#HappenStance Press

[tortoise-teapot]

thinking about belly buttonless solas

"uh. lostitinthefade."

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Happenstance

Bang Chan x Reader ft. Seungmin Synopsis: Chan freaks when you tell him your pregnant, Seungmin sweeps in to pick up the pieces. What happens when you and Chan meet up six years later? Warnings: ANGST, not a lot of fluff, talk of an abortion, i think that's it. A/N: There will be second part to this fic! I apologize if Seungmin seems OOC, I've never written for him before so if i got something wrong, please kindly let me know. Comment if you want to be added to my taglist. @channieehrtz I hope this is close to what you wanted! Requests are OPEN

You held the test in your hands, your heart raced against your ribs. A small little plus sign just changed your life forever.

Pregnant.

You couldn’t believe it. You and Chan had been so careful and safe using condoms and even birth control. You took a deep breath, your body shaking as the realization settles into your being.

How would you tell Chan- could you tell him? Would he even want to know? The two of you never really discussed kids at length, here and there they were mentioned. How, someday, in the distant future having little ones would be fun. Well someday is now today- or about nine months from now.

You could take care of the issue, no problem. Schedule an abortion and leave it at that. Nothing had to change. But while calling the office to get the procedure scheduled, it just felt wrong. So you hung up mid-sentence with the woman and sighed into your hands. Fear flooded your body, Chris wasn’t going to be happy.

The night he came in, stress from the day weighing him down, dread and despair filled ever fiber of your being.

“Hey, baby how was your day?”

Baby

“Long,” he sighs as he presses a kiss to your temple. You close your eyes, trying to memorize the feeling of his lips on your skin, the warmth from his body that envelopes you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you find your arms around his neck hugging him for dear life. Silent tears run down your cheeks as Chan processes the moment.

“Woah,” he says as his large hands splay over your back.

“What’s going on?” You sink into his embrace, the warmth, the familiarity. You shakily pull back, heart hammering in your chest.

“I’m pregnant,” it comes out as a whisper. Chan doesn’t say anything, his eyes grow slightly wide but he doesn’t utter a single word. He stares at you, his eyes and face both unreadable. His gaze in intense despite the unknowing emotion.

“Say something,” you urge him.

“How?” his voice is weak and cracks, “I thought you were on the pill.”

“I am, I- I don’t know how it happened, we were careful,” you stutter, anxiety picking at your insides.

“Well, are you going to get rid of it?” He asks, his voice holding the tone of complete impatience.

“I thought about it, but Chris I- I can’t,” you instinctively hold your arms over you stomach as you think about the loss of the life currently residing in your womb.

“Y/n, we can’t raise a kid. My career is way too taxing, I’d never see it, you’re not in the best place to have a kid,” he goes on but you stop him, a tinge of defense rising up within you.

“Chris, don’t tell me what I am or am not ready for.” You hold up a hand to stop him, “I’m not a child.”

Chris sighs at your words.

“I know, but I just don’t think it’s the best idea,” he tries to bring you close but the air between you has shifted.

“You don’t want this,” you scoff to yourself as your gaze falls to the floor. You knew he wouldn't be excited, but you didn't think things would shift so quickly, the air feeling like it's the beginning of the end.

“No, I don’t. And if you plan on keeping it, I can’t stay.” Your head snaps at attention.

“You’d leave me?”

“I don’t have a choice. I can’t have a kid, I’m not ready and the timing couldn’t be worse.” He sighs dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh my god,” tears brim your eyes.

“Y/n,” he tries to reach for you again. You step back. The both of you stare at each other silently; a silent decision hanging in the balance.

Chan sighs, the tension thick as smog.

“Ok,” he breathes and purses his lips nodding his head, he can’t meet your eyes. Your mouth hangs open slightly at the choice you know he’s made. Your face falls as he begins to speak again.

“I’ll be out of here by tomorrow.” He walks off to the bedroom and your left in the kitchen speechless.

Alone.

-

It’s been six years since Chan left, your daughter is happy, healthy, and she knew about Chan. You never hid who he was, never spoke ill of him, but she started asking more and more questions.

You walk into your apartment one night, Seungmin sitting with her on the couch. Neither of them hears you come in, and you hear her asking him a question.

“Why don’t I get to see my Appa?” Seungmin’s heart squeezes in his chest. Her little voice so sorrowful and confused. Seungmin sighs as he truly doesn’t know how to answer the little girl’s question.

“Hey you two,” you smile at your fiancée. He breathes a small sigh of relief as the little girl, once in his arms, is now pushing away from him to run to you. You bend down to her and her arms wrap around your neck.

“Hey, Mi Cha,” you squeeze her little body as she holds onto you. You stand up giving Seungmin a chaste kiss.

“Eomma,” she whines making both of you giggle.

“Come on, let’s grab dinner.” You take her hand as the three of you head out.

-

The three of you are sitting in a booth having a lovely dinner. Seungmin makes you laugh, and as your in the middle of it, your eyes flit to the door and your smile instantly falls and your breath hitches.

“Y/n?” he asks taking your hand. You feel it, but it doesn’t register in your brain. All that registers is Christopher. You knew the day would come, you just weren’t exactly sure how or when. Your heart begins to beat wildly as your bones turn to Jello. You hadn’t seen him since the day he left. He never called, he never texted you, he never even knew she had been born. Not that you purposefully tried to hide it from him, but it wasn’t something you were dying to tell him either. He made it very clear the day he left; he didn’t care.

Chan’s walking with two men you recognize, Han and Felix, two of his best friends. Two of Seungmin’s best friends. When the split happened, you and Seungmin were all ready close. He vowed to stay by your side, help you with doctors appointments, cooking and cleaning, anything you needed while pregnant, and as life tends to go, the two of you fell for each other and once Mi Cha was born, emotions only grew stronger.

The waitress starts walking your way and you inhale a shaky breath, a protective hand going around your daughter’s shoulders.

Maybe he wouldn’t notice you, maybe somehow, you’d be invisible to him.

Wrong.

Chan’s eyes meet yours as he follows the woman. He briefly stops in his tracks, his eyes landing on the sweet six-year-old by your side. He flits his eyes back to you before looking forward and following the woman in front of him.

Not behind us, don’t sit them behind us. Anywhere but there. You think to yourself.

“Here’s your table, I’ll be right back to take your drink order.” You hear the waitress say as she sets the menu’s down on the table right behind you. You shut your eyes and groan quietly. You feel it, the awkward tension. Does he? He has to, right? I mean he just seen his one and only daughter for the first time in six years and it’s not like he didn’t recognize you.

You look over to Seungmin who seen exactly what you did. His old friend, the father of your child, sitting in the booth behind you. He knew how broken up you were when Chan left. Seungmin wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive him for leaving you, for leaving the girl he’d come to call daughter.

“We can leave, right now. Go somewhere else, go home,” he offers quickly but you shake your head.

“No, Mi Cha wanted to eat here, let’s just enjoy our meal.” You sigh as you take another bite of food.

“Ok, but if you change your mind, just say the word.” He says and you nod.

“Thank you,” you smile. A little further into the meal, Mi Cha stands up in the booth, looking over the back of the seat.

Chan takes a bite of his food when he meets a pair of identical brown eyes. He stops mid chew and stares at the little girl, his heart aching in his chest. He knows exactly who she is.

“Channie hyung?” Han asks before following his brother’s gaze. Han’s eyes widen and Felix is the next to see her. The table goes silent for a moment. Mi Cha smiles at him sweetly, giving him a little wave of her hand.

“I’m Mi Cha,” she introduces herself. Chan’s heart flutters at the sound of her voice. Such a fitting name for his little girl. The guys look back to Chan who offers her a small smile.

He notices she has his dimples, his eye color, and chin. But your nose, eye shape and forehead. A perfect combination between the two of you.

Your heart races as you hear your little girl tell her name to the table behind you and you and Seungmin share a quick worried glance.

“Mi, sit down. That’s rude,” you tug on her dress. She looks down at you, and defiantly, hops down from the booth before you can stop her. She brings her stuffie along with her walking over to Chris.

“This is Ducha,” she says proudly as she shows Chris the stuffed dog. You slide out of the booth, ready to grab her by the arm when you see Chris take the toy from your child.

“How old is she?” He asks, his attention on her even though he can feel you staring holes into his body.

“She’s three. Eomma got her for me when I was little.” She looks back at you, Chan follows her gaze. His eyes rake over your frame, taking in the subtle highlights of your hair, the way your style had changed, and your body. Your body was just as beautiful as it was before Mi Cha, even if it did change. He offers you a smile, and you purse your lips back at him with a subtle nod.

“This is her,” she pulls you to him.

“Hey,” he says before giving your child back her stuffed animal.

“Hi,” you say and nod to Felix and Han who are looking between you like it’s the best rom com they’ve ever seen.

“Sorry to bother you, she got up before I could grab her.” You say as you start to pull her away.

“No, Eomma I was making a friend." She whines and looks back at Chris heartbroken. Chris feels a certain dominance rise up in him and he can’t let it go.

“Chan,” Felix asks as he watches his friend wipe his mouth before sliding out of the booth.

“Well, we can’t be friends if I don’t tell you my name,” he says as he bends down in front of your now seated daughter. Seungmin’s eyes are glued to Chan, and Chan’s eyes flit to you, a small smirk displaying on his lips.

“I’m Christopher.” He bows his head and your daughter giggles.

“That’s my appa’s name, but I don’t know him.” She says before picking up her fork and taking a bite. Your brows furrow with your eyes shut as Chan’s eyes flit to you.

You shake your head no and he stands up straight, giving you a look of “you should have told me” before he sits back down. Seungmin looks at you, pointedly knowing what’s coming.

“He’s gone this long,” he whispers so your daughter won’t hear.

“I know,” you respond back to him. The three of you finish your meal, the looming presence of Chan still tangible. You’re all getting up from the table when Mi Cha says she needs to use the bathroom. You look at Seungmin who offers to go grab the car for you.

“Thank you.” You tell him with a sweet kiss, one Chan doesn’t miss. You walk past his table taking your daughter to the bathroom. Once she’s finished you walk back out with her, Chan’s no longer at his table, neither are his friends.

You feel a little lighter knowing he’s gone. You expect to see the car waiting for you not far from the door, but instead it’s not there.

You glance around the parking lot only to find Seungmin talking to Chan. Your heart jumps into your throat as you quickly make your way over.

“You didn’t even care about her,” Seungmin says within ear shot of the two of you. They both hear your footsteps and look over at you.

“Let’s go,” Seungmin says as politely as he can. You put Mi Cha in the car, Chan watches helplessly as his daughter waves at him. Your eyes meet as you shut her door, Seungmin watches from the driver’s side.

“Can we talk?” Chan asks blocking your car door.

“I need to get home, Mi Cha has school tomorrow,” you try to politely decline but he won’t budge.

“Just a few minutes, I’ll drive you home if I need to.” He offers, his eyes pleading. You glance at Seungmin who raises his brows at you in surprise that you’re entertaining him.

“I’ll only be a minute,” you tell him. You chew on your bottom lip as you follow him up to the patio of the restaurant.

“What,” you ask with your arms folded across your chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You made it very clear how you felt about her.” You say simply. You get a good look at Chan, he’s bulked up since you were together, matured in many ways.

“Y/n, I know I screwed up but I had a right to know.” He tries to argue, anger rises up in your veins.

“And I had a right to not be alone during the scariest thing in my life!” Chan purses his lips.

“If I recall correctly, you weren’t.” he mumbles.

“Oh, fuck you,” you scoff, “Don’t be mad that he was the man you couldn’t be.”

Chan nods, “You’re right, he was. Y/n I was scared- petrified, when you told me you were pregnant. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to be a dad, I didn’t know how to be the man you needed.”

“So you chose to abandon me instead, cool.” You nod with pursed lips.

“I know it was wrong and I’m sorry, but I’ve really missed you and, and now I’ve met her. Y/n she’s amazing. Definitely not shy around strangers,” he chuckles to himself and you nod.

“Actually, she doesn’t do that very often.” You admit quietly.

“She’s not one to normally go up to people.” Chan smiles to himself.

“I miss you,” he says stepping closer to you, his right hand finding your hip. Your heart beat slams in your chest at the proximity.

“Chan,”

“Take me back, please. I’ll do right by you this time. I’ll stick around, I’ll help, I’ll learn or do whatever it takes.” He whispers, his face inches from yours.

"Just one more chance," he breathes. You go to open your mouth but he continues.

“Please, y/n, these last six years, they’ve been hell without you.”

“Chan, I’m engaged,” you show him the ring he silently noticed earlier in the evening.

“I don’t care, I want you. I want Mi Cha, I want us to be a family.”

“What about what I want? Hmm? Did it cross your mind that I don’t want you? That I don’t want you around my daughter since you could so easily leave her before she was even born?” Hurt and anger rise up in your chest, tears threatening to spill over.

“I’m getting married in six months, Chan. Seungmin loves me, he’s been there, he’s been a father to my daughter her whole life. You didn’t reach out once.” You push him back adrenaline kicking in to the point you feel shaky, but you keep your composure.

You turn on your heel to leave him standing there.

“At least let me be apart of her life,” he pleads. You freeze in your spot, you don’t turn around to face him, your profile appears over your shoulder.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“She’s my daughter,” he says defensively.

“Which is why you should understand my hesitation. I don’t want you showing up for a year and leaving because you get mad, scared or whatever else. I will not let you put her through the hell you put me through.”

Tags: @breakmeoff @krishastumblernow

Part 2- Parks & Recreation

Please do not repost my work

Love notes, comments and requests are greatly appreciated!

[pineapple-downside-up-cake]

I've gone a bit feral over the inexperienced Simon agenda. I'm also a little obsessed with the 'size kink but in the not-feeling oversized' post.

It was supposed to be short and dirty... Before I knew it there were 3k words. I don't even know if it's still smut or if it's just a sex scene, but it's being released into the wild, anyway. Enjoy!

18+, MDNI

CW: use of sex toy; inexperienced Simon Riley, mentions of weight insecurity

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

There are no waifs in your family line.

Peasants, farmers, horses... a dwarf or nine? Quite possibly.

It's not that you're fat, per se.

You're just solid. A bulwark of a woman in a world that venerates the narrow-boned, slim sculpted beauty that was never in your cards.

You’ve had lovers in the past, not all of them terrible. A few with enough reciprocity even to prioritize your pleasure, and it’s not entirely their fault if you’ve deliberately put brains over brawns – your friends might point out that your type skews heavily towards ‘spindly legged nerds’.

It’s not so much preference as happenstance. These are the people you are around, the kind of men you can talk to long enough to form a basis for intercourse. And, you remind them as you remind yourself, intelligence and personality are supposed to be desirable qualities, as well. Things that matter more to a relationship than appearances.

But you’ve always been aware of the physical imbalances, always careful to balance your weight, to curb your strength and pleasure to avoid breaking your twiggy lovers. It wasn’t bad. Just…measured.

Restrained.

Restraint you wish you could cast unto the last guy you dated, who went all in that first night on the couch in his apartment, a night that has haunted your psyche since.

You’d lost your balance, landed a little too heavily – and the man had fucking laughed, letting out an uninhibited “crush me, mommy” that sent you running for the hills, feeling the least sexy you've felt since your last high school dance.

It put you off men for months, because how the hell does someone recover from that?

But when Simon - gorgeous, intelligent, you-are-the-brute-squad Simon fucking Riley - asks you out?

Well.

You say yes. Obviously.

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

It was supposed to just be a kiss at the door.

A goodbye kiss - a good goodbye kiss, because a man with honey eyes like that deserved a little tongue in his farewell - but then you were eye to eye with him on the top step and his shoulders were just there like the only shelter you'd ever need, and of course you wrapped your arms around his neck, and suddenly your goodbye kiss at the door moved inside the door, then behind the door, and then against the door.

And you don't find yourself regretting it at all.

Kissing Simon is every bit as wonderful as you had imagined. His mouth is warm and wet and you love a man who knows how to use his tongue - not bullying, but teasing, and when he scrapes his teeth across your lip something explodes in your brain.

Kissing Simon is better than you imagined.

