesting physically.

You tilted your head to the side, unwavering in your gaze, hands clasped and index fingers tapping together. The pause and silence was a standard tactic to get a patient to break, similar to what law enforcement uses with suspects but results may vary especially when used on a seasoned profiler.

Right away, Spencer understood your tactic. “That won’t work. We use that in every case, I know the standard—” he looked around the room. “—should I lower the temperature too?”

You answered with silence. The agent in front of you now was no longer thinking clearly. His objective mind that would deem him fit to return for duty clouded with emotion, anger and something else.

His right hand touched above his left wrist. A subconscious move provoked by your unrelenting gaze. A move that gave away an important piece of information that his unit chief no doubt omitted in the reports.

Ah.

Tobias Hankel was a drug addict.

And in turn has subjected the agent in front of you to his vices.

You sighed. Suddenly the case no longer felt black and white, it was treading close to home as you remembered your father who’s abusing Vicodin in lieu of his leg pain. It was a sore spot for you—a clink in your armor.

“Sit, please,” you indicated to the chair in front of you again.

Spencer complied this time, having heard a change in your tone.

“Dr Reid,” you started. “I believe my evaluation of you is still correct—”

He opened his mouth to argue.

“—but, please let me finish, perhaps we can compromise. As a psychiatrist, it’s not in my practice to give in to my client’s demands but as you are not a regular client, I believe it would be beneficial for the both of us to reach an understanding.”

You walked towards the locked cabinet to your right. It was where you kept all medical equipments—including medicine for patients. Reaching back to the depths of the lower shelf, your hand brought out a non-descriptive black pouch from its hiding. You sat beside Spencer, effectively communicating that you are both on the same level.

“I will approve your return for duty as long as you come back for a couple of sessions, not FBI contracted, strictly confidential, and you—” handing him the zipped pouch before continuing on. “—get drug tested.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he knew that his unit chief and mentor kept the delicate nature of his case out of the bureau and wondered how you pieced everything together. He underestimated you, you realized. A mistake on his end.

“I’m a psychiatrist, I know the signs Dr. Reid, and besides, I’m a genius just like you,” you adjusted your posture, slightly leaning back.

Check.

He smiled, one that you could say no longer contained malice. It was instead filled with resignation and relief. “You’re right. I underestimated you, Dr. House.”

Standing up, you dusted imaginary lint from your black pencil skirt before extending your hand out for a handshake.

He hesitated before reaching over shaking it once. His hands were rough and calloused from frequent holding of his gun but felt oddly warm and soothing. It represented who he was in your eyes—prickly and rough around the edges but soft and good on the inside.

As he exited your office with a soft thud of the door behind him, you admitted to yourself that you took a huge gamble. Rather than a checkmate, all you did was check his king. You didn’t ask if he had built his own stash of drugs after the case was finished. It was a risk you were willing to take just to take a step closer in getting the agent to trust you. Baby steps were better than nothing. You could work with that.

There was still the drug test you could rely on. A black and white piece of paper that would tell the truth if done at the right time. After all, the most important teaching your father, the older Dr. House, has imparted on you was—

Everybody lies.

The third meeting

The bar at the corner Main Street on a Friday night was a rare place for you to be. The echoes of its pulsing music could be heard a couple of shops away, luring bodies than the space could ever handle like it were Pied Piper and the people—by extension, you, were the unsuspecting kids. The lights were colored orange, giving the area a tint of good times and bad decisions. The aged brick walls discolored in a multitude of shades and the decorative posters were aimlessly nailed to the wall. There was a section far from the bar that was filled with moving bodies—people letting loose and exhibiting what you’d call a mating dance for anyone interested and beside the bar were two dart boards, popular with the crowd, but had seen better days.

This wasn’t your usual scene as you excused your way to the bar tucked at the center space. It wasn’t due to snobbery, like what your friend Kyle once joked, it was preference.

The sticky floor beneath your sensible nude heels had you wishing that your feet were tucked in a soft blanket with mind numbing television playing in the background instead of navigating the throng of people holding their drink of choice and inhaling the musky scent of liquor and sweat.

“Haven’t seen you around here,” a tenor voice flirted from beside you.

Your eyebrow raised as you took in the source—a burly African-American with a buzzcut. There was something distinct about him that set him apart from the rest. It wasn’t his built or the way his grey shirt stretched to fit around his biceps. It also wasn’t the twinkle in his eye as he tried to entice you to flirt back. One of his hands drifted down to his waist and with his wide leg stance, you knew.

A cop. An off duty law enforcement officer.

You laughed. “Does that line usually work on women, especially from—” you paused for suspense. ”—a cop?”

“Okay,” the stranger chuckled. “Close, want to try again?”

A smile stretched your glossed pink lips. You were never one to back away from a challenge—it was one of the traits you inherited from the other Dr House.

“Well, if we’re basing it on where the bar is located nearby and my fifty percent guess from a while ago, I’d say you were a cop—maybe for a couple of years, before joining the FBI. Maybe counter terrorism—” the memory of Dr. Reid talking about his team found its way to the forefront of your mind. “—or by any chance, the BAU?”

He could no longer hide the surprise from his face. “Right, that’s right. What gave it away? Was it my ruggedly handsome looks or are you just a mind reader?”

You thanked the bartender before trying to find your way out of the surge of people behind you, clamoring to place their order. The stranger stretched out his muscular arms, guiding you away from the bar towards his booth.

“Just a mind reader,” you simplified—an action that came as second nature to you. In the past, when you would disclose your job as a psychiatrist, people would react in two ways. One, they’d get subconscious that you’d read into every body language they’d have, causing them to shy away or two, they’d become over-zealous and ask you to diagnose them all in good fun like it was some sort of magician’s trick.

A mop of light brown curly hair parked beside a long blonde hair caught your periphery. He had his back turned but it was a presence you’ve slowly started getting familiar with. It was Dr. Spencer Reid, out in the natural setting, a first.

Your eyes slowly widened as you realized where he was guiding you and who he might be.

“Huh,” you uttered under your breath before flashing a smile to the stranger beside you. “Are you by any chance, Derek Morgan?”

“Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out. How’d you do that, Ms. Mind Reader?”

A different timber of voice answered. “It’s because I told her—” a pair of hazel eyes turned to you, filled with accusation. “—Dr. House. Are you keeping tabs on me?”

“Dr. Reid, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

He scoffed. “In a bar? Near my office? The statistics on seeing me here is actually surprisingly high.”

He was hostile, understandably so as here you were, a stranger, who knows his deepest, darkest secret mixing in with the otherwise innocent parties of his personal life. It was no harm, caused no click in your armor—he’d been cooperative as of the late within the confines of your office but seeing you beyond the four corners of your taupe walls threw him off the loop.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” the blonde woman beside Spencer, flashed you a smile, hand stretching out for a handshake. “I’m Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.”

You shook her hand. “Ah, it’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau.”

“So, how do you know Spence?”

You smiled, unsure on how to disclose your psychiatrist-patient relationship with someone he works with. You didn’t know how much his team members knew about his scheduled Saturday meetings with you or if they even knew at all what Dr. Reid was going through.

From the past appointments, you’ve categorized the agent as an anxious avoidant type—something geniuses who grew up in a non-secure household tend to share. Yourself, included.

Your eyes glanced at Spencer before drifting towards the table behind him, subtly trying to figure out his choice of drink. You hoped it was non-alcoholic. He’d be suffering from withdrawals and if he clung to a substitute vice, you’d have to find a roundabout way to tackle the issue without pushing him to close off again. You didn’t need that, he was just starting to open up after all, plus if he stopped cooperating, you’d have no choice but to bring it up to his supervisors, jeopardizing his career.

A clear glass came into view as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

Water. It was water.

You breathed a sigh of relief before slowly panning up, locking eyes with Dr. Reid. His gaze narrowed, having understood what you were checking on.

Checkmate.

“She’s FBI’s contracted psychiatrist,” he explained, jaw tight from anger.

You flashed him a little smile before averting your eyes in chagrin.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you look a little to young to be a licensed doctor,” Agent Jareau observed.

“I graduated early.”

Morgan’s left hand pats your back while the other pats Dr. Reid’s. “Another genius, then. You’d get along great with our pretty boy over here. He’s always going on and on about facts and statistics—“

“No offense Morgan, but I don’t think we’d get along at all,” Spencer sneered. “I’d rather not get to know someone who has an ulterior motive.”

Your hand tightened around your glass. “It’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau and Agent Morgan but I think my friends would be looking for me,” you flashed the young agent a dejected smile. “Dr. Reid, hope to see you again soon.”