Your fingers curl in the back of his hair and you push yourself against his erection, suddenly wishing you were a lace and skirt kind of girl, that you didn't have two layers of denim between you, because you aren't sure you've ever been this turned on, and how good would it feel to have his warmth pressed all the way against you?

There's no way you could possibly get either pair of pants off, not without stopping, and that's not an option you're ready to consider, so instead you grip him tighter with your thighs and let the ache between your legs grow, fluttering around nothing and getting wetter by the second, arousal seeping out.

It's a kiss that last eternity, but not long enough, because soon Simon is pulling away when he should stay glued against you forever, and you reluctantly lower your legs from their new favorite spot wrapped around his waist. He rests a forearm on the wall next to you like he needs grounding or he'll fall apart without it, and you melt just a little, grateful that your legs still seem work. He drops his forehead to your shoulder, both of you quiet and gulping as you reacquaint yourselves with the taste of air.

"Fucking hell, you are..." He lifts his head to search your face like he's not quite sure it's real. That you're real. "You are all woman, aren't you?" His voice is hoarse, and you don't know if it's supposed to be a question because you were the last time you checked - granted it has been a while - but honestly what does that even mean?

His lips are plump and thoroughly kissed, glistening - by you, you did that - and you have to rip your eyes away to form a sentence.

"Do you want to stay the night?"

Simon had held you against the wall like you weighed nothing, like he didn't even have to think twice about your thighs in his hands, about strength and leverage and slotting himself perfectly between your legs, and you are so, so weak - if he decides not to stay the night, you have absolutely no shame in getting yourself off to the memory of this alone later.

You can see it in the way he forcibly pulls himself back, tension warring with responsibility, that he wants to stay. Instead you watch him coil his desire like he has to weigh anchor to get away from you.

"I've got to work in the morning. I - I should go."

And you let him go, because you can be disappointed but respectful at the same time, but you give him a hug - not another kiss, no starting that, neither of you fully yourselves again - and a smile.

"Goodnight, Simon."

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

Returning to his graveyard of an apartment is hard. It's far emptier than he remembers it being when left a few hours ago. He hates that he left, but he really does have to get up early for an exercise with the recruits. And if it spared him a little longer, it wasn't such a bad thing.

You had felt right in his arms. Maybe even too right - you'd locked together like a scope to a well oiled rifle, flush and secure and so fucking perfect. He’d nearly come undone right there in your hallway, fully clothed like a teenager, and what an unimpressive end to the night that would have been.

He heads straight for a long, cold, useless shower, and does his damnedest to think about the logistics order. It’s midnight when he finally crawls into bed and sets his alarm for 0600.

Normally, Simon sleeps, if not well, at least on command – a side effect of military life. But he’s still thinking about what could have been fifty-seven minutes later, and he should have known better than to prolong the inevitable.

He's no stranger to an attitude adjusting wank. His palm isn’t particularly special or exciting, but it can usually get the job done well enough. Tonight, as he slides down the elastic of his sweats, he finds his imagination has returned with a vengeance.

He’s hard again and he hasn’t even touched himself.

He’d give anything right now to know what you felt like skin to skin. If your nipples were sensitive – if he could make you come with his mouth alone, or if you preferred top or bottom – is that something he’s supposed to ask about? He wants to find out.

His cock jumps in agreement and he surrenders, gripping himself haphazardly and picturing you.

Not intimidated by him at all. Eyes glazed and full of soft noises. The way your thighs fit into his hands and how you’d felt when he pressed up against you – were you wet? If he had stayed, if he had gotten to touch - would you have wanted him as much as he wanted you?

He thrusts into his hand almost involuntarily at the thought, thinking of you pliant and willing and gasping his name – and suddenly he’s short of air and stifling the mess with the bedsheet.

0100.

Fuck.

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

When he comes over on Friday, both of you are a little shy - the afterimage from earlier very much on your minds. Quiet, deliberate, you sit together on the couch in silence, not moving towards each other, making stilted conversation about your day.

Eventually you give in.

"Simon..." It's not going get it out of your system - you can tell sex with Simon isn't a one time affair - but at least it would clear the air. "I have to be honest. The other night? That was basically the hottest thing that's ever happened to me." The confession is quiet, sheepish, and you can see him breathe a sigh of relief, big shoulders slumping back away from his ears - what did he think you were going to say?

"I can't stop thinking about it. I've been dreaming about jumping your bones all week. Do you want to go upstairs?"

Simon has never wanted anything more in his life. Not another magazine, or air support, or Soap to stop speaking in tongues. He chases you up the stairs, heart thumping in his chest like it's his first time.

It's not. He's had sex before - it's been a while (a long while), but he's not a virgin. It wasn't really good - he'd describe it as 'okay' sex, which makes him sound like a snob, but he has one of those inconveniently sized packages that require signature on delivery - too big for comfort for the women who were chasing burly soldiers like him.

Practically, it means your slow makeout session is...not so slow. Simon has your shirt off before you ever hit the bed, painting a path across your neck with his lips, and by the time you're comfortable, your pants have disappeared like you were never wearing any to begin with.

The only time he falters, hesitates at all, is when you finally wrap your hand around the bare length of him, everything exposed at last. He's got this look on his face like he's waiting for you to panic, the corner of his mouth turned up with a ready response.

You like a challenge, and while you won't tell him he exaggerated - he really, really didn't, you let him know you aren't scared off, either.

A cocky smile, and a spark in your eyes, you let him know how much you appreciate it. "I can take it. Or I'll die trying, which wouldn't be so bad, either."

It's amazing, that with all the blood in his engorged cock, that Simon still has enough left over to blush.

It's better, easier, especially this first time, with you on top, where you can control the pace, so you push at his chest (and what a chest it is - a bare hint of blonde fuzz, but mostly pecs you could eat and the cutest little man nipples you've ever seen.)

You have to pay for it with a kiss, but eventually Simon rolls over to his back, laid out for you in his full naked glory.

He’s not some narrow, stick figured man you cling to like a fire pole – wrapping yourself around Simon Riley is like wrestling a refrigerator, every inch of you spread wide to take him in. Your thighs nudge that much further apart and you can’t explain it but it brings a fresh surge of arousal – he’s got you split open and broken in half for him before he’s even in you.

And when he does - when he slots the throbbing head of himself against you, nudges in -

Your eyelashes flutter and you scrabble for purchase, nails biting into his chest as he slowly presses into you, savoring that first glide as he scrambles your brain.

There's no room for anything, any thoughts other than Simon, like he possesses your entire being, filling you with an exquisite stretch that makes you feel like you'll explode.

He’s not even doing anything special – this is sex at its barest, but it’s better than anything you’ve had before – the angle, the depth, knowing he could pick you up and flip you over without breaking a sweat.

"You are so obscenely hot. Do you know how good it feels to sit on you and not worry about breaking you?" You laugh breathlessly, because it's hard to find room for air when you're trying to relax around him.

He slides so easily in your slick, but your muscles fight it as you slowly sink deeper onto him, and you help as you much as you can, clenching and relaxing and adjusting a little at a time until there's nowhere else to go.

He moans, low and deep, clutching at your thighs - to make you stop or to make you keep going, he's not sure - and you can feel him twitch inside you. "Do - do you know how hot it is that you just....you took the whole thing? Taking my dick so well, I can't believe it."

His head drops back against the pillow, eyes shut like he's afraid he's dreaming, that if he opens them it may all end. But you're still there, looking at him like you're enjoying yourself.

You could spend all night here, speared on him, spread wide, filled to completion with his head hot and pulsing inside you, knowing you will be ruined for your stupid spindly men forever.

It takes a second for you even to think about moving, but eventually you inch your way into a slow glide.

Beneath you, Simon finds he can cant his hips just a bit, and your eyes really do roll back into your head which is fascinating so he does it again, and again, and your slow glide gets a little out of control -

You bounce and he thrusts and your rhythms are the perfect level of unaligned to have him slip out of you, catching the thickness of his head between your bodies on a hard downslide and suddenly he's lost, losing himself into the condom with a few jerks of his hips.

Ever a man of few words - a long, drawn out moan is all you get out of him, and you help him finish, as unsatisfying as it might be, with a few more rolls of your hips against where he's trapped, until he stills you with a hand to the thigh, spasming like he's been shocked.

Simon Riley, dethroned king of never p-in-v, has a new complex he'll never recover from. He drags your pillow over his face with both hands, like he would smother himself if he thought it would help.

“'M so sorry,” he mumbles from under the pillow. His chest and neck are flushing the most fascinating shade of red, and it’s so attractive – not to mention flattering – that you can’t imagine how anyone finds it in themselves to be offended.

Reassurance falls on deaf ears. You try, anyway, sliding off his softening cock as he shudders once more. “It doesn't happen all the time for women. I still enjoyed it.”

He hears you, but it’s wrong. It has to be wrong. Simon wants to learn how to make you come every time, possibly all the time, if you can stand it. Wants to see you shivering in ecstasy, mind full of nothing but him and how good he makes you feel.

If he could melt into the mattress and disappear, he would.

"I'll make it up to you," he promises, and you've no doubt about that. He seems like the kind of guy that takes commitment seriously.

Lying next to him, you pull the pillow gently away and nuzzle his neck, sliding a slow hand up his bare chest. He’s spent, limp and boneless. He should be basking in afterglow, and instead he looks miserable. Tormented.

What the hell, you’re a modern woman.

You roll half off the bed to snag something from the night stand and hold it up for his inspection. It’s a garish pink that hurts his eyes, but Simon can't look away. He understands what it is. Never seen one before, though. Definitely never seen it used.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little intimidated.

"Do you think you can hold on to me?" You dangle the vibrator from loose fingertips, and maybe you shouldn't tease him but you also need him to know it really isn't a problem - that A in B isn't the only way to have sex.

He finds it in himself to nod. His throat is tight and he wishes his body would respond to how badly he wants you, but despite his best attempts he remains limp. Dick dead to the world, and to you, and he almost wishes he could take a bullet, instead.

You straddle him again, supported by his knees behind you. It takes a little lift to get the angle right, but when you do the thick end of the vibrator slides in with no resistance. You know what you're missing, now, and it doesn't fill you nearly as well as Simon, but you smile at him because you can tell by the awed look on his face that you’re about to blow his mind.

You would be the first to admit it's not your usual strategy - this is a tactical vibrator, a high efficiency stress reliever that helps you sleep on restless nights. The thing has at least 10 settings and 3 intensity levels. You're only acquainted with two of those, but you know exactly how to make them work for you, and tonight that's what matters.

You guide one of Simon's hands to your hip, and the other to the button on the vibrator, and you hesitate - more bluster than confidence at this point, but he's got a way of making you feel like a sex goddess just by touching you with those hands that span half your ass, and you go straight to your favorite setting.

Convenient, that the slow ramp mimics exactly how you'd like to ride him, if he could last forever. The pulse burns through both of you, rumbling in his chest and sending lighting through your core.

His fingers splay across your hips, digging into the ample flesh, his torso so broad just straddling him takes you to a whole new level of arousal, and he helps you rock on the vibrator where it's pinned to his abs.

He's looking at you like you're the hottest thing he's ever seen, molten heat and promise in those dark brown eyes of his, and you can almost hear all the things he wants to do to you, and so you close your eyes and imagine it instead, imagine it's him you're riding, that you could watch him rut into you as careful, thoughtful Simon fucked you into oblivion.

"So good Simon, so close - " He doesn't understand why it's his name that escapes your lips - he's not doing much, just along for the ride, but somehow it makes him feel wanted and not like a dud.

Like he might still have a shot with you, that he didn't ruin this, and he's speaking before thinking for once in his life - "Give it to me, love, want to see you come."

It's enough. It's more than enough, tension rising in a flood and you need it now. Squeezing his flanks with your thighs, you lose all capacity for words, gasping for air, and you grab his hand and help him push the wand exactly where you need it until the heat rushes up and drowns you, making you shudder violently against him.

You have all of a half second before it becomes too much, and you nudge Simon's hand out of the way as you roll off him and yank out the vibrator in one go, flinging it over the edge of the bed, a problem for tomorrow.

You collapse facedown next to Simon like a ragdoll, gooey satisfaction still spreading through your limbs. It's silent except for the sounds of your breathing, and you sidle over to press up against Simon, to lay with your head on his chest.

He pulls you in tight, wrapping one of those massive biceps around your back, to comfort you or because he's afraid you'll disappear he isn't sure, but then you bite him, sink your teeth into the bare flesh of his pec - not hard, but it gets him out of his head.

"You're wonderful." You mumble, post-coital sleepiness coming in fast.

"You're...incredible," he whispers back. "That was... I don't even have words for that. Hell." He does have words, words like 'you're the best thing that's ever happened to me' and 'I only want to fuck you for the rest of my life', but he knows without being told that it is way too early for that.

Instead, the two of you fall asleep together, your leg tangled with his. When you wake up, he eats you out like he's never had a proper meal in his life, shows you with his mouth what he won't say yet.

You don't really need convincing, but you won't complain.

[lilyswritings]

hatchet.

synopsis: my own iteration of the split-second glimpse of frank we got in the 'daredevil: born again trailer' — some angst, some reunion fluff, some heat... enjoy! author’s note: saw frank castle on the screen for the first time in years and... yeah. wow, i've missed my man. this is obviously inspired by the glimpse of him we get in the new daredevil trailer, but as we obviously don't have any context for it, i put my own little spin on it. does it make any sense? probably not, but when have i ever let that stop me. i got a little carried away, oops! wordcount: 2,988

Frank Castle x Reader

Ever since your vigilante boyfriend had to drop off the face of the Earth, you've become something of a social recluse.

Yeah, sure, you still keep in sporadic touch with Matt, Foggy, and Karen, but having to say goodbye to the man you love the most in the world and never see him again definitely dampened your appetite for social interaction.

It also made you paranoid, said Karen over a late-night drink, and though you'd disputed that fact at the time, she had a point. You glance over your shoulder everywhere you go, tuck your body into the corner-most seat at every restaurant as your eyes scan the crowd, and spend hours each night browsing the web for sightings of the infamous 'Punisher'.

That's not paranoia, you muse to yourself. It's desperation.

You look for him everywhere. But you know he's too good at what he does to be found by happenstance, and that when it's safe — for you, that is — he'll resurface.

"You're not safe." The two of you had been arguing for what must have been an hour at that point, with him reiterating the same stupid point over and over again.

You had planted your hands on your hips at that point, sick of feeling told what to do, and not even considering his ridiculous idea of disappearing. "You're not listening to me. I can fend for myself, and, honestly, I don't see how you leaving me will make me any safer than I am when you're—"

"Because they'll be coming after me, and if they figure out that they can get to me through you, then you'll become a target to them—"

"We've been over this already," You throw your hands up in exasperation, sick of feeling coddled. "I don't care, I—"

"Well I do!" Frank's voice had just erupted then, rising to a shouting volume for the first time all night, and you'd held back the retort poised on your lips, recognizing the severity in his expression. "I care if you disappear, or get hurt, or..."

Neither of you need him to finish that sentence, you both understand exactly what he's afraid of.

"I will not let them take you too." His voice cracked, and the anger in your body dissipated immediately, replaced by tears brimming in your eyes.

"So what, I just never see you again?" Your brows tug together, face crumpling as the reality of his plan sets in.

"Hey, no, c'mere," He tugs you into his arms, pressing your head against his chest, and you burrow into him, latching your hands around his torso as if maybe, just maybe, the harder you hold onto him, the less you'll have to let him go. "It's not never." The rumble of his voice in his chest has always been soothing to you, but his words set you on edge.

"But you don't know how long." You keep your face pressed into the worn grey fabric of his shirt as you speak, hoping to hide the devastation on your face. It's not a question. He doesn't answer, and your heart shatters on the spot, tears seeping into his shirt as your world falls apart.

Frank was gone before you even woke up the next morning.

You shake yourself out of the memory of that day, glancing over your shoulder as you turn down the street towards your local gym. Part of your coping mechanism for Frank leaving was proving him wrong, proving that you don't need him to protect you — that you can protect yourself.

That he doesn't need to leave again.

You're grateful for the silence in the gym, having paid the gym owner to let you in after hours, so you don't have to worry about seeing other people while you work out — a pet peeve of yours.

You lose yourself in your routine — focusing on strength, on combat, hitting the sandbag until your knuckles ache and kicking the mannequin until your shins turn red — until finally, red and sweaty and panting, you decide to wrap up for the day.

You've just opened your locker when you hear it — the quietest creak of the door closing, deliberately quiet, like someone is trying to sneak in. Your breath catches in your chest, slipping your hand into your gym bag and wrapping around the handle of one of the weapons you'd brought with you.

Yeah, okay, maybe you'd gone a little overboard bringing a hatchet with you to the gym, but you're grateful for it right now. You spot a dark shape move in the reflection of the metal locker, and you grit your teeth.

This is it, the people Frank were running from have found you. Fear builds in your throat, cloying at your windpipe, but one thought rings through your head that steadies you. He can't lose you too.

And with that, you wheel around, weapon swinging through the air as you go. A strong hand catches your forearm, pausing your attack, and you drop the weapon into your other waiting hand —

And freeze when you catch a glimpse of your so-called attacker.

It doesn't feel real, and for a moment, you panic, stumbling a step backwards in fear that this is some kind of trick, that it's not him, but then he steps into the light from the window, hands raised in a placating motion, and you gasp.

"You gonna put the hatchet down?" The deep rumble of Frank's voice runs through you, achingly familiar, and the weapon slips out of your hand and clatters loudly against the concrete.

"...Frank." You breathe out, the word barely audible in your state of shock, and watch as his dark eyes run over your features, as if mapping out your face. The moment stretches out seemingly infinitely — the only sound in the room your intermingled bated breaths, eyes drinking in the sight of each other ravenously.

"Hi sweetheart." A tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth — his facial hair is longer, the rugged look suits him, you've always liked the beard — and as your mind runs a millions miles a minute, the spell is broken, and you catapult into him, your bodies colliding as you fling your arms around his neck and sob against him.

His strong arms — tree trunks, you'd called them once — wrap around you in a way that feels like home, and you breathe in his scent of leather and coffee and gunpowder. The embrace is grounding, as you feel the quickened rise and fall of his chest between your arms and your torso.

"You're real." You whisper into his neck, barely able to believe it.

"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm real." The roughness of his voice feels even thicker, wrought with an emotion you can't quite place — relief, possibly. Regret, maybe. Both, most likely.

You fist your fingers tighter into his shirt, still unwilling to let go of him as your own wave of emotions cascades over you. "You left."

Frank's sharp exhale breezes over the top of your head. "I know."

“I looked for you— I looked everywhere—”

His grip tightens as you speak, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head. “I know, baby. I know. You know I never wanted to leave you. You know that.”

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you out of your skin, and you break the embrace for the first time to dart down to pick up the hatchet you'd dropped, whirling around to face the noise.

"Matt." You gasp when your eyes land on him, and the lawyer smiles sheepishly in return.

"Just wanted to remind the two of you that you're not alone." He punctuates his sentence with a tap of his cane on the ground, and you sigh out a shaky laugh.

"What're you even doing here?"

"How do you think Frank knew how to find you?" He cocks his head, readjusting his red glasses, and you spin to find Frank.

Frank rubs a hand over his jaw as his eyes flicker between you and Matt, shifting his weight slightly — you can tell he's uncomfortable. "Called in a favour," He admits, eyes falling down to bore a hole into the concrete floor. "Didn't know how to—" He stops short, eyes darkening as he exhales, finally rising to meet your gaze again. "Didn’t know if you'd want to see me again."

Your heart clenches at his words, and you glance over at Matt, who gives you the smallest, knowing smile. "Thank you." You utter, barely a whisper, aimed so only Matt will hear it.

“I’ll, uh, give you two some time alone," Matt says, nodding at each of you. "I'll see you around."

And with that, he turns, cane tapping against the gym floor as he walks away, leaving you and Frank standing in the silence.

This is the time when you should get angry. Yell at him, shove at him, make him truly understand what it felt like to be all alone for all this time. But when you take him in, the lines on his face, the way his eyes dart around the room, you know he felt it all too.

Instead, you sigh, reaching for your boyfriend's hand, and say, "Take me home."

And he does.

The walk home is quiet. Frank keeps a hand on you the whole way, though — his fingers grazing your wrist as you step onto the sidewalk, resting on the small of your back as you wait at a crosswalk, a gentle weight on your forearm as you go to unlock your apartment door. A reassurance — you're here, he's back. The constant reminder is necessary for the both of you, you imagine.

Inside the apartment, the air feels thick, hanging with the unspoken — a possible argument looming on the horizon, the potential reunion of two lovers who've spent time apart, the hazard that this is a relationship ruined beyond repair — you can feel every scenario run through your brain at a mile a minute, and it's making you sick.

You lock your door behind you, fingers lingering on the deadbolt before you turn to find Frank standing in the dim light of your living room. His shoulders are tense, like he’s waiting for you to chew him out, like he wouldn’t blame you if you did.

Your anxiety melts, realizing he's having the same train of thought you are.

“You hungry?”

A flicker of surprise passes over his face, and he nods once, glancing towards your kitchen. “Uh, yeah.”

"Don't get too excited, it's just leftovers from last night." You warn as you pass him, moving the takeout containers from the fridge to the microwave while Frank leans against the counter, watching you.

His presence is heavy, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. You hand him a container and a fork, and he takes them with a quiet thanks.

The two of you eat in near silence, sitting in close proximity on your beat up old couch. You don’t ask where he’s been, what he's done, and he doesn’t offer. Not yet.

You lean over and place your empty container on the coffee table, watching as he does the same, before turning and capturing his lips with yours, sick of the mutual silent treatment you had both endeavoured upon.

He meets your kiss eagerly, hungrily, getting over his initial shock in record time. You both lose yourself in the embrace, pausing briefly to squeal against his lips as he lifts you up and places you in his lap, straddling his waist, your cheeks blazing at the sudden change in position.

Eventually, the two of you come up for air, foreheads pressed together as silence settles back into the space of your apartment and your heart stops thundering against your eardrums.

“You should get some rest.” You say, softer than you mean to, and he chuckles under you.

"If you want to get me into your bed you can just say so, sweetheart." The rumble of his laugh deepens as you roll your eyes and smack him on the chest, standing up from the couch and placing your hands on your hips.

"I mean it," You raise an eyebrow. "I'm sure you're tired, and we can resume... This, later."

Frank stands with a sigh, smirk toying at the corner of his lips, and you roll your eyes again, suppressing your own wide smile. "Alright, alright." He holds his hands up in surrender, moving toward the bedroom.

You toss the empty containers, taking a moment to compose yourself and tamp down the giddy feeling in your chest at Frank's return. You rifle through a cabinet in the living room, finding the basket of Frank's clothes you'd stashed away, and pull out a worn t-shirt and pajama pants before heading into the bedroom.

When you enter, you frown at the empty room. Glancing into the bathroom to find Frank also not in there, your heart begins to thunder in your chest. He wouldn't, you tell yourself, but doubt begins to gnaw at you.

Suddenly, a hand clamps down on your shoulder, and you wheel around and press your arm to the throat of your attacker.

"We have got to stop meeting like this." Frank's amused smile greets you, and you gasp.

"Jesus, Frank!" You exhale, eyes wide. "You're such an asshole!"

"I'm impressed, is what I am."

"What, you wanted proof that I can beat your ass now?"

"Is that so?" He raises one dark eyebrow, smirking slightly, and your stomach drops.

Before you have a chance to react he's latched a foot behind your leg and sweeps you off your footing, following you down as you crash back onto the bed, his hands encircling your wrists and keeping you down. A breathy laugh bubbles out of you, caught off guard, before you roll your eyes.

"That wasn't fair." You complain, trying very hard not to think about how little you mind being stuck in this position.

Frank makes a 'tsk' sound, leaning down into your space. "You let yourself get distracted." You make a humming sound, lifting your head off the bed to press your lips against Frank's, smiling when he reciprocates, one of his hands coming up to cup your jaw.

Success.

You pull a knee up, tucking it between your bodies, before swinging your weight sideways and causing him to tumble sideways onto the bed this time. You scramble to get on top of him, thighs on either side as you press your hands to his wrists.

"Ooh, don't get so distracted, Castle." A cocky smirk alights on your face, peering down at him, and your heart flutters as a broad smile cracks open his mouth.

      Frank huffs out a laugh beneath you, causing the entire bed to shake lightly as he shakes his head. "I'll give you that one." He admits, his eyes gleaming with emotion — something like pride, but softer, heavier, and your heart melts in your chest. 

      You lean your weight forward, pressing your palms harder against his wrists to keep him pinned (though you're both aware he could break free if he really wanted to) but he doesn't. He just lays there, raking his dark eyes over your face, his expression unreadable now. 

      The air between the two of you shifts, and then slows. 

      You swallow thickly, increasingly aware of the warmth and solidity of his body beneath you, of his eyes on your face, tracing a path from your lips back up to your eyes. Your breath catches in your throat, pulse hammering, and you're grateful when he speaks first. 

      “You missed me.” His voice is lower, impossibly gravellier than usual, and definitive. It's not a question. 

      You nod, throat tightening. "Yes," You breathe. "I did."

      His expression softens, the sharp edges of him melting away as you both take each other in — like earlier in the gym, but with less desperation, less shock. He shifts, tugging one of his hands free from your grip with alarming ease, but instead of pushing you off of him, he reaches up and traces the edge of your cheek with the back of his fingers, leaving them to rest against your skin, rough and warm. 

      You lean into his touch, exhaling shakily. "You're back."

       Frank nods, his fingers drifting down to cup the back of your neck. “Yeah. I’m back.”

      For how long, you don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

      Instead, you lean your torso down, tilting your head as you slot your mouth against his in a kiss that's slower this time, less teasing, releasing his other hand and placing both of yours on either side of his head. He takes his newly freed hands and rests them against your waist, pulling you down even closer against him. 

      You're not sure how long the two of you remain tangled up in each other, pressing kisses against skin as if trying to make up for lost time. Eventually, reality seeps back in, and Frank pulls away to gaze at you with the softest darkest eyes you've ever seen.

      “You ever gonna tell me what the hell you were doing in that gym with a goddamn hatchet?” His voice is gruff, teasing, but there’s something else there, too — concern.

      You huff, rolling your eyes but not pulling away. “I was proving a point.”

      Frank lifts an eyebrow. “That point being?”

      “That I can take care of myself.”

      His expression flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then, finally, he nods. “Yeah,” He murmurs, thumb brushing against your jaw. “I can see that.”

       A beat of silence. Then, his lips twitch. “A hatchet, though? Really?” 

      You groan, smacking his shoulder as he laughs, deep and warm, and you can’t help but think — yeah. He’s back.

[charliemwrites]

Still thinking about yesterday’s post and the dynamic that fucking snatched up my brain worms in a vice grip.

Reader who is perfectly capable, has a well earned spot on her team. Who has safety net after safety net provided by the mere presence of the rest of 141. So much so that she doesn’t even remember what fear is. Living in that invincible bubble of “we’re the best because we look out for each other and we’re not going to let anything happen to each other”

And the day that bubble pops and you don’t even realize it yet. A chance encounter with a KorTac operative and you stole his kill right out from under him. Made eye contact in a shower of blood, maybe even threw him a cheeky grin, high on stims as you were.

You didn’t realize that you’d stepped outside the metaphorical bounds of your little safe zone, stepped right into the territory of a feral, untamed creature with sharp teeth and the scent of you cloying in his nose. A scent that made his blood sing a siren song of want.

It’s not just happenstance that you cross paths again. (Not that you know that). Hes been seeking you out, taking mission after mission in a dogged attempt to see you again. To see if it was more than a fluke.

And his impatience, his persistence, is rewarded with the silhouette of you, breaking a man’s neck with your thighs. (If the man weren’t surely dead, he’d wish he was for the crime of having your attention, of being smothered by your thighs, of being that close to your cunt.)

In your precious stealth gear, sleek and deadly, eyes sharp on the path ahead, not the shadow gathering behind you. He just watches you for a long while, soaking you up like a dry earth in a squall, letting you take root deep, deep within his being, in the place a soul should be. (You’re better than.)

He’s got your callsign now, whispered by one of your team members as their path intersects with yours. Narrowed eyes at the (too) friendly shake given to the hard mask covering your mouth and nose, the way your cheeks rounded with a grin beneath.

What was an interest has evolved instantaneously into an obsession. (Or devotion. Or love. They’re all the same to him, all the same kind of possession.)

He loves watching you fight as much as he loves watching you kill. He’s hard in his tac pants experiencing it this close, getting to feel each unforgiving strike in all the openings he leaves for you - invitations you always accept because you’re his good girl and you can’t resist, of course not.

He purrs when he gets you pinned to the wall, your eyes big, sparking with that animal knowledge that you’ve been bested by a bigger predator. That you’ve been won, claimed. To the victors go the spoils, and the only thing he’s lost is his restraint.

You’re panting and squirming beneath him, and he’s hypnotized, unable to do more than press closer, press harder to get you wriggling against him. Moaning softly when your heel digs a bruise into his calf, how you go still with a sort of realization.

“Again,” he rasps into your ear, “go on, pretty little hunter. Keep going. You’re so strong.”

But before you can, something over his shoulder steals your attention. Your eyes flick away from, where they should be. And he realizes that he been so consumed by you, intoxicated, that he missed the intrusion on your moment together.

In the aftermath, his gear smells like you. The place where he slipped his thigh between yours and pressed he swears smells like your cunt, heady perfume. He’s breathes it in as he fucks his tight fist, high on the memory of your strength testing itself against his.

He imagines the scent of him all over you in return. Going back to those men with his claim in your armor, wishes you’d taken the blade with you, his blood smearing your gloves, your shirt, your pants, staining your skin.

He cums to that thought, thick spurts all over a grainy print out of you from the op he first met you on, milky drops on the ink that forms your mask.

Soon, it’ll be reality.

[kentoxo]

Reader x okkotsu, a date where they wear a short skirt or dress that makes Yuuta worry (wish) that his underwear will be seen, to his relief (disappointment), his girlfriend was wearing shorts so nothing could be seen. But it's too late because he's already horny and needs to know what they're wearing under those shorts.

yes yes YES

pairing: reader (f) x bf!Yuta (aged up)

warning: eating out, sex in a changing room

a/n: my first yuta prompt, im so excited! i hope this makes yall proud

It was plaguing Yuta's mind as his eyes narrowed at the closed bathroom door.

Behind that door housed the sounds of you getting ready. He could hear you sing along to the music you were playing, supplemented by the noises of your makeup being picked up and put down. His hands were pressed flat against one another and wedged between anxious (and eager) thighs.

He eagerly listened to the pit pats of your feet as you pulled up your skirt. Yuta was taking you out on a date, and knew you had plans to wear something short as it was quite hot in Japan. Although wearing those kinds of outfits made him nervous, he'd never stop you from wearing what you wanted.

To him, you were the most attractive woman in the world. Considering all the curses he's forced to meet, you were the sun that cleared his clouds. But your beauty made him nervous, as every thought he has of you being out on your own would make his mind wander terribly.

"I'm ready!"

His head lifted, eyes perked up and wide as the smell of your perfume came front and center at his sense. You were dressed comfortably in a flattering crop top, with a short denim skirt and white trainers. You did your makeup and hair to your usual preference and a wide smile decorated your lips.

You gifted him a cheeky wink, "lets go!"

You could feel Yuta's aura. It was... peculiar. Although he gave you smiles whenever you looked at him, his eyes were distant, and so was his head. His hand was tighter than usual around yours, but he wasn't quite as guarded.

Unknown to you, Yuta's feelings were going through war. His anxiety ran rampant up from the thought of everyone seeing just a sliver of your ass. One thing about Yuta: he couldn't stand when men looked at what is his. He'd glare at any man who even glanced at you by happenstance. However...

As he walked behind you, the idea to see your ass outside was exhilarating. It already looked delectable in your skirt, but the idea of you just bending over to see your clothed treasures was enough to send him into heat. A bulge made home in the tent of his pants, and Yuta remained crimson in the face.

But the very moment you bent over slightly from dropping a gum wrapper, Yuta bit his tongue. The hem of a black pair of shorts made its presence known, and practically mocked the aroused sorcerer. Although his heart was relieved, the bulge in his pants twitched in slight annoyance.