“I don’t,” he sardonically replied.

You nodded once before turning back to where you friends would be, settled in the four seater booth, unaware that you may have just burned the rocky bridge you’ve built with a patient in need.

The fourth meeting

A warbled hum roused you from slumber.

With one eye straining to stay open, the digital clock on your dresser displayed 12:21. Midnight—the time for humans to all be in stupor but based on the humming, subdued underneath your pillow, there was one exception.

You sat up, blindly reaching for the phone. There was no programmed name for the number and right away, an eerie feeling started swirling in your gut. This was no social call. A call this hour could only be one thing, an emergency.

“Hello. Who is this?” Your voice still rough from sleep.

No answer.

You pressed the phone closer to your ear, hard enough to possibly leave a mark. There were light rustles on the other end that indicated a presence, a person that wouldn’t or couldn’t answer your inquiry.

“Hello,” you tried again, voice raising at the end from tension. “Is anyone there?”

There was silence. The dread in your stomach further worsening as if group of bats decided to wreak havoc in its dark crevices. There was no indication that this was a prank call and there was also no indication that it wasn’t.

You bit your lip, torn between hanging up and waiting for an existence to make itself known. It could be nothing or it could be—your train of thought suddenly taking a sharp left turn to the corner that a certain FBI agent unknowingly occupies. You had given him your number, having scrawled it at the back of your calling card during the very first meeting, purely out of the goodness of trying to put back the broken genius that graced and intrigued your doors.

“Dr. Spencer Reid?” You hesitantly asked, hoping that your intuition was wrong. That this wasn’t the agent calling for help.

A deep groan answered.

“Oh gods,” you breathed out. “Okay, okay. Just—shit, just stay on the line. I’m coming, I swear. Just—fuck.” Your feet scrambled out of the apartment, never mind the lights or the chill that the midnight had cloaked the air with.

It was your worst nightmare. You knew what this call was, you knew his state on the other side of the phone by experience.

Hands trembling as you started the ignition of your car and speedily backing up the parking lot and out the streets in little time.

“Spencer,” formality be damned at this point as you turned a sharp right, your GPS indicating 8 minutes away from destination. “Spencer, are you still there?”

A light rustle replied.

“I’m almost there, hang on for me, okay,” your hand letting go of the steering wheel to push the tousled hair away from your face.

Each second felt like an eternity, each time passed threatened to push your mind into the fog of panic and memory of your very own father taking a whole bottle of Oxycodone and leaving a message for you and your grandmother. The panic, the fear, and the dread of that very moment had come back in two folds.

Your clammy fingers leaving pinch marks on the back of your palm. “Not now, not now,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t have an attack now, keep it together.”

“Dr. House,” Spencer gravely slurred.

You haphazardly parked the car at the nearest available sidewalk space, uncaring if by some miracle you get ticketed. “I’m here, Spencer. I’m here.”

There was a groan as you hurriedly ran up the apartment stairs, grateful that the security below was surprisingly lax.

Third floor, get to the third floor. I need to get to the third floor—you repeated under your breath. You could have called an ambulance or better yet his team member, SSA Derek Morgan, but you felt the urge to make sure he was alright. To make him see that someone else besides from his mother and team care about him. To make him see that life was worth living, no matter the good or the bad.

“Spencer, I’m outside your door,” you tried to catch your breath. “Do you think you could let me in?”

And for a few seconds, there was only the tense silence before a series of gasps and groans crescendo’ed louder and louder from the phone speaker and on the other side of the door.

Shit. You knew what those grunts of pain and pleas meant, he was seizing.

Slamming down on the ground, uncaring if your exposed knees get bruised, you sent a silent thank you to your past self for leaving a hair pin inside the pockets of your sleep shorts. Breaking and entering was yet another skill set you learned from the other Dr House and his team of skilled doctors, you just never imagined you’d be applying that knowledge in breaking and entering a federal agent’s home.

The door unlocked and you barreled your way to the living space where a frightful sight greeted you—Spencer on the floor, laying still as if he was peacefully sleeping.

“No, no, no,” you slid beside him, mind cataloguing every detail for the right action. An empty needle near his exposed right arm and an empty glass bottle of Dilaudid.

No rise and fall of the chest.

And no pulse. Medical training kicking in, you tilted his head up, clearing the pathway, and started chest compressions.

One. Two. Three—

“C’mon, Spencer, breathe,” you grunted in between pumps.

One. Two. Three. Four—

You leaned down to his chapped lips, blowing air to his mouth. “I need you to breathe for me, okay. Breathe, Spencer.”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five—

“Breathe, c’mon Spencer,” you knew there was a high probability for the agent to have his own stash of narcotics and in by agreeing to keep his secret, lest he loses his badge, to get him to open up was a gamble. A risk you were now regrettably paying for.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—

“Dammit Spencer, I could lose my license for this. Breathe, I need you to breathe.”

A sputtering of coughs escaped his lips.

“Oh thank you, thank you,” you breathed out, arms sagging from the pressure of performing CPR and the weight of fear that you might have been too late.

Spencer groaned. “Dr. House?”

You nodded, the salty tears blurring your vision. The image of him lying still was burned into your memory, the same way the mirage of your own father lying in a pool of his own vomit. He’s alive—they’re both alive.

Your hands angrily erased the rivulets the tears left behind on your cheeks. Now wasn’t the time to give in to relief and emotion. Although Spencer was out of the woods, there was still a huge uphill battle to tackle.

“I’ll carry you to bed, lean your weight on me,” you huffed as you helped him up the floor, making sure to take in most of his weight that you could.

The form of you, tears still streaming down your face and steps away from a breakdown, and his hunched form, weak and pliant, was a sight to behold. It was a sight after battle—after the white flag had been waved and the injured tying their best to find their way back to life.

It was sad. It was hopeful.

It was a brush on humanity’s eternal friend, death. Death that still loomed in the corners of the apartment, biding his time to take what was promised.

You laid him gently on the bed before running back to the spied kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. The smell of books permeated the air as if to try and bring your panicked mind back to the present. If it were any other day, you would have found yourself perusing his shelves of eclectic classic literature but this wasn’t the right time and place.

Your bare feet sliding across the floor to make its way back to the groaning figure on the bed, threatening to sit up.

“No,” you tapped his shoulder to get him back down. “I need you to rest.”

“But—”

“No buts Spencer. Rest, I’ll stay here.”

His drooping eyes reading yours, trying to find any type of lie that would break his being further than it already was. Spencer was a broken man and this was the first time you could see written in his eyes his plea for help and company. “You promise?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

His hands blindly groping across the bed spread before it found the treasure it was searching for, your hand. He enveloped his with yours, calloused fingers intertwining with smooth. A contrast that brought him comfort—you were here. You were real. You felt safe. You saved him.

He was alive.

And with that, his eyes closed to fall into a peaceful slumber, one that he hadn’t had in months.

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

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tallulahneale · 1 month ago

Text

Dear Diary

Summary: Smoke and Stack read Tallie's diary to find out she's been crushing on Stack more than him.

A/N: This was the dynamic I picked up on; Smoke is mean-ish and headstrong while Stack is playful and easy going.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Sexual content

Part 2

Looking through her online calendar, Tallie proceeds to make a note of the catering orders for the week ahead.

“Journal time!” She beams, reaching to the shelf for the notebook that keeps her thoughts, experiences and feelings a secret. But to no avail. She searched everywhere for it!

“For a pink fluffy hardcover, it should not be that hard to spot.” She mutters pacing around her room.

Meanwhile…

Smoke is running through the Club Juke ledger, while Stack creates the monthly ad for their social media pages.

“Since when do you keep a notebook?” Smoke asks his twin, pointing at the pink feathered jotter in the midst of their bookstand.

“Do I look like I even like writing?” he replies with a guffaws, lounging on velvet wood settee. With mild curiosity, Smoke wedges the jotter from it's place. The feathers on the spine tickle him as he glides a finger down the hardcover, opening the unknown jotter.

‘Dear diary, Today was a blast at Club Juke! They loved the food and it was great meeting the rest of the team-

“Cute.” a twitch forming at the corner of his lips, remembering the look of joy in Tallie’s eyes. He keeps reading with intrigue.

St and Sm kept me entertained again while doing their meal prep, and boyyyy was I grateful for the distraction. Sm was intimidating (as per usual) so it didn't bother me when he left. St stayed with me tho❤️ I love like when St's around. The playful glint of his eyes and wide stance when he lurks in the hall makes my thigh clench. and his eyes. his muthafreakin eyes! They just draw me in. I’d loveee to see 'em eyes roll back when/if I ride his fac-’

“Woah, that’s enough” Smoke mutters to himself

“You’ll never believe what’s been written on these pages” He shares, passing the jotter over to Stack with the leather tassel bookmark wedged open on the page in question.