He anticipated to see these lacy panties, or a thong that disappears between the crevice of your cheeks. Despite his previous nerves, he hungered for the teasing power of your itty bitty skirt. He was beside himself, feeling embarrassed that he was having such thoughts as you two were being seated at the restaurant.

"You're so red, babe," your words were soaked with worry. You quickly take the pitcher and pour him a cup of cold water. Sliding the glass over, you huff at him, "please drink some water."

Later on, the two of you found yourself in a small shopping area. Yuta would never say no to you, and you lead the way to browse in all the shops. Between boutiques, Yuta tried to make the most of the fresh air. His boner would not relent, and he didn't know how to calm it down. So long as you were present, his libido would not tame.

"Let's go in here-- I heard they have new skirts in stock!"

Your boyfriend followed you promptly, always remaining by your side or near you as your excitedly picked out a few pieces. Looking over at your tall boyfriend, you transfer the stack into his arms and force him to follow you towards the changing room.

"Don't feel rushed, peach," Yuta hums as he places the clothing on the bench in your selected changing room. This boutique was very laxed as there wasn't a worker or guard assigned at the changing rooms. So Yuta being able to join you in the changing room is always fun. "Try on everything you'd like."

"You're too sweet on me," you say happily, cupping his cheeks with your hands to press a kiss on his lips. You pick up a few of the skirts you picked out to fix them onto the hooks on the wall.

As you did, Yuta helped himself to the free side of the bench, stretching his long legs after the good deal of walking you two have done. But the moment his azure eyes were met with your ass, he knew he was done for. He watches your delicate hands make its way to the hem of your skirt. Lifting it up for more access, you wedge your thumbs between your hips and the shorts that Yuta had long villainized.

Yuta desperately covers his mouth, trying his best not to let out a moan. But your mindless actions were worsening the state of his cock. He dared not make a sound and stop you from discarding those damned shorts. They finally slid down and dropped to your ankles, revealing your black, lacy thong. Once you put your fingers between your ass and your thong to pull it out a bit, Yuta couldn't contain himself.

"y/n," he begins quietly, "can I ask a favor?"

"Anything," you reply sweetly.

You felt large hands attach themselves to your ass, with his thumb dragging your thong out of your ass, and to the side. His sudden, amorous actions shot pangs of heat to your flower, knowing what was gonna happen next. With how small the changing room was, you were able to lean comfortably against the wall before you.

A cold tongue introduces itself to your warm flaps, lapping at the small pool of juice he caused. You press your forehead, too, against the wall, trying to keep still from the excitement. You two rarely did risqué things like this, as Yuta was always sharp and too socially conscious. But you guess he finally cracked.

"a-ah... babe..." raspy moans slip out. But you couldn't help yourself. The way the tip of his tongue circled around your clit. The way you felt his lips purse to suck your cunt. His hot breaths were tantalizing, wanting more of him. "please...!" Your breath hitches.

"please try and keep quiet, my love," Yuta warns in a whisper. His fingers dent into your cheeks and hips, his lips leaving sloppy kisses on your ass and around your flower. "i know this isn't the place or time but... you and these damn shorts.."

"eh...?" You whisper, slightly looking back before you arch your back when Yuta dragged his tongue against your bud. Your warm honey slowly seeped out as Yuta drank every drop as if it was expensive wine. The wet sounds of him eating you out kept bringing you closer and closer to your climax. "lovey, m'so close... please..."

"mm, you taste so good, pretty girl," he groans against your folds. "stay still for me." He lets you go, allowing you to look over at the mirror to get a good look at your boyfriend. Yuta, ever the silly man, scrambles to loosen his belt buckle and zip down his pants. His stiff cock flings itself out, earning a grunt from a very horny Yuta.

Finding his place back on your ass, he pulls your thong to the side. In moments, he guides you down to sit right on his cock. The both of you let out a throaty sigh of relief, your back pressing comfortably against his solid torso. The hard shaft filled you up lovingly, feeling your warm walls hug him desperately. His shaky sighs tickled your neck, but you cupped your hands to ensure that not a sound left your saliva-coated lips.

"are you ready?" Yuta whispers in your ear. You nod, watching as his hands hold you from underneath your thighs. With a firm grip, Yuta begins to lift you up and drop you down on his cock. It took him quite a lot of strength, but fucking you was a necessity for him at this time. Your eyes looked over at the mirror, watching Yuta's side profile as he focused on fucking you.

His mouth was open, lips agape and in awe at the feeling of your cunt taking his cock. Veins protrude from his neck, with beads of sweat beginning to form. His usually neat hair was now messy, as the movement made his body jump lightly. But you noticed his dark azure eyes remain glued to your ass, the hunger evident in his irises.

Realizing this, you wanted to spoil him and give him a treat. That desire was also coated with selfishness, as you wanted to see his face when you bounced on his cock. "b-baby, let me..." you struggled to let out, your hands finding their way to his forearms. Yuta stops, leaning forward to meet your gaze.

"peach?" His innocent tone in your nickname shot an arrow through your heart.

He (painfully) lets you go as you adjust yourself a bit on his lap. You lean more into the wall, your palms pressed firmly against it. Without another minute wasted, you begin to grind down on your boyfriends cock.

Yuta was in ecstasy. "-sh-shit... fuck...!" His nails dug into the bench, his head thrown back in pleasure. You kept your eyes glued to the mirror, eating up the sight of your horny boyfriend in pure bliss. His own eyes try to stay on your ass. The way it bounced on his member, the jiggles and waves on the roundness of your bum. "you're so sexy, so --perfect..."

You speed up, forcing Yuta to grab and bite down on the collar of his usual white shirt. His teeth gritted down on the fabric that separated them, attempting (and failing) to keep himself from finishing. His cock slid in and out of you, his tip softly dragging along your entrance. It twitched and curved reverently between your walls, teasing your g-spot with every bounce.

"shit, shit-- y/n!" His delayed hands grab your ass, squeezing down tightly as his warm load fills you. You sit down on his cock, your back meeting his torso once again as you finish moments after him. The two of you attempt to repress your heavy, relieved breaths as Yuta's hands lovingly rub along your thighs.

"baby..." you struggle between breaths, "what got into ya? You'd never... take me in a place like this."

Yuta's face was flushed, and he stubbornly looks away from the mirror. "I will buy you everything you want from this store if you promise to stop wearing those stupid shorts under your skirt. At least, when we are out together."

Without further questioning, you immediately nodded, "your wish is my command, Yuta."

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty: daniel

word count: 6.5k (the longest yet!)

warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-nine | thirty | thirty-one

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

It hit like ice in the chest.

Lando didn’t flinch, but Max tensed beside him. Across the space, Yuki caught the movement, eyes narrowing.

“Something wrong?” Pierre asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t answer. His hand had already shifted slightly inside his coat, fingertips brushing the handle of the gun holstered at his side. His gaze swept the site—not panicked, but fast and sharp. Calculating.

He saw it now. The strategically lengthy tirades, the disproportionately coy smile, the knives hanging from Tsunoda’s belt. The very way Pierre had come crawling out of the woodwork so many years after the two of them knowing each other, bearing grand promises of riches and partnerships one random night as if by some happenstance of the universe.

It had been clean. Too clean.

They’d been setting him up from the start.

For a second, there was silence.

A beat where everything held still—where the unfinished beams of the club echoed with the sound of wind and the faint hum of construction generators. Where the world hesitated.

But the moment Oscar’s warning hit his ear, Lando knew it was already too late to leave clean.

And then—

Gunfire cracked through the air like a whip.

Chaos shattered the night.

He didn’t move a muscle—but Max did. A flicker of instinct. He reached beneath his jacket just as the first gunshot cracked like thunder, shattering a window high above them. Concrete dust rained down like snow.

Max Fewtrell was the first to move, shoving Lando sideways behind a stack of cement bags just as bullets ripped through where he’d been standing seconds before. Lando rolled, coat flying back as he drew his weapon, ears already ringing with the sudden roar of violence. He could hear yelling—Pierre barking orders in French, someone screaming from the upper levels, the grinding roar of an engine kicking to life from outside.

Max was crouched low beside him, already firing back.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, reloading with quick, trained hands. “This is a setup. Gasly sold us out.”

“No shit,” Lando snapped, voice tight. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, voice low but sharp. “Oscar—”

“I’m– I’m pinned,” Oscar replied, breathless, the sound of a sniper rifle clattering. “They knew I was up here. One on the roof, at least. Maybe two?”

The space proceeded to explode into chaos.

From the shadows behind the scaffolding, two men emerged—automatic rifles raised. Ocon opened fire, bullets chewing into the rusted metal frames just a few feet from Lando’s head. Max shoved him hard behind a steel beam, returning fire in tight, disciplined bursts.

Another shot. 

Closer this time. 

Sniper–?

No, two of them. 

Oscar was pinned.

Lando’s voice was calm in the comms. “We’re lit up. I want eyes on every goddamn angle. Now.”

Outside, Logan heard it and reacted instantly. Tires screeched as his car skid right to the construction fencing, engine still running as he jumped out with his Glock already in hand.

Pierre stood there, unmoved in the middle of it all, not flinching as bullets flew overhead. Just watching. A slow smile curling over his lips.

“I told you,” he said quietly, as Yuki ducked and slipped out of view. “Like old times, eh?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“You dirty fucking bastard. You set this up!”

Pierre shrugged, the smirk never falling. “Hmm, well, not all the credit is for me.”

From the mezzanine above, another figure emerged—calm, tailored, hair brushed back like a goddamn crown prince.

Charles Leclerc.

The bastard walked like it was a catwalk, not a warzone. Confident. Inevitable. Behind him, his two brothers flanked him like twin lions, guns in hand, their eyes on Lando.

Charles’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “You are not stupid, Lando. You knew the drugs were not yours to touch. You thought your little poison had wings? Thought Noxium would not be noticed, would not clip into our market?”

Lando’s blood turned to ice.

The Leclercs.

This wasn’t just about territory. It was a message, a reckoning.

“Lando Norris, you made yourself a Reaper,” Charles said, tone dropping to something low and sinister. “Now I’m here to remind you who builds the coffins.”

Then, all hell broke loose.

Blood already smeared across one cheek, Logan crashed through the door like a thunderbolt, gun drawn, firing clean and fast. He shoved one of the Leclerc brothers – the younger one, Arthur– near the scaffolding before yelling, “They’ve got snipers in the east lot too. I knifed one, but there’s another crawling the perimeter!”

Another voice cut in—Carlos, gritting into his own comm, “We are three minutes out. Hold your ground.”

“They brought a whole bloody army,” Max spat, ducking behind a crumbling pillar. “What the fuck happened? What– What’d we miss?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His mind, even under fire, was already stringing the pieces together.

Pierre—too smooth, too cooperative. That sly grin, the way he stalled in the beginning. He hadn’t been offering a deal: he’d been buying time.

And now… now Lando understood why — Charles Leclerc.

He didn’t look rushed or angry. He looked like he’d been waiting for this – like he’d dreamed of it, like vengeance was a dinner he planned to eat slowly.

“Lando Norris,” Charles sang, casual as if greeting an old friend, a gun loose in his right hand as he searched to see where the response would sound from. There was something gleeful hidden in those dark eyes as he smiled, his accent curling like smoke. “You’ve been trespassing.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t touch any of your shit. I kept my hands to m’self.”

“You used to,” Charles said, walking closer to the sound of the Brit’s voice, hunting him down. “Clubs, casinos, protection—yes, those were yours. I left them to you, quite generous of me.”

Lando and Max panted under their breaths, exchanging a glance as they hear the sound of vintage Italian leather shoes echoing through the structure.

They did not come here to die today.

“But the drugs, Lando? Your precious Noxium? That’s our family’s lifeline. That was supposed to be ours. You knew that.”

A beat.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

And just like that, the game changed.

This wasn’t about territory. This wasn’t business. This was personal.

Pierre hadn’t betrayed Lando for profit. He’d done it for Charles. – the two of them childhood friends, tied in blood and sweat and secrets.

The entire fucking meeting had been a blood-stained invitation.

A time and place for the Reaper to bleed.

More of Lando’s men were beginning to come into view—Carlos barreling in from the back alley with Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo at his heels. The air turned molten, full of dust and fire and bullet heat, as the fight exploded across the half-built club.

Lando didn’t flinch.

He stood up from behind the scaffolding, straining his stance, eyes locked on Charles across the smoke with a gun pointed directly at his face.

“You made your point,” Lando said. “Now let’s see if you can survive it.”

Carlos burst in through a side entrance, firing clean and close-quartered, and with Daniel Ricciardo coming in hot behind him. “They’re on all sides! There’s more behind the loading dock—three minimum!”

Oscar’s voice snapped through the earpiece, breathless: “I’m compromised! This idiot came for the high ground first—fucking amateurs, but I got my hands full. Someone need to cover Lando!”

Max reloaded beside him, jaw tight, knuckles bloodied. “We’ve got five minutes if we’re lucky. Less if the Leclercs brought every cousin they’ve got.”

Logan dragged a wounded shooter behind a stack of pallets and pressed Lando’s spare piece into his hand. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Lando stood, finally—face unreadable, coat streaked with dust, his hand steady on the grip of his weapon. His eyes locked with Charles’s above.

“You wanted a Reaper?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You’re about to meet him.”

Gunfire erupted through the half-constructed club, lighting up the darkness like a battlefield. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the heavy, oily stench of fresh concrete and steel, filling the air with a metallic tang. Every corner was a potential trap, every noise a chance at death. Shadows flitted across the space, their movements quick and deliberate. The chaos was alive, its pulse thumping in time with the gunfire.

Carlos crouched low behind a hole in the drywall, his hands working fast and fluid as he reloaded, exchanging one clip for another. The sharp, precise motions were second nature—no hesitation, no mistakes. Daniel, grimacing in pain, leaned against a load-bearing column to catch his breath, blood beginning to stain his shirt.. Still, his finger never left the trigger, a smug grin permanently etched into his face, like he was still having fun.

Across the battlefield, Yuki’s voice crackled over the opposing team’s comms. The orders were clipped, cold, spoken in rapid Japanese. They were well-organized, methodical—an efficient machine moving in perfect synchrony.

But Lando’s men were just as sharp.

Lando finally backed Charles into a corner, smirking as he pulled the gun from his holster. Charles was a smart enough man with enough experience to recognize that glimmer in the obsidian of Lando’s eyes.

It was the call of death.

A sign of the true Reaper.

For a split second, everything went quiet. Around them, the usual chaos felt like it slowed, or at least faded into background noise. The silence was only a moment, a breath, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Lando’s neck rise. It was the calm in the storm, the strange lull that only ever happens in real fights—everything paused for that single heartbeat.

Somewhere around him, he could identify the distant sounds of Logan holding the line at the loading bay, steady shots ringing out from his position. Oscar, with what was probably a broken rib, was still picking off targets from above, his shots sharp and deliberate. Daniel and Carlos surveyed in overlapping circles, ready for the next of their attackers to come from almost any direction. Max Verstappen had his hands full, the sound of each merciless blow Pierre received echoing through the surrounding structure.

Logan. Oscar. Daniel. Carlos.  Max Verstappen.

Max.

Max.

Where’s Max?

That was when Lando Norris made his only mistake. He glanced beside him to check for Max Fewtrell – just a flick of his eyes, barely noticeable at all.

But it was enough.

From where he stood, Charles Leclerc saw it instantly. It wasn’t much—a small crack, a human moment, the briefest flicker of emotion. 

But it was too late for Lando to take it back.

“Go for him,” Leclerc barked, the command bellowing even from where the Monagesque stood cornered. “The one he looked at!”

Instantly, both Lorenzo and Arthur Leclerc turned and began flanking from the left. Yuki Tsunoda circled from the right. The rest moved like a pack of wolves, closing in with a singular focus.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“Shit– Fewtrell!”

Max had just ducked back into cover when he noticed the incoming attack. The men moved with precision, intent on isolating him, forcing him into a corner.

Without a second thought, Lando moved. He slid behind a piece of cover, coming up just enough to fire two quick shots— forcing Gasly’s rookie to drop to clutch at the new gaping wounds in his thigh. Lando sprinted, reaching Max just as bullets began to ping off the exposed rebar behind them.

Max coughed, wiping dust from his face. “Just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lando shot back, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him closer towards Logan’s position. “Get moving. Don’t stop.”

They barely made it to safety. Barely.

But Lando wasn’t done yet. He was hit—a baton crashing into his ribs. He hadn’t seen Lorenzo closing in. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, sending him crashing back against the cold concrete floor. Pain exploded through him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Bootsteps. One set, then another. 

They were too close.

Lando blinked through the haze of pain, looking up just as a shadow fell over him. The silhouette of a dark figure, the distinct profile of his Monagesque rival with his pistol raised.

Ready.

For a heartbeat, Lando’s world slowed. The figure took a fraction of a second too long, but it was enough.

Then, instinct took over.

With a brutal twist, Lando wrenched a utility knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s calf. There was no finesse – just raw, brutal violence. Charles screamed in agony, and consequently,  his grip on the gun faltered.

Lando knocked the weapon away with a vicious swipe, rolling to his feet, grabbing the gun as it fell. Two rounds rang out—straight into the man’s vest. Another figure lunged from the side. Lando ducked, the movement fluid, his elbow slamming into the attacker’s ribs before he shot him down, quick and efficient.

It wasn’t quiet enough.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal overhead, only narrowly missing Lando’s head. The noise echoed in his skull, ringing in his ears.

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood—his own, someone else’s. His arm shook, barely holding onto the gun, but he didn’t lower it. 

Not yet. Not until they knew.

Lando stepped back, firing two shots into the ceiling—loud, commanding.

The message was clear.

Back. The. Fuck. Off.

The remaining attackers hesitated, then one by one, they began to pull back, retreating beyond the skeleton of the unfinished building like rats scurrying for cover. Lando blinked, and Charles Leclerc was already gone.

Oscar’s voice crackled in his ear, rough and breathless. “They’re, uh– They’re clearing. We can pull back now.”

Slowly, carefully, the team began to regroup. Every move felt like a struggle. The adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, but they were all battered, bruised. 

Alive, if only just.

Even as they watched their adversaries disappear into the night, the air still crackled with the aftershocks of violence.

Carlos was the first to lower his weapon fully. His face was split open at the brow, blood crusting in a jagged line down the side of his temple. His shirt, ripped at the sleeve, clung to him like a second skin. He exhaled shakily, then staggered to one knee beside the busted crate he’d used for cover.

Oscar emerged next—limping, rifle slack in his grip, sweat-soaked curls stuck to his forehead. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes unreadable behind the dim flicker of overhead bulbs that hadn’t stopped buzzing since the first shot. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down against the nearest concrete pillar and pressed the heel of his palm into the ribs he’d likely cracked during the fight.

Logan was the last one in.

He slid in through the back corridor, bloody knuckles and bruises blooming along his arms like mottled paint. There was a cut just beneath his jaw that he hadn’t bothered to wipe. “I got two of ‘em,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Lost one. Maybe.”

No one answered.

Max sat crumpled on the ground, elbows propped on his knees. He kept his head down, hands open in front of him like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now. His shirt was half torn, the side of his face swollen and bruised. One of his fingers was bent at an odd angle, but he didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

Lando stood at the edge of it all, his black pistol still in hand, his shirt torn at the collar, his left cheekbone already beginning to turn a shade of yellow. His breathing was steady, but his pulse was loud enough to feel in his teeth. He hadn’t spoken since the last shot fired.

The silence between them was almost reverent, but it wasn’t quite relief yet.

Carlos coughed, winced, and forced himself upright. “Everyone—?”

Oscar glanced toward the far corridor. Then shook his head, once, sharply. “No one else came in after us.”  

Logan’s lips parted, but he didn’t ask the question they were all thinking. He didn’t have to.

There were five of them here.

Just five.

Lando still hadn’t moved. His eyes scanned the wreckage—the spent shells littering the ground, the smear of blood across the broken wall, the shape of his own shadow in the flickering light.

He finally turned toward the group. His expression was quiet and composed, his eyes dark. 

No one spoke for a while.

The dust settled like ash around them, and all they could hear was the distant thrum of city life bleeding back into the broken building—the sirens, the grind of tires, some fuckin’ bird chirping in the aftermath of what felt like a warzone.

Lando drew a breath, and it tasted like copper and regret.

His palm was still stained with someone’s blood. Maybe his, maybe not. Everything felt too wrecked to tell.

He turned.

Carlos was seated now, his head leaning back against the unfinished wall, his arm slung across his torso with a long-sleeve shirt acting as a makeshift bandage. His lip was split, those large brown eyes of his glassier than his boss had ever seen them. But he gave Lando a weak thumbs-up when their eyes met, and Lando didn’t have the heart not to give him a small smile back.

Carlos, who could’ve gone anywhere. NASA, Mercedes — any of the places that would’ve worshipped that brilliant mind of his. But he stayed—for his dad. He wanted to give the old man the life he’d always dreamed of, something to reward him for all he’s given up for a boy of the same name.

The Spaniard had definitely made Lando proud today.

Logan was also crouched nearby, his jacket torn, his knuckles split. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes kept darting, sharp and alert. He’d never let himself rest before the job was done. Lando remembers the kid he met years ago, straight outta Florida, all sunburn and bright eyes and nerves. The kind of kid who wanted to be someone. Lando had seen himself in that hunger. When Lando looked at him, Logan looked at him with a bright smile, eager to show how unaffected he was.

With their complementary shiners, Lando could see a bit of himself in Logan tonight too.

Oscar was still perched on the stairwell, holding his ribs. It seemed he preferred the higher vantage point, even now. There was blood on his shirt, darker closer to the part near the hem that covered his hip. Lando couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, but Oscar hadn’t let go of his rifle. He’d never even blinked when the chaos had hit. In fact, he was the reason they weren’t all dead.

Oscar was the reason Lando got the warning at all.

Then there was Max Fewtrell, slumped against the doorway as he pressed a cold cloth to the side of his head. He’d nearly been hit. No, he was hit—grazed across the temple, just enough to make Lando’s heart stop when he had seen the blood.

Fewtrell had always been different. It would be untrue to say he was just the same as the others. Even Lando knew, deep down, that he was different – not just a soldier, not just a friend. He was the only one who could get under Lando’s skin in a way that felt familial. He was the only one who could call him out on his shit and still get a small smile after. And today, Lando had almost lost him. 

All because of one second – one look. 

One look had almost cost Lando the only man he considered his brother.

He dragged a hand down his face, smearing dust into the blood on his skin, and counted again.

Carlos. Logan. Oscar. Fewtrell. Verstappen.

His gaze swept the room again.

Wait.

Where’s—

Where the fuck is Daniel?

He turned around, his eyes scanning the place again—back over the entryway, the busted scaffolding, the stairwell. He pushed himself to remember. 

Where had Daniel been when the shooting started? He was right behind Lando, wasn’t he? Left side?

“Anyone seen Ricciardo?” Lando asked.

No one answers. Max looked up, blinking. Logan shifted uncomfortably. Carlos doesn’t move at all. Oscar just swore under his breath.

And that’s when it really hit Lando.

He didn’t see it coming. He missed the trap. He was smarter than that, for fuck’s sake – he’d known there would be one. But he let himself get cocky, and now someone who mattered —someone who trusted him— might be gone. Because they’d gone for his soft spot, and once again, he didn’t even realize it was exposed.

He stares at the cracked floor for a second. The sharp sting in his lungs returns, but it wasn’t from the smoke.

It was guilt.

“Keep eyes out,” he mutters, and then louder, firmer, “Find him.”

They’d only just begun to search—Logan darting toward a side hallway, Oscar cautiously peering around a corner, Carlos gritting his teeth as he pushed himself upright—when a figure emerged from behind an unfinished stairwell.

“Daniel?” Max’s voice cut through first, rough and tight with disbelief.

The others turned, and there he was.

The Aussie was dragging one foot behind the other, his shoulders hunched, his arms limp at his sides. His shirt was torn, stained dark with blood and soot. Cuts lined his jaw and temple. His face was pale, slack with exhaustion. But he was there. Alive. Moving—if just barely.

“Daniel, where were you, mate?” Fewtrell was already beginning to approach closer, concern overtaking the limp in his own step. “We were all—”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Daniel mumbled, the words tumbling out slurred and slow. His eyes were wide and glassy, not really seeing them.

“What?” Logan called, squinting toward him through the dark and the dust that had yet to settle. “Daniel—what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know how to get it out,” Daniel said again, voice starting to hitch. His breathing was shallow now, labored. “I tried… heh, I tried—but, em,—”

Lando stepped forward, cutting through the rest of the voices. He moved fast, closing the distance and bracing Daniel by both shoulders, steadying him before he could collapse. His grip was firm, but his touch betrayed a flicker of fear—trying to keep Daniel upright, keep him here.

“Daniel,” he said, locking eyes with him. “What the fuck are you talking ‘bout, mate?”

Daniel wavered again. His knees buckled slightly, and Lando instinctively pulled him closer, adjusting his stance to hold him better.

And that’s when he saw it.

The hilt of a kris dagger protruded from between Daniel’s shoulder blades, dark metal glinting beneath the soot and blood. It was carved—elegant, almost ceremonial. A sickle curve, buried deep enough to split ribs and tear through anything in its path.

Lando froze, his breath caught hard in his lungs. The others hadn’t seen it yet, the wound still hidden from view. But he had.

Daniel was starting to sag forward now, strength draining from his limbs as his blood soaked through Lando’s hands. His eyes lost focus. His breaths came in short, wet gasps.

“Oh my god…” Lando whispered, arms tightening around him, desperate to keep him from slipping any further. “Daniel…”

Daniel blinked, as if trying to stay awake. His jaw trembled. “I didn’t know how to tell you, mate,” he whispered, broken and shaking. “Didn’t wanna ruin your win…”

Lando’s head dropped, throat closing up around the swell of panic. He shook his head, once, fiercely.

This didn’t feel like a win.

They didn’t go home.

There was nowhere to go. Not until they knew, at least.

So they dragged Daniel back to one of their safehouses, a cramped, peeling basement below a now-closed tailor’s. By the time they set him down, Oscar was already yelling for gauze and towels, trying to stop the bleeding that wouldn’t comply with his will. Carlos had the med kit ripped open before Oscar could even finish asking, and Max Verstappen pulled his navy hoodie off, balling it up and handing it over with a trembling hand that no one commented on like it was the only thing that might help.

Lando followed in silence, pale and smeared with blood all over. Even after he yanked that godforsaken blade from where it had embedded itself deep into the flesh of Daniel’s back, his hands never quite stopped shaking.

And Daniel? 

Daniel was still cracking jokes, sense of humor still just as intact as the day Lando had found the only mechanic on Monte Carlo who was open at 3 AM. The Brit had searched every nook and cranny of this city in hopes of finding someone, anyone, who could save his precious car – that first McLaren he’d ever bought with his own money.

Daniel always did know how to fix the unfixable.

“'S not that bad, right?” he slurs, eyes fluttering open. “I mean— m'still prettier than Max,” he quips with a bad wink in the direction where he has to assume his old friend is.

Someone laughed — maybe Verstappen. Maybe it was a choked sob.

It was hard to tell, really.

Oscar worked fast, just as he always did. But even he hesitated, just for a second, when he peeled Max’s hoodie back so he could get a better look at the wound again. It wasn‘t just deep—it was designed to stay. The kris’s path was cruel and clever, curved to tear what couldn’t be stitched.

Still, no one said it, because saying it would make it real.

Carlos hovered nearby, quietly wringing a rag in a bowl of water that had long since turned red. Max knelt by Daniel’s head, talking to him softly in English when the familiar Dutch didn’t stick. Logan paced the length of the dimly lit room like a caged dog. Oscar wouldn’t stop moving, fidgeting with his makeshift tools, his sleeves, anything he could reasonably reach.

Lando didn’t have the heart to tell the kid off.

Instead, Lando just sat there, his hands coated in Daniel’s blood, his jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

Every so often, Daniel would stir – breath hitching, jokes fading.

Then one hour became two. Two then became four. When Max stroked his curls away from his forehead where they were matted with sweat, he could feel his friend’s skin grow colder. The silences began to stretch longer.

But still—at least he was breathing.

That was the spark – that was what kept them from falling apart.

“He’s strong,” Max blurted out, the sincerity of his words making him sound younger, more innocent. “He’s– He’s fucking strong, alright? He’ll pull through.”

“His color’s holding,” Carlos added, cautiously optimistic. “This is good, yes?”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He’d seen too much to lie.

Lando refused to blink. In all the hours they spend there, he refused to sleep, refused to even think of a version of this scenario where Daniel didn’t wake up and make fun of them all for being so damn dramatic.

From his seat by the head of the table turned makeshift bed, Lando just kept whispering, “You’re fine. You’re fine, Danny. We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”

But everyone else knew what a wound like that meant, what a life like this meant for each of them. They all knew what Lando couldn't say.

It was only a matter of time.

They all knew what business they were in.

No one got into this line of work thinking they’d make it to fifty with a pension and a neat little garden. Nobody had gotten here by accident. Not a single one of them could claim ignorance. They were in the kind of game where exits came in body bags, and grief was a cost you factored into the ledgers. They were gamblers, all of them—risking limb and life on a daily basis, trading safety for control, comfort for power.

But Daniel was different. 

He always had been, really.

He knew the darkness, saw it clearer than most, in fact. But still—somehow—he stayed good, better, kinder. He always laughed harder, held on longer. Daniel Ricciardo carried hope like a flare he refused to drop, even when the wind howled and the rain came in sideways.

He was, despite everything, the best of them.

That made it worse. Because none of them were surprised that he’d gone down for them, only sickened by how easily it could’ve been anyone else. That it was him hurt in their place.

The truth was that, despite everything, none of them ever imagined it’d be Danny.

Not Danny Ric, with his crooked grin and dumb jokes and the kind of laughter that made you forget how goddamn dark it always was. Not Daniel, who remembered birthdays and brought back stupid souvenirs and called them all mate like it meant something.

He wasn’t soft—God, no. He was ruthless when he had to be. Everyone knew that Ricciardo could flip a man with a wrench and a grin and walk away whistling.

But still, he was hopeful. The great tragedy of Daniel Ricciardo was that he was the most hopeful of them all. He was the brightest, the one who cracked the darkest rooms open with his smile and made them forget, if only for a moment, that they were criminals. He knew the worst of them and still chose to be the best of them. He was the one who, even after watching what this world had done to people, still somehow believed they were worth saving.

So when he took the blade to the back—a fucking kris, curved and cruel and ancient like some sick ceremonial final blow—something shifted. Something broke, not just in his body, but in all of them.

He was light, in a world of shadows, and now, the light was flickering.

The way they moved—the urgency, the silence, the glances they exchanged—it was in the air like blood in the water.

Oscar got up to do the bandaging again. His hands were steady, but his jaw ticked with restraint. Max kept shifting on his feet like he wanted to hit something. Carlos leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes glassy but dry. Logan sat on the steps with his head bowed, silent.

Lando went to kneel by Daniel, stripped of the usual iron-clad armor he wears around his boys. There was no sharp grin, no cocky tilt of the chin – just open pain in his eyes as he watched one of his oldest friends fade in front of him.

Daniel’s hand was clammy in his. His lips parted, then closed again like he was trying to say something and forgetting what.

Lando leaned in. “Still with me?”

Daniel smiled, just barely. “Yeah, boss.”

It gutted him, that smile. 

That fucking smile.

Blood loss. Organ damage. Shock. Oscar had said the words without flinching, clinical and grim. But Lando saw the way his hands shook when he stepped back. The way Logan had to steady him without making it obvious.

Carlos sat with his elbows on his knees, silent. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed too tight, jaw locked. Even he looked like something in him was unraveling, thread by careful thread.

None of them were crying, but there was rawness in the air. This was part of the life. But that didn’t mean they had to like it.

Lando cleared his throat. “We’re gonna get them for this. Tsunoda’s gonna pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Yeah?” Daniel murmured, barely audible. “You better.”

“I will,” Lando promised. “Don’t you worry, yeah? They’re already dead.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a laugh. “Tell Leclerc I said… ‘fuck you.’ In French.”