Stack collects the jotter with a suspicious glance, taking in the feminine attributes of the dainty pages. He flips it closed to check for a name but there is none, he returns to the indicated page. As he reads, his eyebrows raise, he swallows spit causing his adam apple to bobble, before smirking.

“I think Tallie should swing by… we do need a meal prep soon” He grins, Smoke nods and drafts a note to send.

Back at Tallie’s…

A shiver shocks her bones, a superstition that a conversation is being had on her behalf. The diary is yet to be found and that makes her worry even more. In the wrong hands, it could spoil her good girl reputation. A ding is heard from the laptop resting on her desk; an email notification.

Meal prep requests from Smoke&Stack Twins. (Accept/Decline)

She smiles with relief while accepting the order, it’s always breeze cooking for them. Tallie shoots a quick reply to confirm the time and date.

———

With no luck, her diary remains lost and the appointment with the twins was here. She wanted to write a quick piece before seeing them, it would help keep her feelings at bay.

“I’ll be fine” She assures herself greeting the staff at the concierge and walking up to their floor. Tallie knocks on the door in a cheerfully way while waiting for someone to let her in.

Silence.

“They know I’m comin', right?” She says waiting patiently.

With another knock, a buzz of the bell and no response she lets herself in. The hallway is eerily quiet so she turns on the lights that lead to the kitchen. All the ingredients are already laid out on the prep corner of the kitchen counter. Butter, eggs, sugar, flour, vanilla extract, cinnamon, pecans; seems like the twins are craving pastries this week. Tallie hears a baritone mumble and quickly glances around the open plan room. Lo and behold Smoke has been lounging on the couch, the whole damn time.

“Didn’t you hear the bell?!” She snaps at Smoke, he is the only one present. Her tone is sharp, yes, but not writing in the diary has left her on edge. Especially today... the hidden thoughts were running wild.

Choosing the perfect time to emerge, Stack walks in through the hallway in a regal terry cotton robe. She peers up at his face and eyes him to his feet. His hair is damp with the robe hung loosely around his torso. The belt not fully tied. She glances back up, his eyes already catching her lustful stare. Flustered, she looks down and then back to Smoke, who remains on the couch.

“Is she taking that tone with you or me?” Smoke asks turning to his twin with a mischievous smirk, to which Stack smirks back with a shrug.

“I don’t need to be here.” She whisper but not quietly enough.

“Yeah but you want to be here… don’t you?” The mischief behind his smirk is now exposed as he point to the item in Smoke’s hand. Lifting up his left hand with a sway, you see the features of a very familiar notebook.

“That’s my diary!” She squirms. His back is faced away from her but she knew he is smirking like a cat that caught a canary. The flight or fight response has kicked in. Just as Tallie decides to make an attempt to run and snatch it, Stack strolls over to the kitchen counter shaking his head in warning. She freezes, glancing through her peripheral at Smoke still with her diary held high, the tassel moves…mocking her in an Irish jig. Stack steps closer to hover behind her, reading her bright eyes and steady breaths. The rope frees from its hold and leaves him open, chest bare and clad in fitting undergarments.

She gasps as he turns her flushed against the counter, facing the torment of her lust. His hands rest on the countertop, caging Tallie in.

“Secret’s out brown sugar” He growls into her ear.

Smoke finally turns to face them, striding to the empty counter stool. He positions himself directly opposite Tallie and Stack, still smirking and flipping through the pages. She attempts to nab it back but is left bent at the waist and pressed on the surface. Stack remains behind her, tracing delicate touches across the small of her back. Keeping his hips still but firm enough for her to feel the warmth of his nether regions.

“Give it back!” She barks, suddenly fuelled by desire and fear.

“You need to watch that tone Tallie” Stack warns from behind her, removing his hand from her back and returning it to the countertop. She whimpers at the loss of his warm and rich touch.

“I knew you didn’t see me like how we both see you” Smoke starts “You sure do express yourself more on a page than in person.”

She response with a glare, keeping a sharp gaze on him and her silly little diary. ‘Don’t falter, don’t falter, don’t falter’ she thinks to herself, but Stack's gentle caress on her arm cause a shiver to crawl up her spine and lashes to flutter in want.

“I don’t know… what your talking abo-”

Stack smirks at her denial as he tugs Tallie upright, fitting into the curve of her back as he latches onto her neck. A loud mewl escapes her lips as he savagely nibbles, licks and sucks at the pulsing jugular.

“St-tack” she stutter intwining their fingers, pulling his hand to her bountiful chest.

“Whose eyes do you want to see roll back?” Smoke demands, gloating at her demise. “Seems like it’s yours, huh?”

“W-whaa-?” Another moan slips out as Stack attacks her viciously. She always had a feeling that he had a way, with that thick tongue of his. From watching him wrap his joints to it poking out when he counts a stack of bills. Bring her back to the earthy plane, he eases off her neck moving to nibble at curve of her lobe.

“It is mine?” Stack asks, pressing the stiffening bulge of his thickness against the cleft of her rounded plump cheeks. All this while Smoke remains vigilant, stoic and unbothered.

“I-i want… w-want” she stutters, eyes flickering like a light in a horror movie, unable to handle the balance of Smoke’s smouldering gaze and Stack’s desire-filled touch.

“Talk to us Tallie” Smoke mocks her, still firm in his demeanour.

“I want my diary back!” She cries out in longing and thirst. Being touched but not touched enough left her in a limbo. It felt like punishment. The teasing, the taunting, the edging just because of her silly little diary. These men are a force to worship; more than just their aura, more than just their fierce gaze, everything.

“Still got tha’ tone on her Stack” Smoke says with a shrug of his hands and shoulders “You got work to do.”

He stands up and pushes the diary open on the last entry, the title ridicules her ‘Stack&Smoke twins’. Stack moves away from her space, she whines, eyes begging him not to let go.

“Relax” Smoke whispers smugly.

Stack crouches down, making his way under the flimsy fabric of her summer dress. Comfortably sat on the pristine marble flooring. With the back of his head resting against the cupboard doors, he looks up at her. The eyes that draw her in, the eyes that burn with so much compassion and power.

She looks down in acknowledgement, trapping his head between her warm supple thighs like a cushion. Smoke whistles. Her attention returns back to him as he winks.

“I’d love to give you more, but that diary’s in your hands now.” He states, stroking the tent formed by his covered length. Deviously taking in her expression.

Her breath hitches at the gentle swat across her southern breed cheeks.

“And so it begins” She hears Stack mumble beneath her.

He grips the thighs, holding her in place. The fabric of her panties is transparent, the wetness creating a friction. With the tip of his nose sliding against her covered lips.

His tongue follows the out line of her puffy lips through the fabric. tracing each curve up to her pulsing swollen clit and down to the entrance of her waterfall. He glides along, sucking at the fabric, wanting to taste it all.

“Pll-eease Sttackk” She begs

There’s a tut in the background. Smoke is still root on the chair, captivated at her lust.

“Ask properly” He advises, zoned in on her nipple that tries to escape the fitted blouse.

Stack nips at her inner thigh, swatting her cheeks twice in admonishment. She corrects her fault immediately, knowing what needs to be said.

“P-pl-lease Smo-ke, please Stackkk” She purrs.

With a nod, he pulls her panties to the side and slips in like a thief in the night. Tallie grinds on his thick warm wet tongue, his nose tapping at the clit. Her eyes tear-up and her fingers clenching into a fist, she watches as Smoke beckons her to lean forward. He pulls her bottom lip open, invading her mouth with his thumb. At the same time, Stack swats her again and grips the heated flesh of her hips pulling her onto his gushy slick face. Not hovering, he wants her whole weight.

The fiery gaze from Smoke was intense, the simultaneous pressure from Stack causes her to hump his lips with passion. Tallie sucks hard on his thumb, saliva wetting his finger drooling down into his palm. He snatches his thumb back while maintain the leering look of lust she held in her soul. He moves slowly, sinking his hand beneath his slacks and toys with the tip of his throbbing head, the wetness of her mouth on his thumb giving him enough friction. She mewls in delight as his paces quickens.

Stack isn’t letting up either, her slit is plunged with his fingers and her sensitive nub caressed by his tongue not yet giving her what she wanted. What she truly needed. He keeps a steady pace dancing around her clit as the wetness pools on his tongue like warm honey, down his goatee and across his freshly shaven cheeks. Tallie cries, letting out a whiny plea, asking for nothing but to cum. Her head is spinning, moaning feverishly as he eyes flutter from the cool breeze against her nipples.