Carlos smiled, just a little. “Pretty sure he speaks English too, mate.”

They all chuckled, but just a bit – if only because Daniel would’ve wanted them to, even now.

Max Verstappen stepped closer and crouched down beside him. “You remember the job in Monza?” he asks.

“God…” Daniel sighed. “The bar fight?”

“You did start it.”

“Yeah,” Daniel breathed. “But I ended it too.”

Lando grinned despite the ache in his chest. “Damn right you did.”

More stories followed after that, each of them giving a piece of their memory, something bright, something bold, something that felt like it’d live on in the stars even after tonight. Each anecdote was an attempt at trading grief for something warmer, at holding on with words when their hands couldn’t seem to do enough.

It was Lando who took charge, just as it always has been. So they each spoke to him now — not over Daniel, but to him. Around him, as though he were already halfway out the door.

He was still breathing, but it was slower now. Softer, like even his body knew it was time to rest.

Daniel coughed again—wet, weak, red trailing from the corner of his mouth—and Lando stood.

He moved like he wasn’t thinking anymore. The muscles of his body moved purely on instinct, some muscle memory he developed over the year, the rhythm that helped him embody his role.

The Boss. The one who made the calls when no one else could.

He crouched by Daniel’s side, his own hand firm on the older man’s shoulder. Lando’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, his voice steady as a dying star.

“Daniel,” he said softly. “Stay with us.”

Daniel’s eyes fluttered open. “M’trying.”

“I know.” Lando swallowed, glancing briefly at the others, then back. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked paler than he did a moment ago, almost sickly. “You did good. You hear me? You did everything right.”

Daniel gave the ghost of a smile. “Always do.”

Max huffed. “Liar.”

Carlos looked up. “Worst liar I ever met.”

Daniel laughed. It shook his whole chest and sent him into another coughing fit. Logan was there instantly, cloth in hand, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Daniel blinked slowly. “We… Did we win?”

Lando nodded once. “We’re alive. You did that.”

Silence fell again. Then Daniel sighed, a long, low exhale like he’d finally finished something. His eyes slid closed again, lips parted. Still breathing, but lighter now, quieter.

“Is this it?” Logan asked quietly, not to anyone in particular.

But they all looked to Lando, because that’s what they did. That’s what Daniel had always done, too. They trusted Lando to lead.

Perhaps that was Daniel’s fatal mistake.

Instead of looking back at them, Lando stood slowly, his gaze on Daniel and his face unreadable. A long moment passed, Lando taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Let him rest.”

They knew what that meant. None of them argued. None of them begged or made some desperate play for hope. 

Instead, they took turns stepping forward. Each of them said their piece in quiet tones, fragments of affection, of memories. Carlos pressed a kiss to his forehead. Max Fewtrell squeezed his uninsured shoulder in a gesture that he could only hope conveyed everything he could barely bring himself to say — a lifetime of gratitude and camaraderie and unspent love in a single gesture.

Oscar took off his watch and set it beside him—the same way Daniel had done once, years ago, after Oscar’s first mission went sideways. Max just sat down beside him and said, “Thanks for being better than us, Daniel.”

Logan lingered the longest. The young boy held his hand, told him a joke that made absolutely no sense, laughed for both of them, then walked out without a word.

In the end, it was Lando that remained.

Lando stayed until the others were gone, until it was just him and Daniel and the silence that pressed against the windows like night fog.

He crouched down again, brushed back a curl from Daniel’s sweat-matted hair.

“I’ll take care of them,” he told him. Even though he wore a smile, his voice was raw now, lower. “I swear to God, I’ll take care of all of them.”

A pause. Then—

“I’ll miss you, mate.”

He waited.

No reply came — just the smallest, shakiest breath.

“Alright, mate. It’s okay now.”

Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, the last spark of awareness lingering. Lando raised his hand, pressing it to his forehead gently.

“Sleep.”

And so, Daniel did. As he complied with his boss’s command one final time, he finally sank into a long, long sleep, and the room, once full of ghosts and grit and blood and noise, fell silent.

Lando stood, let out one long, shaking breath and walked out the door.

Behind him, Daniel Ricciardo lay still at last.

He didn’t remember the turns he took to get there.

The streets blurred past in streaks of black and neon, headlights beaming through the fog, buildings bleeding into one another like a watercolor left in the rain. The ringing in his ears hadn’t yet stopped since the ambush, low and echoey. Blood clung to what remained of his button-down in thick patches, sticky where it soaked through the torn fabric at his ribs. His knuckles were raw, the skin rough and dark, and the gash at his eyebrow had reopened, leaking warmth down the side of his face.

But still, somehow, he made it.

His hand shook as he raised it to knock. He missed the first time, fingers grazing the metal plate: 307. He tried again, firmer this time. The wood felt solid under his palm. He leaned on it, barely upright.

When the door opened, she stood in the frame like a ghost from a better life—oversized hoodie, messy bun, the kind of comfort he didn’t deserve. Her eyes went wide. She didn’t move.

His name—the wrong one, but right enough for now—fell from her lips in a cracked, breathless whisper.

“Oh my god! Liam—!”

He swayed, shoulder bumping the frame. That was all it took to snap her into motion.

“Here– Come in. Just, come in—”

She reached for him instinctively, one arm around his back, the other catching his wrist. He let her guide him inside, his weight leaning heavy on her as she pulled the door shut behind them. The lock clicked into place, and for the first time all night, something inside him uncoiled a little.

She was already scanning him with wide, panicked eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

Her fingers ghosted over the edge of his shirt, where the blood was streaked all across his side. “Are you—oh my god, are you shot?”

“No.” His voice was wrecked, low and frayed. “Not really. Just… tired.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the pinch of her brow. But she nodded, just once, and steered him toward the couch. He sank into it like a man unspooling, body slumping under the weight of pain and adrenaline finally running out.

She crouched beside him, her eyes rapidly tracing every scrape, every bruise, every place he flinched when her touch came too close. Her hands hovered, unsure—his temple? His ribs? The blood at his collarbone? Where was she supposed to start–

He caught her wrist gently.

“This was the closest place, and I…”

“And you...?” she asked softly, worry swirling in those eyes he hadn’t seen in so long.

He swallowed, his voice shaky for a different reason entirely when he looked up to answer her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

a/n: and so there it is — my pièce de résistance! this chapter is probably my favorite that i've written so far lol. i'd love to hear what you guys think!

[valyrianvibranium]

YOU‘RE THE ONLY THING I PRAY FOR. (1/3)

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT — MINORS DNI; NON/DUB-CON, canon typical incest/targcest (uncle & niece), blasphemy, taking of virginity, female reader

WORDS: 4.6 K

NOTES: Part 1 is here! At the anon that has requested it: thank you so much for this. I hope it lives up to your expectations.

Daylight has first appeared when you break your fast, completely dressed and ready to start the day by paying a visit to the Grand Sept. It’s one of the rare days the queen does not accompany you for your morning prayer as her queenly duties have called for her even before the first light. But you bask in the rare solitude her absence grants, looking forward to the time you get to spend all by yourself. 

A carriage waits for you as you walk down the steps of the Red Keep leading into the courtyard, the door already opened and a servant anticipating for you to get in. 

“And where might you be going so quickly?” You know the voice that pierces through the silence of the morning, and are not surprised when you turn around to spot your uncle approaching. He’s clad in a white tunic and black breeches, looking as though he has just gotten out of bed.

Bobbing a small curtsy, the slight bow of your head does little to hide the surge of warmth that spreads to your cheeks, trying to suppress the nervous smile his presence always coaxes from you. 

It could be mere happenstance that you two meet right when you’re about to leave the keep, but something deep inside of you tells you he’s more than familiar with your morning routine. 

“I was just heading to the sept to pray, uncle,” you reply, your eyes locking with his as he creeps closer. 

The smirk that grazes his features at your words sends a shiver down your spine because it doesn’t mean any good; it never means any good. “And what is it that you pray for exactly, sweet niece?” he asks in a playful tone, raising a brow. His head cocks to the side, and he sizes you up briefly. “Does a princess such as you pray for love? Pray for a husband?” 

Despite the rush of embarrassment you feel when he makes his comments, you can’t deny the truth in them. “I pray for many things…” you trail off, pressing your lips into a thin line and contemplating if you should elaborate further. But the ultimate act of piety is to be honest, genuine, and you know it’ll surprise him more than a snappish remark. “I pray for the love of my family, as well as my own. Though I must admit that what I pray for most is to be married one day, and provide my husband with a healthy heir.” 

He must have noticed the way your eyes trail up and down his tall frame throughout your little lecture, despite you having your neck craned to meet his gaze, because his brow doesn’t seem to lower at all, staying in its exact position as he’s seemingly impressed by your words and your honesty. However, there’s also a pregnant pause following them, and you brace yourself for whatever taunting or derogatory comment might follow. 

“Might I join you?” 

The question catches you off guard, and causes you to tilt your head sideways. 

Pious isn’t a term you would use to describe your uncle. If he believed in anything, he’d merely worship the Gods of Old Valyria and would not follow the Faith of the Seven. Nevertheless, you’re thrilled he even considers accompanying you to the Grand Sept, because you’re certain he’s never seen it from inside. 

“I would be honored by you joining me, uncle,” you say, smiling softly. “I would not have to pray alone.”

“It would please me greatly, niece.” His eyes run over your form, lingering a little longer on your middle, clearly taking in your curves and attire. The dress you wear is completely different to the ones your younger sister usually wears, and comes closer to the gowns the queen dons nowadays. It’s modest and covers you completely, basically from head to toe. 

Mayhaps that’s where he sees the challenge. 

You briefly nod your head, and take his hand as he offers to help you into the carriage, climbing the steps before sitting down on one of the upholstered seats. You make note of how warm and unexpectedly smooth his hand is when you let go of it, having expected it to be calloused and somewhat rough from all the riding on dragon back and training with the sword he does. 

Daemon takes his seat next to you, and it’s evident you have all of his attention with him not tearing his eyes off of you once. What you don’t know is that he’s always found a liking in you. You’re sweet and innocent, demure even, and the complete opposite to Rhaenyra. 

More oft than not you make your uncle feel as though you really do not deserve an unvirtuous man such as himself, just as your father has told him back when Daemon had asked him to grant him your hand in marriage. You’re a girl that has never taken a man’s touch before, innocent in both mind and body – a vision obviously tantalizing to many men of court.

He looks over you once more. You feel his gaze burning into your skin regardless of how badly you focus on what you see passing on the outside of the wheelhouse, and you can’t deny that you would love nothing more than to learn of what’s occupying his mind. 

The ride to the sept isn’t too long, and shared in silence thick with tension. When the carriage comes to a stop and a servant opens the door, you rise from your seat and climb down the steps. Your hands are clasped in front of your body on the way into the Grand Sept, closely followed by the looming presence of your uncle. 

And you immediately feel at peace when you walk through the heavy doors held open by several guards, breathing in the scent of incense and relishing in the quiet it brings. Though there is no reason for you to feel flustered with the company of your uncle, having grown up around him, your heart still feels as though it beats too fast, pounding against the confines of your ribcage. 

The truth is, you have not prayed for any husband – you have prayed for him to become your husband. And every single one of your prayers resolved around the wish for him to join you some day. The Grand Sept is your home port, giving you a sense of safety and being the place you always return to. And what could be better than sharing this feeling with the person your heart and body long for?

You nod subtly toward the few septas and novices that cross your path on the way to the large stone altar in the center of the sept, attempting to not draw too much attention to you and the prince that trails closely behind. 

Rolling one of the thin vestas between your index finger and thumb, you carefully set it alight with a candle that’s already lit before you proceed to light your own. The small piece of wood is extinguished with a soft blow of air, and you brush your fingers over the sheet of wax that covers the gray marble beneath, watching the sea of lights in front of you. 

“Have you been in the sept before, uncle?” you ask, innocently. It might seem like a witless question, but is completely fair considering you have never really seen him pray before. 

You are not oblivious to just how different you are from your own kin, for neither your father, uncle nor sister frequent the sept, let alone pray before they break their fast or eat their supper. 

When they’d ask you, you’d say that the contrast between you and Daemon is the most blatant, closely followed by the differences you and Aemond have. Though your younger half-brother, more oft than not, resolves to praying, you know it’s just to please his devout mother. 

If anything, you most resemble Alicent, despite not sharing the same blood with her. She has taken you under her wing as your mother died birthing your late brother, strengthening your very being with her own faith. 

Daemon chuckles at your question, following after you to the stone altar. It’s an easy game for him to pretend to be pious, having resorted to colder measures many times before. “I will admit that I do not frequent the sept as much as you. It’s just…,” he trails off, looking around the room and taking in the architecture. “... not exactly to my liking. I much prefer the worship of the Old Gods of Valyria.” 

Just like you have thought. It’s tempting to worship and follow the customs your very ancestors have set up and believed in, bringing you closer to what ties you to the family whose love you always pray for. But where were these Gods when you needed them most?

“But doesn’t everyone in King’s Landing worship the Seven? Do you not think them worthy of your devotion?” you ask, cocking a brow as you slowly sink to your knees. You still look up at him, but already fold your hands to prepare for the prayer. 

Daemon watches you carefully, no, he blatantly stares at you, taking you in and watching you on your knees from his level of height. It’s exciting, to say the least. “Oh, I do not consider them unworthy, they have been worshipped in Westeros for centuries, but you can not expect me to deny my heritage, niece.”

It’s your heritage as well, and it includes the customs that would allow for you to wed the man you have always longed for. That is, if you were not betrothed already. 

The marriage to Jason Lannister, like your father has requested, is the most fitting option, you know. It’s no match made out of love but rather a political arrangement, and doesn’t heed your own wishes. 

He’s no more a man that deserves you than your uncle, though the prospect and thoughts of marrying Daemon do excite you more. Perhaps this excitement stems from the suppressed desire of wanting the opposite of your pious nature, something that would make you feel alive as much as riding Silverwing does. 

But your uncle isn’t interested in taking you to wife. His late wife died a few moons ago, and if someone has always had his attention and favor, it’s your younger sister, Rhaenyra. 

Flashing you a tight-lipped smile, he approaches one of the pews close to the altar and sits down. You focus on the candles in front of you and fix the flames of them to watch them dance, calming you down and bringing you back to the matter at hand; your morning prayer. 

But under the intensity of his stare, you find it incredibly difficult to focus on your wishes and steady your thoughts, and you rely on the Seven for their guidance. The direction in which your thoughts stray is improper and silently proscribed by the people of the realm, and you haven’t spent all of these mornings in the sept to let it all go to waste with the foolish wish to follow your House's customs. 

Lowering your head, you quietly speak your prayers and plead for the Seven to see you in good favor before them despite the sins that may come upon you in the future. 

Your uncle, on the other hand, only now realizes that this is the best time he could wish for to get you alone, all by yourself with no one to interrupt. And as the wait for you to finish your prayers doesn’t stop to pass agonizingly slowly, he’s overtaken by his urges and begins to quietly approach you. 

You’re in the midst of your prayer when you feel a sudden presence in your space. Opening your eyes, you spot him sinking down on his knees right next to you, his broad shoulder brushing yours in the process, pressing against your frame. 

He’s so close to you that you feel the warmth emanating from him despite the layers of clothing. “You have been so faithful to the Seven,” he whispers with a rasp, keeping his eyes neatly trained on you. “It is only right that they finally grant you something in return…”

There are goosebumps prickling on your skin at his words, the sensation even raising the hairs on the back of your neck. 

Despite growing up around him, you have never shared such close proximity with him before, at least not since you can remember. It feels so intimate, and the way in which he speaks makes it more than obvious that it’s plain profanity. 

Daemon is clearly taking advantage of your piety, and twists your words and beliefs into something much more impure. 

But it seems that your body renders what your mind doesn't. It knows what he is up to even before you can grasp it, and you suddenly notice the uncomfortable way your smallclothes cling to the apex of your legs, a cold moisture making the linen sticky. 

You can’t speak, far too absorbed in his presence, and barely notice that he’s slowly inching towards you, until the tips of your noses brush against each other. 