"She's close" Smoke mutters, grinding into his palm as he sucks in his bottom lip.

Swats her again in warning, Stack reaches the sweet spot and thrashes his tongue. Desperate for her desire, her juice, her warm honey. Tallie let's go with a screech. She spasms on his tongue riding until her knees buckle, her eyes are back on Smoke wanting to see him finish with her. But he keeps his length hidden from her view, stroking it enough to release some tension.

Tallie can feel it. Stack can feel it. Smoke can feel it. It was in the air, the moment, she felt the gravity in the room suddenly drop, then a burst of warmth as she floods Stack with the essence of her womanhood for the second time. The twins groans in admiration. Smoke reluctantly frees his length, still tight and hard. Stack just as burdened but makes no move to relieve his discomfort.

It was all about her, these twins were selfless to the core. Smoke walks away snatching the diary from where it lay. Abandoned in the midst of their activities.

“You off all people should kno’ ” Stack starts as he stands up, placing a kiss along her chin and down her throat “Closed mouth don’t get fed.”

Tallie still in shock at the energy of the twins, blurts the first though that comes to mind.

“Do I still have to bake?”

“Do you want a bun in your oven?” The twins reply simultaneously.

She watches as they glance over their shoulder to peer at her, mischief written all over their faces.

PART 2

A/N: Watch the movie if you haven’t already!!!! (p.s did y'all notice the play on words with her waiting to be 'let in'?)

#sinners #sinners 2025 #smoke and stack #black girl reader #black fanfiction #ryan coogler #micheal b jordan #black culture #black movies #wunmi mosaku #smokestack twins #miles caton #fanfiction #michael b jordan #stack and smoke #erik killmonger smut #tnblog #Sinners smut

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wispitty · 1 month ago

Text

(short reacts) | "waking up at the foot of his bed" + one piece men

summary: you stir awake after taking care of him all night when he had a fever, and he's there watching you. (part 1 here)

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

You stir slowly.

Eyes heavy. Neck stiff. You blink up and find—

Him.

Propped up in bed. Awake. Watching you with a strange look—torn between awe and disbelief.

You rub your eyes.

“You’re awake…?”

He nods once. Still staring.

“You passed out.”

“I was just… watching over you…”

You sit up, stretching. Your back pops. His brow twitches.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.

But then, after a long pause:

“...Thank you.”

You blink.

And then his hand brushes yours under the blanket.

“I’ve never… had someone stay.”

MIHAWK

Your eyes flutter open.

You shift, a little dazed—and realize you’re no longer in the chair. You’re tucked neatly beside his bed.

Blanket over your shoulders.

A warm hand gently resting atop your folded one.

“You’re awake.”

His voice is soft.

You look up—he’s staring right at you, his golden eyes unreadable.

“You stayed the whole night.”

“Of course,” you mumble, still half-asleep.

He looks away briefly.

Then back.

“...You humble me.”

And you don’t even know what he means.

But later, when he presses a kiss to your forehead?

You understand.

MARCO

You blink slowly, blinking the sleep away—

And he’s smiling.

Lying back, eyes half-lidded, cheek resting on his hand.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

You jolt upright.

“Wait—! I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was just—”

“Takin’ care of me. Yeah. I noticed.”

He chuckles, reaching out to tug you gently down beside him.

“Next time, sleep on the bed.”

“I didn’t want to get in the way…”

He grins.

“Please, get in my way. Please.”

ACE

You wake up to fingers in your hair.

Gentle.

Almost shy.

You open your eyes—he gasps like you caught him committing a crime.

“AH—uh—YOU’RE AWAKE—”

You blink blearily.

“...Ace?”

“Y-Yeah! I just—you were there and I—I mean you fell asleep and you looked really cute and—and—”

You just stare.

And then smile.

“I was taking care of you, dummy.”

He looks away, red as a tomato.

“I...I’ve never had anyone do that before.”

Then, softly:

“...Don’t stop, okay? Promise.”

SHANKS

You stretch with a yawn.

“Mmh… my neck is killing me…”

“Should’ve used the bed,” a warm voice teases.

You look up.

He’s smiling at you—but there’s something different in his eyes.

You blink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just…” “Never thought I’d wake up and see someone like you here. Like that.”

He reaches out. Brushes a crumb off your cheek.

“It’s dangerous, you know.”

“What is?”

“Loving me like that.”

Then he grins. But there’s so much longing in it.

LAW

You stir to the sound of pages turning.

You look up, neck sore, blanket around your shoulders.

He’s sitting upright in bed. Reading. Calm. Collected.

“You’re awake.”

“Did I fall asleep…?”

“Obviously.”

You blink.

He closes the book slowly.

“You could’ve left.”

You sit up straighter.

“I didn’t want to.”

His gaze lingers on you.

Then:

“...Don’t do that again.”

“What?”

“Don’t show up like that. Stay all night. Make me feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’d fall apart if you didn’t.”

CORAZON

You stretch and yawn, arms over your head—

And you feel it.

A warm hand cradling yours. His fingers intertwined with yours.

You look over.

He’s already awake.

Eyes soft.

Tears dried on his lashes.

You sit up, startled.

He just pulls out a note:

“You stayed. Honestly, I don’t know how to handle that.”

Another:

“But I want to try. If it’s you.”

You don’t say anything.

You just lean forward and kiss his temple.

He melts.

#one piece reacts #sir crocodile #crocodile x reader #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #shanks x reader #shanks #marco the phoenix #marco x reader #trafalgar law #law x reader #corazon x reader #corazon #ace x reader #portgas d ace #portgas ace x reader #donquixote rosinante #rosinante x reader

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moonstruckme · 4 months ago

Note

Hello lovely!! I am obsessed with your emt!poly marauders stories🧡. I'd love to request the emt boys taking care of sweet reader after getting an iud insertion. Thank you so much for your writing!! xx

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: reader with a uterus, cramping, it took me until after writing this to realize you probably meant at a hospital or something so sorry about that! but thanks to @ellecdc for helping me figure out how to fit the boys being emts into this when I was being clueless :')

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

The volume of the television is turned down low, the apartment you share with your boyfriends quiet but for its soft hum. You’re curled up against the arm of the couch. Remus is in the armchair adjacent, and your bum is squished against James’ thigh, your feet tucked half underneath his lap. You think Sirius is nearly asleep on his shoulder. You’ve all had a long day.

Remus leans over to peer at you. He frowns when he sees you’re awake.

“Alright, sweetheart?”

You hum.

A warm hand lands on your shoulder, and you turn your head to find James frowning at you too. He rubs your arm. “I thought you were sleeping,” he murmurs, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

You took paracetamol PM as soon as you left your appointment. Between that and how much energy you’d used up on dread during the first part of the day, both your boyfriends and you had expected you to crash immediately after getting home and sleep the afternoon away. Unfortunately, you haven’t been so lucky.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say. With two worried boyfriends looking at you, you’re trying to be reassuring. “I’m okay.”

Unfortunately, a third only joins the mix. Sirius blinks, groggy, his cheek ruddy where it was smushed against James’ shoulder.

“Then why aren’t you sleeping?” James asks gently.

You give a little shrug. “Cramps.”

Sirius coos, reaching for you. He gives your calf a squeeze. “They’re bad, hm?”

“Not awful,” you say.

In truth, none of this has been as awful as you’d prepared yourself for. You were on the brink of cancelling your appointment, teary and reticent as the boys tried to get you ready this morning and reassured you over and over again that they’d be there to help you, but the procedure itself had lasted less than five minutes. Even now, your cramps aren’t much worse than they usually are on your period. Enough to prod you awake each time you start to drift off, but not so awful that you’re shaking or sweating like they sometimes get.

Sirius tsks. “You should have said. We can give you another paracetamol, you’ve only had one.”

Hope must show on your face, because Remus is up in the next second. “I’ll get it. Anything else you want while you’re awake, dovey? Chocolate, tea?”

“No, thank you,” you murmur.

Sirius makes a low, pitying sound and folds himself over James’ lap, resting his head on your curled-up legs. “No appetite?” he asks, pouting at you.

“Not really,” you admit.

James frowns. “What about your heating pad, angel? Would that be alright?”

“Oh.” You’d forgotten that was an option. “Yes, please.”

Remus goes to collect. He does bring you a few pieces of chocolate when he comes back, just in case you decide you might like it—it’s as if he can’t help himself—and you take your paracetamol with some water while James situates the heating pad over your belly.

He encourages you onto your back, unfolding your legs so your knees sit over his lap. Sirius goes to get another pillow, settling it behind your back.

“How’s that?”

“That’s great,” you sigh, meaning it. The angle of your legs seems to have helped somehow, in addition to the heat soothing your muscles. “Thank you.”

“Are you propped up enough?” James takes your water once you’re done, setting it on the coffee table for you. “We can get another pillow.”

“No, this…this is good, thank you.”

“Her back might hurt, too,” Sirius says—not to you, but to Remus, who nods.

“I’ll get the spare.”

“The spare what?” You watch Remus go at a businesslike pace back down the hall. “My back does hurt, actually.”

“The spare heating pad,” Sirius explains. Each of the boys seems to have taken on a more serious manner, their movements efficient and practiced. Sirius helps James lift your back, allowing Remus to slip the heating pad beneath you before he plugs it in. “How’s that, baby? Too warm?”

You settle back down, pleasantly surprised when your pain eases further. “No, it’s nice. It’s sort of like being in a cocoon.”

He grins, squatting beside you to press a fond kiss to your nose. “Sure you don’t want more pillows?”

“This is perfect. Really. It’s a couch, it doesn’t have an up-and-down lever like a hospital bed.”

You watch James blink as he processes what you’re saying. Sirius laughs.

“Oi! We’re just trying to take care of you.”

“The only way you know how,” you tease.

“Oh, my angel.” James leans over you, hugging you sideways. He’s warm and pleasantly heavy, almost better than both your heating pads combined. “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” he mumbles, kissing your chin and the hollow of your neck until he seems to find someplace worth staying in your chest.

“It’s not that bad.” You stroke his hair. “Anyway, it’s not your fault.”

“No,” he says, cheek squished to your chest, “but I do feel sort of complicit in it. I was there when they did this to you.”

“James,” Remus chides. “Don’t make them sound so villainous. She’s still recovering.”

You laugh a little at that. It’s worth the twinge in your gut. “It’s okay. I’m not all freaked out about it anymore. It’s over with, anyway.”

Remus softens. “It is over with. You did really well.”

“Well, all I really had to do was lie there.”

“You were scared,” Sirius says frankly, sitting down and pulling your feet into his lap. “I know that makes it hard. I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

Your voice quiets shyly. “Thanks.”

Sirius gives a soft smile. He rubs his thumb into your ankle fondly.

“Feeling sleepy yet?” James asks.

As if on cue, a yawn takes you. Sirius awws and you hear Remus exhale amusedly from his chair.

“Sleep it off, love,” he says. “Even if the cramps aren’t gone when you wake up, they should be better by then.”

You slouch into your pillow, getting cozy. “This has helped a lot. Thank you, guys.”

Even though you’ve closed your eyes, you feel James’ smile smush his cheek into your chest. “That’s what we’re here for, m’love.”

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mindmelter · 22 days ago

Text

Reshaping Minds

It was a calm afternoon at the coffee lounge of a high-end hotel in Miami. The kind of place with overpriced lattes, but money was never a problem for me. I had my sunglasses on, my iced coffee in hand, and my radar fully tuned for potential fun. That’s when I saw him.

A goddamn tank of a man.

He stood near the espresso bar, stretching his thick arms in a tight navy-blue tee, making his muscles bulge like he was carved from marble, and his tribal tattoo wrapped around his huge bicep, making him hotter and manlier than everyone at the lounge. His beard was neatly trimmed, baseball cap turned backward, and he had that smug alpha energy straight dudes ooze when they think the world owes them a trophy.

He wasn't alone—They never are—His girlfriend was clinging to him like a purse, giggling at something he said. But I wasn’t looking at her. Heck no. I was focused on the fine piece of muscles that was her boyfriend.

I slid off my lounge chair, walked right up to them, and smiled. "Hey, you two look like you could use some fun."

The woman blinked at me confused. The man raised an eyebrow. "Uh, we’re good, man."

I tilted my head. "You sure? I mean, you’ve got all that meat on you, big guy. Seems like a waste if you’re not being properly used."

He turned to face me fully, clearly annoyed. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

I leaned in just slightly, grinning. "It means you're the kind of thick-brained, thick-bodied beefcake that's good for one thing. Being used. Bent. Owned."

His girlfriend gasped, pulling his arm. "Honey, let’s go. He’s a creep."

But something was happening already inside the man's brain. He didn’t move. Just stared at me.

"What... what the fuck did you say?" he muttered again, but his voice cracked. There it was! His eyes were getting heavier. I stepped closer, like a snake charming its prey. My fingers barely brushed his chest.

"I said you were made to be used. That mind of yours? Serves for nothing but to control your sexy body. No thoughts, just instinct. Grunt when told. Flex when needed. Obey when commanded."

My words pierced his brain. His eyes twitched. His thick chest rose with a heavy breath. I could see his pupils dilating, his mouth parting just a little. "You don’t need to think, big guy. Thinking is for people with something between their ears. Not you."

His girlfriend kept tugging at his arm, but he just stood there. "Honey? Hello? Babe!"

He slowly turned to her, blinked dumbly, then looked back at me. His brows relaxed. His lips parted more. A little line of drool started collecting at the corner of his mouth.

I let out a low chuckle and stepped even closer, almost whispering now. "That's it... Let my words sink in. Let them take root. You're just a toy now. A dumb, hot, perfect toy." His head tilted slightly, eyes half-closed, mouth wide open, and his tongue was hanging loose. Drool dripping down his beard.

The transformation was delicious. My words did far more than just implant commands, they literally reshaped my prey's brain. If you listen carefully, you will hear the wet sounds of his brain moving, shrinking, and molding to my liking. As if his brain were clay, and my words a sculptor's skilled hands.

His girlfriend panicked, backing away. "What the hell are you doing to him!?"

I looked at her calmly. "Relax. He’s finally where he belongs." And then I snapped my fingers in front of her face. Her eyes blinked rapidly. Her mouth opened slightly, then shut. She shivered, then slowly nodded, expression blanking into stunned acceptance.

"He belongs to you now," she said softly. Like she was reading from a script etched into her mind.

I smiled. "You're smarter than him, I see." I turned to the hunk, grabbed his chin and turned his head. "Say you're mine.'"

A moment of silence. Then, in a slow, slurred drawl, he mumbled, "Uhhhm yuhhhrs... suhh..."

Perfect. I gave his cheek a playful pat. "Now listen to me, big guy. That face right there? Dumb. Mindless. Empty. That's your natural expression from now on, you will always look like this. With your eyes heavy and tongue hanging out, blank, docile, and stupid. Got it?"

He gave a soft grunt, lips still parted. His eyes stayed glazed and dull. Good. I turned back to his girlfriend. "You see him now, don’t you? He’s not boyfriend material anymore. He’s too far gone. Too dumb."

She stared at him in silence, then at me. "Yeah... he’s not really... boyfriend material anymore."

"Nope. He’s just a gay sex slave now. A muscle puppet with no brain. Not something you want to bring home to mom or build a family with."

She exhaled sharply. "He’s all yours. I can't date someone that... vacant."

I chuckled, stepping between them and placing a possessive hand on his chest, rubbing his pecs slowly through the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch. Just stared into the distance, drool rolling steadily down his tongue. "Smart choice," I said to her. "He’s better off this way. Obedient. Mindless. Always ready. I will take good care of him, don't worry."

She gave a nod and walked away without another word. I turned my full attention to the hunk, both palms now pressed against his chest, playing with his nipples through his shirt, gently twisting them.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t blink. "Good boy," I whispered. "You’re going to make me very happy aren't you?" And he just stood there, blank face locked in, waiting to serve. "Flex for me, boy."

Like a well-oiled machine, the hunk obeyed. His thick, tattooed biceps rose in a slow, powerful curl, veins bulging beneath the ink as his massive arm tightened. He grunted softly, not out of effort—he was too strong for that—but from instinct, like a beast performing on command. I stepped in and ran my hand over his flexed arm, squeezing the hardness of his muscle. My thumb pressed into the peak of his bicep.

"Come, Daddy. Let’s go upstairs."

When we entered my suite, I turned and commanded, "Strip. Now."

He tore off his clothes with urgent clumsiness, revealing every inch of that sculpted Daddy body. His pecs were massive and his thighs were like tree trunks. And between them—his cock. 9 Inches, Thick. Veiny. Fully erect and already leaking.

"On your knees, boy."

The mindless beast dropped instantly, muscles flexing as he settled in front of me. I sat on the edge of the bed, spread my legs wide, and yanked his head toward my crotch. I made him sniff my bulge, and while he took in my musk, I touched his forehead and implanted into his ruined brain everything he needed to know about being a good cock sucking whore.