Daemon is not moving closer, basking you in a sense of feigned superiority that gives you the impression that you’re the one in control. If you’re about to kiss, it’s because you want to do so, at least he’s making you think that. But by the Seven, how badly you want to kiss him. 

You’re the one to close the gap between you and press your lips firmly to his. You feel the warmth of them against yours, and are overtaken by a haze. You have never expected this to be the result of your joint visit to the Grand Sept, and you feel as though you're melting with a jolt of heat – until a cloud of panic washes over you. 

Pulling back with a gasp, you topple over on your arse, grateful for the space it puts between the two of you. You bring your fingers to your lips, touching them as if you mean to prolong the feeling of his lips on yours. 

“I-I do not wish to be a prude, but…” you try to deny his advances. You don’t know where to look, eyes frantically flickering to the ground, the ceiling, and even checking if anyone is around to see what has happened. 

Daemon licks his lips with a sigh, and you see him contemplating his next moves, the silence making your heart pound in your ears. “You’re a pious woman,” he raps, or rather just states the obvious. 

And then he slowly stalks closer again, only to bury a large hand in the hair at the back of your head, using the grip to bring you closer to him again. “Why have the Gods made me love a pious woman?” 

You’re holding onto his shoulders, not sure if you want to draw him impossibly closer or push him away. Your wide eyes carefully study his features, before he leans in and starts to press kisses to the side of your face that leave you whimpering and mewling.

Daemon has his strong arms wrapped around your frame to pull you flush against his chest now, and you’re squirming and panting, trying to get away from him while his hands make quick work of pulling and tearing at the skirts of your dress already. 

“Un-Uncle… not here, please,” you try to protest. 

He brings a hand to your cheek, turning your face so it’s easier for him to capture your lips in a heated kiss again. It takes all the strength you can muster to pull away from him, not just physically, but mentally. The long suppressed part in you is at an all time high, aching for nothing else than him. 

“We-We can’t,” you stammer, completely out of breath. “Not here.”

“I do not see why not, niece,” he all but growls. “Do you not want the Seven to witness how I worship you?”

The words make your face grow hot. The thought of the Seven watching over you is taboo and wrong, but it also makes it a lot more exciting. It has been an idea you have long desired, and to hear it spoken out loud from his own lips makes a thrill of excitement course through your veins. 

“B-But I-I have never–” your voice is reduced to a whimper, the despair audible.

Daemon paws at your hips, and brings his face closer to press open mouthed kisses to the side of your neck. “I will worship you in a way they have never experienced, I can promise you that,” his husky voice is muffled by your skin, and all you can do is blush in return. 

He backs you against the column of the altar behind you, trapping you so he can use both his hands to snake beneath your gown and tear at the linen undergarments you wear, reducing the barrier that stands between him and his most prized possession. 

“Uncle, Daemon, please… the sept is not the right place for this.”

“I'll decide where I take you,” he growls once again. It’s the first time your name slips past his lips today, spoken in such a condescending manner that immediately makes you bow to his will. “And if I wanted to take your maidenhead right in front of your father, then so be it.”

You push at his chest, but at the same time melt against his sturdy frame when his lips claim yours. The fabric of his tunic is pinched so tightly between your fingers that your knuckles start to blanch from the force, acting as the means to an end to distract you from the shame you feel at giving into him so easily. 

Daemon bows his head forwards to nuzzle his nose along your cheek, his breath hot as he speaks. “You’re such a dutiful woman, always praying for a husband and a life filled with children. Why not pray for me? Would that not be the most honorable of outcomes?”

You can’t think for yourself, swept up by his words, his charms and his possessiveness. He’s brought you to the edge, and you can’t find yourself able to resist. 

“Uncle, I–”  

“Be quiet,” he cuts you off. 

So lost in his overwhelming presence, you hardly register him undoing the laces in the front of his breeches, only just lowering them enough for him to free his hard cock. Once that’s done, he lays you onto the cold floor, and positions himself between your legs, which brings you close enough to his cock to feel it prodding against your cunt. 

You can’t breathe, not when you’re basically smothered by his weight, pinning you down to the ground and not allowing you to move. There’s no chance for you to meet his gaze, for he’s far too distracted to keep his eyes locked on one position only. 

“You’re a dragon, sweet niece,” he grunts. “That cunt of a Lannister would not know how to handle it… let me take care of you.”

You release a shuddered breath when the tip of his cock meets the resistance of your tightness, forcing your body to go rigid. But despite that, Daemon is able to ease himself inside of you. It takes him a few seconds to fill you to the brim, taking his sweet time to allow you to adjust to each other. 

And you sure do. 

He pushes inside at an agonizingly slow pace, allowing you to feel every ridge and vein of his cock. When his hips are still, your tight walls slowly accommodate his impressive size. But even then Daemon already knows he can’t keep this up for long, for your cunt is squeezing him so tightly, he is sure he’ll spend himself too quickly for his own liking. 

It takes you a moment, but as you feel him twitching, briefly brushing the sensitive spot inside of you, your stiff muscles seem to thaw. You arch your back against him, melting into the warmth that radiates off him. 

A quiet whine leaves your lips that prompts him to meet your gaze. “That’s it,” Daemon coos softly, a slight strain in his husky voice. He brings a hand behind your head to support it and make it a bit more comfortable for you, lifting it off the hard ground. 

Bowing his head forwards, he captures your lips in a gentle kiss. It is languid, tender even, but doesn’t lack any passion. There’s a burning inside of you, and you feel completely filled to the brim, yet it’s not as uncomfortable as the first few seconds have been. 

Perhaps it’s the possibility of being caught by your own kin or other nobles, or being defiled by him so openly, but you can’t seem to get enough. No, you don’t even mind if anyone sees you, not when all you’ve prayed for finally comes true. 

“I thought you were a pious maiden,” he rasps, immediately giving in to the pleasure and his urges, “not one that enjoys sin as much as this.” 

Though your face is contorted in both pleasure and slight discomfort, you keep your eyes open and locked with his, carefully studying his face. “I–I think the Seven would want me to be happy… would they not?” you don’t state it, you ask, silently needing his reassurance and asking for guidance. 

As he notices the hidden meaning behind your words, he flashes you a sly grin, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Oh, I believe as much.” 

Daemon starts to thrust into you, coaxing one whiny moan after the other from your parted lips. The pace is slow, and you can tell by the way he has his jaw set that it takes a whole lot of restraint for him to keep it that way. You know he’s an experienced man, having heard lots of stories about him and his conquests, and you appreciate him practicing patience with you. 

“Fuck, I-... you were made for me,” he groans against the side of your face, merely propped up on his forearms to not put too much weight on you. The feeling of his breath fanning over your skin, and the sounds he makes vibrating against it, ignite a fire in your veins you haven’t felt before. 

“You were always meant to be mine, but your father is too dull to see it.” Light kisses trail over your jaw and the side of your neck, meaning he can’t see the color his words bring to your cheeks. 

Entangling your fingers in his short, silver strands, you just rest your hand there to keep yourself grounded, until one particular thrust that seems a bit rougher than the others has you eventually tugging on the tresses not-so-gently. The action pulls his head back and exposes his throat to you, and it’s far too enticing to not to lean in and press your lips to the bump in the front of it. Daemon groans at that, and, in response to his cock twitching and throbbing inside of you, your walls clench around him. 

You haven’t been touched by a man before, even rarely by yourself, and thus you’re not quite familiar with the pressure that builds inside of your body. It has the grip of your legs around his waist tightening and your toes curling, but other than that you’re not quite sure what to expect. 

“Good girl, taking me so well,” he grunts, spurred on by the way your walls squeeze and choke his cock, clearly knowing you’re close to your peak. His praise goes straight to your head, and you whimper in return, stammering a ‘th-thank you, uncle.’

“Wet my cock, little niece, make a mess for me,” he all but commands, a dominant edge to his voice that has you shivering. 

Far too lost in the pleasure his body grants you, you hardly notice him driving his hips into yours with more fervor and determination, an approving ‘mhhh’ and stutters of his name escaping your lips. 

It probably is a vague guess, but Daemon’s mouth claims yours with newfound hunger as your peak washes over you in an ambush, effectively drinking down every wanton moan and whimper that has threatened to leave them. 

Something akin to fire spreads through your veins which prompts your leg to tremble uncontrollably, locking around his waist. Your walls flutter and convulse all over him, and white, hot pleasure clouds your vision. 

Only when the tremors slowly subside does your uncle tilt his head back. He watches you in awe, studying the drowsy expression on your face though the pistoning of his hips hasn’t stopped. And he won’t stop, not even when you’re no more than a quivering and whimpering mess beneath him, and you’re very close to turning into one. 

He cups your chin, pinning your head to the ground as he increases the pace of his thrusts again, using your relaxed state to chase his own peak. 

It feels overwhelming, a different kind of aching suddenly burning between your legs, and you try to squirm away, but his grip on you is as adamant as he’s relentless. 

“I shall spill myself inside of you,” he grunts, “would you like that? Do you want my seed in your belly?” 

All you can whimper are incoherent words, but are still aware enough to not be too loud. Daemon takes the benefit of the doubt and settles on a whiny yes, far too enticed by the thought of you going round with his child. 

He can’t hold himself back any longer with the repercussions of your peak driving him to his own, practically bursting as he spills his seed. His hips falter as he topples over the edge, his twitching member spending itself deep inside of your quivering walls. 

But there’s not really any time for you two to dwell in the bliss, not when Daemon gathers himself so quickly to get back on his feet. He fixes his attire, straightening his tunic and redoing the laces of his breeches before he helps you up.

You perturbedly look around, breathing heavily, and smooth out the skirts of your dress. Being unsteady on your feet, you shift your weight from one leg to the other and grimace at the wetness that spreads between your thighs at the lack of smallclothes to gather it. His seed seeps from your swollen cunt down your flushed skin and makes you overly aware of the claim he has asserted over you.  

You’re too stunned to speak, your mouth opening and closing without any words leaving your lips. Knowing he was a rogue, you would have never thought of your uncle doing such things, even less of yourself. 

“I-I–” 

“We will keep this between us,” Daemon interrupts, figuring what’s plaguing your mind. 

The act of sin between you two has been so improper, and you’re certain your father would force you to become a Silent Sister if the word of your act would spread around court. So, it’s slightly calming to know you can rely on your uncle to protect your reputation and care for your safety. 

You nod and swallow thickly. “I-I hope so?” 

The silence between you in the carriage on your way back to the Red Keep is thick with tension, and though Daemon helps you climb down the steps before he leaves to attend his princely duties, something does not sit right with you. 

And only when you hear a knock on your chamber’s door around the Hour of the Owl do you figure that the feeling was right. Maester Mellos stands opposite of you, a goblet whose content is unknown in his hand. He hands it over, and you feel your blood run cold at his words. 

“A tea, princess. From the king. It will rid you of any unwanted consequences.”

YTOTIPF Taglist: @cherriescream @ajthefujoshi @kiliskywalker666 @marihoneywk @beebeechaos @angelwonie @hangmanscoming @clarap23 @schniiipsel @princessak @aliveafterparadise @juhdoche

General Taglist: @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay @thatmysteriousblog @ashovertheriver @black-dread @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @lovelykhaleesiii @hypocritic-trash-baby @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowystark @connorsui @valeskafics

[shotmrmiller]

when the video on your phone freezes for a heartbeat, just a fraction of a second, you're jolted back to reality.

and then it begins to vibrate in your hand. you stare at the screen, eyes squinting against the unforgiving glow that pierces the darkness you're enveloped in. (had been, anyway.)

in the corner of it says 2:03 am. witching hour. when the world holds its breath. everyone except for him. as always.

the same man who couldn't fit you into his meticulously curated world for longer than a night; a world where emotions were ruthlessly shoved into a cardboard box and labeled non-essential. (yet dogs you endlessly.)

the phone continues to ring, vibration buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. you run through your very limited options. ignore it and you'll have to suffer with him having nothing better to do than cause you to lose sleep because you need the alarm to go off in the morning or pick up and let him prod at old wounds with his gloved fingers.

(fingers you wish were curling inside you again, pad of his thumb rubbing on your aching-)

this isn't the first time he's disrupted your peace using an unknown number and it isn't the first time you answer despite knowing you shouldn't.

maybe in another life you'll have better self control.

(your masturbation session will have to wait.)

before you even get a word out, he's already cutting you off. "pet. didn't wake ya, did i?"

insufferable fucking man. "you know what time it is. what do you want, Simon? here i thought blocking both your number and johnny's would get the point across." you hope your tone conveys the weariness better on his end than it did on yours.

he merely hums, a disinterested noise that ripples through the phone. you're tempted to hang up but you know the script. he'll just call. again. and again. and again.

"were ya watchin' our video again?" heat spreads up from your neck to the soft of your cheeks. there's no way he knew what you were doing before picking up. pure mortifying happenstance.

"i was." a tight breath warms the inner side of your wrist. he's always been a straight shooter which on him is both a strength and a flaw, and right now, with the way his voice carries over the phone, it's your weakness. good thing he's not here to notice the way you squeeze your thighs together.

"'nd it got me to thinkin' on how sweet you'd been then, bleary eyed 'nd pliant beneath me," your lower stomach burns white-hot, knowing the exact type of filth he likes to talk when he's in this kind of mood, "how thin i had your pussy stretched 'round me."

your core pulses at the memory of him resting against the firm seal of your womb, his work-worn palm pressing your stomach, as if trying to feel himself from the outside. (maybe he could, maybe he couldn't, you wouldn't know. not when he had you sitting on his lap as his own personal cock sleeve for longer than you deemed necessary. you'd been incoherent then.)

with liquid heat flowing through your veins, prickling at your fingertips, burning behind your eyelids, doing what he says next had never been easier.

"take your shorts off 'touch tha' pretty pussy f'me."

(you'd disconnected all the cameras in your room except for the one you didn't know was there. he's gotta keep a sharp eye on what's his, yknow? of course not, how could you? as far as you're concerned, he's just coincidentally calling when your hand is weaving downward to rub the little bundle of nerves between your legs with a home video he'd recorded of him fucking you stupid one tipsy night playing on your phone.)

[batgovernor]

Sonnet: Helena Nelson, 'Dream'

I found myself in bed with an old man. His beard was silvery, his scrawny chest a rack of ribs, his loose-lipped mouth open and toothless as a baby. There he was, there in our bed, as if he owned the place. He snored and grunted like some ancient king asleep after a banquet. But what feast had led, dear heart, to this? What partying? He turned his head to me. I saw his face— a travesty. Some…

[fourorchid]

“Obedient Thing”

— Chapter 5 (End) —

Description: The monotony of your day to day life as a lab assistant is suddenly interrupted upon meeting Viktor, a researcher at the academy, who has a gaze that pulls you apart and knows exactly how to piece you back together. His voice, his actions—they’re dizzying, frustrating—but madly addictive. Curiosity and happenstance seem to render you incapable of avoiding him as you come to terms with the newfound feelings he’s unintentionally (or maybe intentionally) stirred within you.

Chapter Index: Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5 (here), Epilogue

— Viktor x fem!Reader | ~5.8k —

Content Warning: dom!Viktor x fem!reader, explicit sex, penetration, edging, blowjob, fingering, squirting, unprotected sex (oops), ejaculation inside (oops x2)

**If you are not 18+, please do not interact**

Disclaimer: The finale is here! Thank you for being patient, I hope the wait was worth it. Not gonna lie, I was squealing and kicking my feet as I was writing this. As always, I appreciate any comments or feedback, thanks again for all the support on this series :) Enjoy ~

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

You didn’t even push back when Jayce said you would be helping Viktor today.

“The Academy—“ he huffs, “They’re putting the pressure on him. Viktor’s been working on this prototype—it’s medical, a brace—something that they agreed would help people once perfected,” He took a long breath in before continuing, “But then they just pushed the due date to the beginning of next week out of nowhere—“

“I don’t mind.” You say simply, cutting off his explanation.

A perplexed look flitted over Jayce’s features, but he doesn’t dare question it.

“Oh, uh—great, thank you, he should be in lab 308.”

You readjust your bag on your shoulder as you begin towards the stairwell to the other floor. Admittedly, you were embarrassed to even face Viktor after your last interaction and what it had resulted in. You shake your head of the thought.