"Use that whore mouth. Now."

He pulled my cock out and sucked. Greedy. Needy. His lips stretched over my shaft as I gripped his head and rammed myself into his throat. No rhythm. No gentleness. Just ownership.

I used his mouth like a hole. Like a toy. Like he was nothing more than a slab of muscle with a wet hole attached to it. I fucked this handsome Daddy's face, hard and deep, my cock slamming the back of his throat again and again until he gagged. Spit and precum drooled from his lips as I held his head down against my pubes.

"That’s it, Daddy. Choke on your Master's cock. You love being used, don’t you? Just a stupid muscle toy." He moaned through the assault, drool bubbling at the corners of his slack mouth. I slapped his cheek with one hand as I thrust harder, relentlessly.

"You're nothing now. Just a dumb, cock-hungry fuckdoll. Your brain’s gone. Your girl’s gone. All you are is a hole for me to use."

I could hear the wet sloopy sounds—not from the blowjob—but from inside his skull. His brain was being reshaped nonstop with each word that came out of my mouth.

The pressure built. I snarled, shoved his face against my pubes, and came—thick, violent spurts blasting down his throat and spilling out of his mouth. I pulled out mid-release, resting my cock against his panting face, painting his cheeks with cum and spit on the process.

"Good boy, I'm very pleased with your service," I growled, slapping my wet cock against his tongue, "Now your brain will shrink to the size of a grape." The sound his brain made this time was louder as it shrunk to the size of a grape. If I thought his face couldn't get any dumber, the face he made now surpassed that.

He fell to the floor like a limp doll, his thick cock still thobbing hard and leaking. I would make his brain go back to its normal size later, but for now, I will enjoy my new brainless toy.

#mind control #male puppet #brainwash

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cherie-doll · 4 months ago

Note

Cod men reaction .

He and reader were on a mall date and reader suddenly stopped to look at a kids toy/a book/a book series. The thing is, reader grown up as the oldest grandchild, they used to have that toy/book(s), but it was ruined by their younger siblings/cousins.

Based on my real situation. Sorry for the broken grammar, I was typing this with one hand while eating pizza.

this reminds me of how i used to collect the archie comics as a kid and i loved reading them until my younger sibling ruined it bc they slobbered all over the pages like a dog, also, i hope that pizza was good i'm lowkey hungry

༢ུ· Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

Price would turn right away when he noticed you've stopped walking. He's watching you, the skin creasing around his eyes as he smiles and his eyes soften. There's just something to seeing you in awe, recognizing that thing you've wanted for a long time, the nostalgia that must've bubbled up inside of you seeing it again. He'll come up beside you and say "why don't we buy it?".

Simon stared, confused at what could be so interesting, and when he saw it was only a silly stuffed animal. At first he thinks it only caught your attention because it was cute, but it was quite plain, a little ugly looking plush too. But you remember hugging it when you slept as a child, it had a certain smell to it too, until it got ripped apart by your sibling's puppy. You had cried but never got a new one. Without prompting from his part you start telling him the story of how much you loved that thing, and how you still sort of do. Silently nodding and already pulling out his wallet.

Johnny actually pointed out the game you mentioned playing when you were younger, the game you described to him because you couldn't remember the name of it. "Isn't that the game you've been talking about?". You excitedly reply that it is as he picks up the box, your eyes going straight to the price tag but he's already going to checkout to buy it. You ask him what he's doing, "you've been wanting to try it out again, right?" he replies with a smile.

Kyle remembers the time he helped you go through boxes when you moved in with him and how he opened a box filled with old stuff from your childhood. He had found a set of beat up books, some with pages missing, chunks ripped out or with crayon scrawled on them. You tell him it was a series you loved reading as a kid but was messed up by your siblings who played a mean prank on you. He later goes on out and purchases the same set of books and surprised you with them when he arrives home.

Roach once noticed a keychain made of seashells hanging on your bag, some of the shells were broken but it still looked like it had been a pretty little trinket. He played with it, fidgeting with it until he asked you why you still carried the old broken keychain. You tell him it was a gift from your late grandfather that he had made, kids had pulled at it and it had fallen to the floor, breaking in pieces. You had tried fixing it before but were missing pieces. He didn't buy you a new one, instead he spent an evening gathering seashells that looked close to the broken ones and rearranging them in the same order. It was difficult but was worth seeing you happy.

Alejandro could probably late to having to give up your toys to younger siblings or cousins because he had to do the same. So, it feels as if he heals something within himself when you both stop and look at the toys in a secondhand store that bring you a sort of nostalgia. He remembers summers spent playing outside and having to share the toy plane with his siblings. He notices you staring at a toy too and decides to give into making the little kid still in both of you happy.

Rudy has seen how you still keep the little dolls aligned neatly on your shelf. He's noticed how you put up a new one every time you find one when going through your old stuff. He's listened as you tell him how there is one specific doll you remember owning that was your favorite to play with, until it was either taken by some other kid who thrown away accidentally. He spots it at an antique shop and recognizes it because he's always thinking of you. Knowing this will make you feel complete he buys it and excitedly goes home to show you.

Phillip would have been walking along just like any other day he takes you shopping at the mall for you to let some stress out by swiping a credit card. He felt the absence of your hand on his arm and when he turned around he saw you in the toy shop through the glass display. When you held it in your hands, you felt your old emotional attachment to the toy reignite, it was smaller than you remembered but still as secure and comforting as ever. You turn to find Phillip beside you, he only nods, giving you the green light to just go ahead and buy it.

Makarov would hardly deny you from buying anything you wanted. It just strikes him as odd for there to be a change in the pattern you keep of buying clothes, jewelry and other luxurious items for a stuffed animal. But he knew that soft look in your eye, the reminiscing of a memory from long ago still etched in your mind that bloomed in your heart again. His eyes went from plush to you and back to the plush again. He told you to buy it and anymore you might have wanted.

Keegan found it slightly amusing that you had gotten so excited over seeing a children's series you thought had become lost media. He had taken you to the bookstore and instead of finding some cute romcom or some classical piece of literature you ended up in the corner of the kid's book section immersed in rereading the series that had become your escapism when you were a kid. You were going to leave it back where you found it when leaving but Keegan just chuckled and told you to buy the entire series.

König stared curiously at how entranced you were by the plush the kid held in front of you while at the food court. At first, he thought you were having baby fever or something, but really you were more interested in kid's backpack plush. You remember having one as a kid, you used to take it everywhere with you until you lost it, not knowing if one of your parents gave it away. You passed by a store that sold them, and König guided you inside the store to buy one for you. It was funny when the lady at the register asked if it was a gift for your kid.

Horangi knew you always had a thing for collecting adorable figurines, toys, anything that reminded you of when you were a kid. You took care of them so well too, placing them on shelves which he built btw, and dusting them off frequently. When asked why you were so particular about caring for them, you said it was because your old toys were always being broken from your siblings playing too rough with them. It must've broke your little kid heart to see them on the ground, all dirty and chipped off pieces. Now, he is always surprising you with one when he comes back from the store.

Nikto's first thought was that you had picked up the figurine as a gift for one of the kids in your family. At first, he couldn't understand that you were getting it for you, you were staring at the toy so fondly. What memory could have arisen in your mind at the moment? But he recognized the feeling of finding serenity in the little mundane things in life; in your case a toy. He offered to pay for it and as he drove home, he kept glancing over to you and seeing how you had the little thing in your hands, holding it instead of leaving it in the bag. He couldn't even tease you for it.

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 4 months ago

Text

ALWAYS BEEN THE FAVOURITE. 18+ [PART THREE]

tangerine x fem!reader

wc. 3833 summary. following the events of PLAYING THE FAVOURITE, your boss finds himself knocking at your door, returning something you’d forgotten in his office. you offer him inside with the promise of tea as a thanks, but only end up finishing off what you started this morning. several months worth of feelings pouring into a singular night warnings. boss x secretary!! general filth, a whole load of foreplay, dry humping bc I luv it, throat holding, protected pinv sex. mdni // YEEAAAAAH FINALLY GET THEM FUCKING!😫 also ik this isn’t tan, ive ran out of icons for him and this is only one that suits. just pretend he’s temporarily growing out his beard kay?

SERIES MASTERLIST

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Several hours had passed since the kiss, the memory of it just as fresh as if it had happened mere moments ago. It played on repeat all afternoon, occupying your every thought. A persistent memory following you home and through the shower you had taken to cleanse your mind. But still, to no avail, it remained intact. The kiss just as vivid.

Your boss failed to return back to you after promising to.‘I won't be long,’ appearing to be faulted words. But that feeling of hurt was short lived, a call to reception with Tangerine on the other side explaining the delay — letting you know almost immediately that plans were to overrun.

And with him out of the building for the rest of the day, you spent the last half of your shift in his office, playing boss at his desk. And while you sat in his chair, bored with lack of work, you found yourself observing what the office floor is like from the view of his enclosed windowed room. You found yourself staring at your desk through the windows, seeing an almost unobstructed view through the gap in the blinds. All of your desk’s trinkets and snowglobes and novelty knick-knacks on clear display.

It left you wondering how often you fell victim to his stares and glances.

The events from this morning never seemed to part from you, memories and thoughts following you past dinner time. By now it had grown dark and you had started to settle down for the night, cleaned and washed — dressed in a long lounge dress and a knitted jumper. Odd, mismatched socks accompanying your slippers.

You leave your bedroom and head into the living room, flicking on your assorted collection of lamps and fairy lights. You reach to close the curtains, but when you catch a glimpse out the window, you see a car parked out front. A car rather similar to your boss’.

You stand there for a moment while you wait for the person to leave the car, mystery and intrigue growing when you see the person fiddling with a piece of paper. And then you spot him, Tangerine stepping out of the car, your metal water bottle and a post-it note in his hand as he checks it with the street's signs. Your eyes widen at the sight, following his movements and watching him get closer to the main building door.

You hear a buzz come from the wall intercom by your door and you jump, the sound acting as an alarm and bringing you back to reality. You anxiously waft your hands at your sides as your slippers scruffle across the floor — making your way to the door. With a steady inhale to calm yourself, you press the button.

He calls your name, a questioning tone to it.

“Hi, yeah, it’s me,” you respond, eyes closing as you press your forehead against the wall.

“You forgot your bottle in my office,” he says, voice somewhat hesitant. “Wanted to bring it to you so it doesn’t go mouldy over the weekend.”

It sounded like an excuse.

You smile at the consideration, and wait a beat, seeming to battle the thoughts in your head before finally giving in. You buzz him in and shake your head, pushing away the shame for what this may mean. What it may lead to.

With your boss on his way to your apartment floor, you rush over to the kitchen counter and fill up the kettle — wanting to offer a reasoning for him to stick around. You pop it onto its place to boil, repeatedly hitting at the switch as if it were to make it quicker.

The door knocks and you exhale, the sound wavering in pitch as you turn to face the door. You grab onto the handle and slowly pull it open, being met with your boss on the other side, his blazer folded over his arm.

“Hi, there.”

“Got it from HR,” he says simply, holding the orange paper square with your address scribbled on. He smiles for a brief moment, eyes flickering over your face until they momentarily focus on your lips — the memory of them seeming to act as a distraction. He clears his throat and extends his arm, offering your bottle — the charms jingling with the movement. “Think you forgot something.”

“Thank you,” you smile, taking it from his hold. “Can’t believe I forgot it.”

He couldn’t believe it either. You rarely let it leave your side and it made him question whether it was even an accident at all.

It wasn’t.

“It’s no problem,” he nods, hesitant footing making him linger in place.

The kettle flicks and your mouth opens, shutting abruptly like you were battling with yourself — questioning whether letting him in would be a mistake. But, you decide against the doubts.

“The kettle is hot,” you play with the chain on the door as you begin your offer. “I was about to make a drink… if you wanted one too?”

He nods, his response quick. It’s like he was eager, waiting for the invitation even. “Yeah, that’ll be nice.”

You smile and open your door wider, letting him into your space. He stills as he slips off his shoes, looking around your apartment as if he has just stepped inside your brain, your soul. Flat intricately decorated: artwork on the walls, lamps on almost every surface, looked after plants hanging from the ceiling, handmade items scattered almost everywhere. Anything he had previously pictured — far better. Your apartment an extension of your personality and desk at work.

“Nice place,” he says as he looks around, placing his blazer on the counter. Voice quiet like he’s in awe — eyes always seeming to land on something new.

You focus on the side of his face, watching the genuine appreciation in his features.

“Thank you,” you say softly, words heartfelt.

No man has ever shown interest in your apartment quite like Tangerine. Your bed being the only thing that appeals to the men you’d occasionally bring back.

His eyes drift to you as he follows your voice, noticing something delicate, something somber in your tone. He twists inwards, standing in front of you. You reach for the end of his loosened tie and fiddle with the point of it, eyes cast down at your fidgeting. He too glances down, watching the mindless toying — focusing on the fabric weave between your fingers.

He pulls his hands from his trouser pockets, reaching upwards to you with no such hesitation as before. He rests the inners of his hands over your ears, his hold on your face carefully firm as he tilts your head back, making you look at him. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours.

You’re quick to return the kiss, eager to pick up from where you left off this morning. And it was noticeable. Very noticeable: strained breath, wandering touches, kisses growing deeper — all if an indication for something more.

“I really want you,” you admit through kisses, your hold on his tie rising. “Do you want me?” you question, suddenly far too aware of your own thoughts.

He parts from the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, tips of noses touching. He allows a brief moment to let those words marinate in his head, questioning whether that even needed to be questioned at all.

Tangerine thumbs over your cheeks, eyes fixed on yours through the closeness. “Of course,” he whispers, voice soft and genuine. “Of course I do,” he repeats, emphasising his genuinity.

Your grip on his tie tightens, the hold you have near the collar brings his lips closer — pulling him in to kiss you again.

“Wait right here,” you speak against him and pull away, heading for your room.

Though he doesn’t quite listen, his brain and ears currently incapable of deciphering commands after that little act of yours. He trails after you, pausing by the sofa as he watches you search the drawers in your bedroom.

You find what you're after, holding a little square packet between index and middle finger — making your way back to him.

“It’s ribbed,” you quip, holding it out for him to take.

“Is it now?” he chuckles, placing the condom onto the arm of the couch after giving it a quick once over.

You smile and take a step closer, hands reaching for his waist. “Yeah, and it’s my last one.”

He presses a string of soft, slow kisses to your lips, a wandering hand finding itself settling on the back of your neck. “Promise I won’t break it,” he muffles against you, grip falling down your back — trailing leisurely down the thick knit.

Stepping forwards, he follows pursuit, taking one back until he’s sitting on the sofa behind him. You stand between his parted knees and kick off your slippers, one pink sock and one purple sock covering your feet. Each of them patterned with something different.

But your boss seems rather impatient, his perched forward seated position indicating a matter of urgency. He reaches for your waist, grip firm as he guides you closer, making you straddle one of his thighs. He slips his hands under your jumper, holding the fabric by the hem as he slowly drags it off you, pulling it off over your head.

He places it aside, hands returning to the side of your face — pulling you back in to resume what he had started: kissing you like a man starved of touch. His palms graze to your exposed neck, travelling along your bare shoulders to slip under the straps of your dress.

You slide a hand back into his hair, fingers toying with the curls at the back of his neck — the mindless fiddling just like your other hand situated on his lower stomach. Your touch lowers, skimming over the bulge in his trousers to casually cup his cock.

A bubble gets caught in his throat, a faint groan being muffled between urgent moving lips. Pulling you into him, he twists, setting you lengthwise along the sofa. He moves to hover atop you, bringing one of your knees to hug at his hip, your dress rising with it. He winds himself closer between your thighs, the feel of his cock far more weighty than you had imagined it to be.

You move a hand from behind his neck and instead cup his face almost, thumb in the hollow of his cheek, index in the other — guiding his face to you like you too are starved of touch. Starved of genuine and compassionate touch.

You kiss him with that same fervour as before. Small anticipatory, experimental rocks of your hips wind up against him, as if you're eager to alleviate the tension between your thighs.

He trails his hand down your arm and towards the hand you have on his face. Interlocking his fingers with yours, he peels it from him, simultaneously pulling from the kiss. You peer up at him precautiously, afraid of overstepping a line somehow, but those doubts are soon reassured — his lips pressing faint, light kisses into the palm of your hand.

You watch him from your laid position, staring at the tenderness in his actions. His eyes soft and touch gentle, all the acts one would do when in love.

“You make me feel like a real person,” he admits, voice delicate as he looks over you. Eyes flickering like they were seeking something similar in return.

“You make me feel comfortable with myself,” you too admit, participating in a moment’s honesty unaided.

With your confession, he’s placing a hand on the base of your throat, index finger slotted under your ear — holding you comfortably to press a string of kisses to your lips, each one growing sloppier and deeper.

You wind yourself up against the chubbed up cock in his trousers, being met with a similar motion on his end. The rocking circular grind of his hips also an attempt to rid the slightest bit of tension. All of what you’re each feeling right now seeming to be overbearing.

You snake your arms in to fit between your chests, your fingers finding themselves fiddling with the buttons of his shirt — desperately trying to get him out of it. Undoing the first few buttons and further loosening his tie, you slip them both over his head, yanking it from him needily.

He presses a final kiss to the corner of your mouth as he sits back on his heels. Perching between your spread thighs, he grabs at the hem of your dress, dragging it up the length of your body below. Mustard yellow undies and teal blue bralette being revealed for his starved eyes to see.

Leaning forward he litters a faint cluster of kisses to your middle, unable to help himself — getting distracted it appears. The pecks to your skin raise as does the fabric of your dress, kisses being planted into newly revealed patches of skin until your dress has been fully discarded.

And while he’s ridding you of your clothes, you’re trying the same with his trousers, antsy, hurried fingers finnicking with his belt.

“Get these off,” you murmur, struggling to undress him with the obstructed view and funny angle.

He pulls from the valley of your tits where his face currently resides, head shaking faintly as he chuckles. Hand moving from your neck to his front, he unbuckles his belt with a singular hand, dropping it to the floor.

You perch yourself up slightly, resting on bent elbows behind you. Peering up at him to get a better look — you flicker over his chest, finally seeing what’s underneath those shirts. Your gaze wanders over his skin, slowly taking it all in when you notice a scar on his shoulder. A circular lightened patch of skin.

You balance on one elbow, your other arm extending towards it.

“What’s this?” you ask, voice gentle while your eyes remain firm. Your focus deep.

He looks down to his shoulder, watching your middle finger trace over the memory. The bad memory. It’s like you were somehow replacing those negative associated feelings with something positive, something loving and heartfelt.

“Did a job in Japan,” he replies, the response short, quite like he wasn’t keen to revisit old events.

You pick up on it, eyes moving to follow his when they divert. You bring your hand to your face, lips pressing a kiss to your thumb to then stamp onto his scar — sealing in a physical testament of your unexpressed love.

His eyes soften as he watches the act play out, his heart swelling more than he thought could ever be possible. Everything you do seeming to make him swoon just that bit more.

You straighten the elbow behind you, using it to push from your laid position until you're sat upright, close to Tangerine once again. Reaching past him, you grab the condom from the arm of the sofa and tear it open. Your boss follows suit, pace hurried as he pushes down his trousers and boxers, eager to keep this moving.

His hands settle on the crook of your neck, thumbs gliding up your throat on either side, the slight force of his hold tilting your head back. As if he was far more interested in the sight of your face than what was going on between his legs.

You reach up to kiss him as you grab a hold of his stiffened cock, giving him a few preparatory pumps. Like you’re readying him just that bit more before popping the rubber atop the head of his dick, sliding it downwards to sit snugly at the base.

You move your hands upwards, stroking along his lower stomach until your palms sit on his sides. Holding him fairly firm, you initiate the old position — keeping him close as you lean back, taking him with you. He steadies himself, an elbow bent beside your head to keep his weight off you, not so keen to crush you.

“Need to be inside you,” he murmurs into your lips, composure growing sparse.

Letting go of your loose hold on his waist, your hands fall to your sides, just above the band of your underwear. You sneak your fingers into the elastic and tug downwards, hips lifting accordingly as you shimmy yourself out of the fabric, kicking them off your ankles.

The hand sitting beside your throat moves to slide between you, reaching for his cock. He guides himself closer to you, neck hanging loosely as he peers down between your bodies, watching himself itch to your cunt. Once he feels his head bump against your entrance, the point of entry located — he locks eyes with you, eager to see it all in your face. See what he’s been waiting months for.

He sinks into you slowly, letting your pussy take him at its pace. Little by little until no more of him remains. The whole length of him still as his dick practically plugs you.

“Forgive me… it’s been a while,” he mutters, forehead resting against yours. Movement halted in his hips.

You slip your hand into his by your side. Guiding it to your face, you bring him to your lips — pressing soft, reassuring kisses into his knuckles, trying to ease him. For you it had also been a while, maybe not as long as him, but still, a substantial length of time. Especially compared to what you’re used to.

“It’s perfect, you’re perfect,” you muffle into him, kisses lowering to his fingers. Worshipping the hands that have touched pure evil, that have caused pure evil with nothing but adoration.

His gaze casts downwards as he watches you, the insurmountable pools of love he has for you visible within the softness of his eyes. All of his feelings clear. No shame or doubt behind those pretty blues.

Tangerine rolls into you subtly, cock bumping up into you in a way that knocks the air from your lungs, in a way that momentarily makes you struggle for breath. He thumbs over your bottom and parted lip, eyes intently following the movement before he slips it into your mouth — the slight weight of it resting on your tongue. Lips wrapping around it, you hold him there.

He begins to move into you, hips winding against yours as he fills you entirely with him, slipping in and out with leisure rhythm. Each pump unsystematic and irregular, like the concept of haste was out of the question. As if the only goal was to feel you.

He removes his thumb from between your lips, letting the tip skim across them for a short moment before pulling away, repositioning it to sit at the side of your tit. The thumb that was between your lips moves into the top of your bralette, the force of his grip tugging downwards — exposing your breast. The full weight of it sits atop the thin laced fabric.

Your eyes follow his down to your chest, the wet pad of his thumb itches closer and closer to your nipple. He circles it languidly, the pace slow as he matches the movements to his thrusts. Pairing the motions in a way so intricate that no man with you ever has.

His head ducks as he presses a clump of kisses to the top part of your other tit, giving it similar attention.

“I—” you start, strained voice cutting short with a moan. You swallow thick like an attempt of evening your breathing, steadying yourself. “I uhm—” you try again. A surprise deep bump of his cock knocks any sense of cohesion from your brain, the air from your lungs too. The declaration you’re working up to getting scrambled.

Through your uncertain speech, he peers up at you, lips still pressed to your skin.

“I think I love you,” you whisper, admitting it aloud for the first time.

He pulls from your chest, face reaching yours as he hovers above it, nose skimming yours. “Think?” he repeats, gaze softening.

You shake your head faintly. “I love you,” you correct yourself, reaching up to kiss him.

“I love you,” he whispers to your lips, pulling away a brief second later to watch the response in your eyes.

“You do?” you sweetly question him, a smile forming as you rake through his curls — pushing strands behind his ears..

He nods. “I do.”

“I love you.”

Mindless but fully intentional ‘I love you’s being muttered from your mouths, each one following after a wind of his hips.

And before you’re even aware of it, the pattern of his thrusts grows more and more regular, the ending getting closer for you both. The pair of you reaching that said end within several moments of each other.

Tangerine’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he gives you each a second to stabilise, cock beginning to soften inside of you. You press a kiss to his bicep beside you, littering the worn muscles with something tender — absentminded little smooches to his skin as he hovers limply atop you.

His fingers brush up and down your sides, like he was offering assurance and comfort, easing you in case you were to be feeling doubts. He inhales deeply as he peels himself from you, cock also retracting from you. Tangerine kneels between your spread thighs, fingers drawing lazy lines over your knee.

You look up at him, a somewhat coy and tentative expression on your face.

“Are you leaving?” you ask, tone comparable to hurt.

“Afraid not,” he leans over, planting a kiss to your sternum.

“No?” you smile.

He tucks your breast back into your bra, smoothing over the fabric. “No,” he firmly shakes his head. He straightens his back, resuming the prior position as he reaches for his boxers. “Got a bin?” he asks, carefully yanking the condom from himself, holding it in his hand.

You shake your head as you sit, reaching for a tissue from the coffee table. “It’s in the kitchen,” you respond, handing it to him. “Don’t throw it out, though.”

He folds the used rubber in the paper, eyes narrowing at you like he was confused.

“I want to keep it,” you turn your back to him, hiding your grin as you slip on your underwear. “It’ll make a pretty suncatcher— the sun shining through the purple and on the walls. It’ll look good, don’t you think?” you pause, and turn to look at him, purposefully stiffening your expression.

“I’m sorry,” he says jocosely, the elastic of his boxers pinging as he partially clothes himself. “You want to hang my spunk… in your window?” he chuckles, pointing to your other hanging ornaments in his view.

“I was actually joking before but now I kinda want to,” you laugh softly, lounging back against the sofa.

He steps towards you and shakes his head humorously, leaning over to press an unrushed kiss into your hairline. “What a weird thing you are.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[ PART FOUR ]

#lmdl: his favourite #his favourite #tangerine #tangerine smut #tangerine x reader #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x you #tangerine fanfiction #tangerine x fem!reader

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