Yet, despite that, you still had this urge to see him again. The frustration of it all was outweighed by something more imperative; that same feeling that you were too scared to really examine but too overtaken with to ignore.

You arrive shortly at the other lab, you open the door with a knock as you enter. There he sat, elbows resting on top of the work bench as he fiddled with the component in his hand. You noticed Viktor’s appearance was more disheveled than usual, his sleeves were rolled up haphazardly, his hair tousled from likely running his hand through it one too many times, his brows pressed firmly together in concentration—and he had never looked better.

He glances up after a moment, appraising the intrusion to find it was just you staring at him, still planted firmly in the doorway.

“Hello, Miss y/n. You may come in.” He speaks formally.

A pink flush paints your neck and face as you realize he had noticed. You walk into the lab to set your belongings down.

“Is that part of the prototype?” You recall what Jayce had mentioned.

“Yes, it is a component to a medical brace I’ve been working on—the last part that needs to be attached before I can begin testing.”

He explains as you look at the piece in his hands. Your eyes follow his finger as it traces along the mechanism, the action stirring something in you. You nod.

He breaks from the trance of his work, noticing the almost imperceptible shift in your demeanor. He smiled but refrained from saying anything.

Placing the component gently on the table, he stood up. His hand braced itself on your waist as he slid past you to find an extra stool for you to use. The action, so blatantly intentional, catches you off guard. You falter. He returns, placing the stool across from him and moving the component between you both on the edge of the table.

“Please—sit, Miss y/n.” He offers a gentle reminder as to what you were to be doing, your mind now blank.

You oblige, sitting down to face him. He looked you up and down before leaning forward and hooking his hand under the stools top, pulling you towards him a bit more, stopping once you were close enough to work on the part together. A shiver ran through you at the proximity.

“Let’s begin.” He states, allowing you no time to process.

Viktor hands you the jointed end as he carefully explains what to do.

“Take these pliers and mark six divots—evenly spaced—around each hinge. It will help ensure the individual pieces don’t slip out of place.” He speaks in a low, precise timbre.

You nod, taking the pliers in your hand to begin on the joints while Viktor worked on attaching a ligament to the other end.

* * * *

Even after the initial hour it usually would take you to settle in, it still required nearly all of your will power to focus with Viktor this close to you. His soft breathing filled your ears, almost hypnotic. And your eyes kept wandering to his forearms as he worked—the rolled sleeves of a man’s shirt were an aphrodisiac in their design, you think.

Suddenly, Viktor moves closer to get a better look at the piece between his hands, his knee now stanced between your legs before subtly pressing up against the inside of your thigh. His eyes flicker up to meet yours as he speaks.

“Focus, Miss y/n.”

His delivery was stern and made your pulse jump, realizing you had been caught and were now receiving due punishment.

The room feels inexplicably warmer but Viktor’s demeanor gives way to nothing. You decide to ignore it as best you can while you continue marking.

Eventually, you finish all of the hinges, you look up to Viktor.

“Hinges are done.” You speak quieter than usual due to the fact that you are so close to each other.

“Good, thank you. You can help me with the last part of this ligament—it’s proving to be rather…temperamental.” He speaks quieter as well, mirroring you.

You do as he asks, and unfortunately for your dwindling composure, the task requires you to lean in even further. Viktor hums softly in satisfaction as you adjust yourself closer to him.

After a moment, Viktor realizes he requires the other set of pliers behind you on the table. He lifts forward slightly to swap them out with the pair he was currently holding, and in doing so, brings his knee right against your clothed center beneath your skirt.

You tremble with a surprised inhale.

And he doesn’t stop there, no, he takes his time retrieving them—even going so far as to brush his knee up and down against you just barely to the point where it could still be plausibly denied.

A half-contained shudder travels down your abdomen at the sensation. Finally, Viktor moves, indicating his return to his seat. But to your embarrassment and pleasure, he makes sure to keep his knee pressed snuggly up against you while continuing his work.

You find yourself insatiable as you act on impulse, pushing yourself a bit harder against his knee.

“Mmh—“

You let out a strained hum of pleasure, your cheeks burned red in shame but you were too far gone to stop.

“Miss y/n.”

He speaks your name as a warning, but he makes no move to stop it just yet. You look up to him, needy.

“Can you behave yourself? Or do I need to remind you of our objective?”

He chastises you in a measured tone that sent a chill down your back, stopping you in your tracks. But something tells you he was aware of his effect on you—setting you up on purpose. Either way, the tension filling the room was becoming unbearable; so thick you were almost choking on it. He pulls back, removing the pressure you ached for more of.

And it just wasn’t fair. He was the one pointing out your need, inviting you to find some relief from him—insisting, even—but then pulling away each time you acted upon it.

And the worst part—you loved it. You couldn’t stand how much you loved it. Being built up on the edge of ruin at everything he does, entirely at his mercy—and he knows it too.

Your frustration reaches a boiling point.

You set down what you were working on, the metal joint clinking against the table.

“Who do you think I am? Someone fun to mess with?” You blurt out, standing up to promptly put some space between you both.

Viktor leans back, curious and slightly caught off guard by the outburst as his eyes traced over your hands where they moved to fix your skirt.

“Not at all, I think you are entirely more interesting than that.” He concedes as he stands to walk over to where you stood, still allowing you some space.

“Then could you please treat me as such?” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest, a defensive pose.

“What about how I treat you is not to your liking?”

He remains cool and calm, the question genuine but not without implication. He clasps his hands together as he stood against the table, lifting his chin as he appraises you.

“You order me around, you—you get me stirred up….” You trail off, Viktor gives you a second to continue but you seem to have already lost steam.

“And yet, despite those things, you obey every command and order, you let me get you stirred up—why is that?”

Your words fail you as you both know the reason.

“You are an intelligent woman, Miss y/n, I have no doubt you can come up with an answer.”

You turn away to try and escape the confrontation, feeling embarrassed at your inability to reckon with your own desires. But Viktor insists, stopping you in your tracks with a firm hand placed on your shoulder.

“It is not my intention to back you into a corner,” he speaks, taking a step closer, “But I do need to know that you are okay with this.” He adds, followed by a pause of silence on your end.

“I only command you as much as you allow me to,” he continues, his voice softer now, “I can give and take as much or as little as you give me.”

His eyes search your face, trying to decipher the feelings bubbling out of you.

You bring your face back to Viktor’s, exhaling a sigh coated in vulnerability, still unsure what to say.

“I can pull back some if you are overwhelmed—perhaps you would like a moment to sort through what you are feeling?” He suggests.

You shake your head, dismissing the offer. The last thing you wanted was to be away from him—in fact, you wanted the exact opposite. But, regardless, you knew he was right—you needed to be honest with yourself.

You give a single decisive nod, more reassured after both laying your cards on the table.

“I’d like to continue.”

A soft smile splays across his lips at your response.

Before turning back to the project, Viktor reaches out and does something unexpected—running his knuckles down your cheek, soft and sweet. The tender gesture sends a flutter through your chest.

You follow him back to the work bench to finish what you both had started.

* * * *

It was not long after until the prototype was completely formed. Viktor tweaked a few things before placing it gently on the table, satisfied.

“Now we just need to test its functioning. Would you be comfortable helping me with the trial, Miss y/n?” He looks to you.

You pause, unsure what that entails. Maybe you were overthinking it.

“Of course.”

Viktor brings his hands to his shirt, loosening the collar slightly in preparation. You swallow softly, your mouth running dry.

He then picks up the intricate brace and starts to wrap it around himself. You take the opportunity to roam over his torso and bared collarbone, appreciating the way his lean frame flexed underneath the fabric of his shirt.

Viktor suddenly stops, confused as he attempts to adjust the brace but something isn’t right. He removes it and tries one more time before eventually sliding it back off again with a beleaguered sigh.

“It seems the measurements are slightly off—the circumference is too small.” He groans.

All that work unfortunately did not make the final product immune to such a simple miscalculation.

“Would it fit me?” You sound a bit more timid than you anticipated.

“Well…I suppose you could try. Would you be okay with that?” Viktor’s eyes roam over your expression, searching for any signs of hesitation.

“Yes.” You sound more confident.

Viktor nodded.

He stepped closer to you.

“Miss y/n, do you have anything you could use to put your hair up?” he asks.

“Mhm.” You hum as you take the hair tie from your wrist to begin gathering your hair up off your back in preparation for the brace, but Viktor stops you.

“Let me.”

He plucks the hair tie from your hand and takes your hair between his fingers, gentle and meticulous. The way his hands feel in your hair has you just about ready to melt. He brings the tie over to fasten it in place.

“Beautiful” He whispers under his breath, so quiet you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it. Heat crawls up your neck as he pulls away to examine his work.

He circles the brace around in front of him, opening it up to wrap along your torso, securing it in place on your back.

“How does that feel? Loose? Too tight?” His words tickle the nape of your neck in a low rumble.

“Could be tighter, I think.” You breathe out.

Viktor makes an adjustment.

“Now?”

“A little tighter—I promise I won’t break.” Your response comes out a bit more taunting than reassuring but he lets it slide.

With one final pull, he cinches the brace tightly around you, making your breath catch.

“Better?” His voice was lower now as his hands lingered on your waist a second longer than necessary.

“Mhm.” You nod.

“Alright, let’s begin.”

Viktor pauses to gather a pad and paper from his desk. He positions his cane under his left arm as he returns behind you.

“To start, I’m going to have you test the brace’s range of motion—just follow my instruction.” He explains calmly.

“Bring your arms straight out in front of you—“ He looks up to see you following along.

“And now bring them all the way out at your sides.” You continue, no complications yet.

“Good. Now, lift your arms up straight for me.”

You bring your arms up, but halfway through you realize the bottom of your blouse was lifting above the waistband of your skirt—you pause.

“All the way up, Miss y/n.”

You reluctantly oblige, feeling the cool air hit the band of newly exposed flesh above your hips. You hear the pen in Viktor’s hand jotting down his observations on the notepad before continuing.

“Now, bend over for me.” He directs.

You try not to think about it too hard—how that order might sound in a different context.

Keeping your legs straightened, you lean forward as far as you can go. Your skirt rides up, just barely covering what it’s meant to. Viktor exhales.

“Excellent, thank you.”

You return to standing.

“No issues so far? It enables your full range of motion?” He asks.

“Yes, I don’t feel any resistance.”

“Perfect—now we must check the structural stability when introduced to strain. Ideally, the brace can withstand pressure and not produce any significant discomfort for the wearer.” He speaks almost clinically. “This might be a bit painful as we test its limits, so please let me know if it becomes too much for you.”

You take a deep breath in to steady yourself as you wait for Viktor to begin.

You feel his hands resting at the base of your spine against the brace, he begins to press lightly. There’s some tension but you barely notice it.

Viktor waits a moment to observe your reaction. He presses down with more force, you wince slightly.

“Still okay?” He asks.

“Yes.” You assure, letting him continue.

He pushes again, this time much harder than before. A noise somewhere between a hiss and a moan involuntarily pushes out of you. He takes his other hand and wraps around to grip your waist as he feels you stumble.

“Too much?” His voice also sounds strained in solidarity.

“No,” you swallow as the pain dissolves, “Keep going.”

Viktor pauses, not knowing whether to admire your stubbornness or reprimand it. He reluctantly continues, keeping your blessing as collateral. His one hand was still braced on your waist, you could feel the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric of your shirt.

He pushes firmly down again. You gasp, feeling a sharp pain shoot all the way up to your shoulder blades.

“Just a little more, you are doing so well.” Viktor whispers calmly into the shell of your ear.

You feel his thumb on your waist brushing back and forth in an attempt to ease you through the pain. You bring your bottom lip between your teeth as you prepare for the final impact.

Viktor’s chin now rests on your shoulder his chest pressed against your back, trying to ground you and keep you upright.

He presses down as hard as he can within what he believes you can handle.

“Viktor—ah—“ You yelp, your vision going black at the searing sensation.

You bring your arms behind you, wrapping your fingers weakly around his wrist; effectively tapping out. A heavy pulse thumps in your ears as you feel your knees buckle. Viktor brings you back up against him, keeping you steady as you recover.

“It’s all done—you did very well, Miss y/n.”

Viktor shushes you gently as he carefully removes the brace from your frame, setting it aside. His praise sends heat through your body, pooling somewhere lower. He holds you there until your breathing returns to normal. His hand remains at the band of bare flesh at the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles against your skin.

You turn around to face him. And as the pain subsides, you find yourself left with an entirely different mood—something hot and heavy. Viktor’s gaze was locked on yours as he listened to your breathing, caressing your skin, so soft beneath his fingers. There was no doubt he was feeling something similar.

Your eyes flickered down to his lips. He did the same, appreciating the swollen blush staining your bottom lip from where your teeth had been.

Before giving yourself a chance to second-guess, you lean in.

But Viktor was quicker than that.

Immediately he took his hand to grip where your hair was gathered together between the elastic band, pulling your head back to prevent you from getting any closer. He had fully commandeered control of the situation—but it only fueled your want.

“Ah ah ah, Miss y/n, I am not sure you are of sound mind right now” Viktor tsks.

You hold your breath, hanging on his every word—just waiting for the green light.

“You see, pain can sometimes blur the line—”

He leans in, almost antagonizing, as he brings his face closer to yours. Moving his mouth to your jaw, he starts planting slow, deliberate kisses down your neck.

“Between logic—” kiss.

You bite back a hushed moan.

“And emotion.” kiss.

“So—are you consenting to this?”

He’s fully teasing you now, drawing it out until its unbearable.

You whimper, exhausted and so intoxicated by him you have trouble responding.

“Use your words.” He coaxes.

“Please, Viktor—“ He hums at the phrase, giving you a look of tamed lust that was ready to pounce.

“Beautiful start, yes?”

“I want you to fuck me.” You breathe out.

A sound somewhere between a chuckle and a groan vibrates through him.

“Such filthy words,” He moves his hand back to your hip, his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt slightly, roaming across your back.

“But I do think you are sincere.”

He speaks in a deep, almost whisper, close enough to your face for you to feel his words dance across your skin, leaving a red flush in their wake.

“Although,“ his other hand finds its way beneath your skirt, “I might need evidence to be certain.”

He pauses his movement to check in, his stare flitting over your expression, hungry and in wait.

“Mhm,” you hum, too pathetically impatient to find the words, but that was all he needed anyway.

He teasingly brushes aside your underwear, dipping his fingers to your entrance to feel your warm, wet heat as your breath hitched. He moves his fingers up and down slowly before returning to circle your sensitive clit in a drawn out motion. Jolts of pleasure go through you at each repetition and your legs tremble slightly as you attempt to hold yourself upright.

His eyes stay trained on your face, satisfaction curling on his lips as he takes in your reaction. Your mouth hangs slightly open as a gasp catches in your throat. The noises you make were something he could easily find himself getting addicted to. In fact, he was already plotting how to get his next fix.

He then pulls away with no warning, you whimper. He returns his hand in front of him to examine the wet coat between his fingers, as though it were a work of art in its own right, before offering his hand to you. You take his fingers into your mouth, licking them clean in a haze. He finds himself pleased, his own hardening arousal twitching in his pants at the sight of you taking what he gives you.

“On your knees, Miss y/n.” Viktor orders.

A shiver runs down your back as you lower yourself to the ground. His breathing seems to become heavier at the positioning of you below him like this—the first obvious sign that this all is affecting him as much as it is you. From the lab window, the dying evening sun casts a halo-ed glow around your silhouette. Such angelic imagery in contrast to the sin taking place—Yin and Yang, he supposes.

He reaches his hands to your hair, freeing it from the fixture—it sweeps down, tickling your back and shoulders. Viktor brushes a hand across the side of your head, running it through your hair almost lovingly before bringing his hand back around to your chin. He runs his thumb across your bottom lip, still glossy with your own arousal—just begging to be used.

“Open your mouth.”

Once your lips part, he slips his thumb inside, pressing into the soft, wet pad of your tongue—already imagining how it would feel wrapped around him. He pulls his hand back with a string of saliva hanging from his finger. It was a beautiful and depraved sight—you on your knees with your mouth open for him.

Viktor begins to free himself from his waistband, his length almost fully hard as he took it in his hand. It was as glorious as you had imagined. He ran his thumb over the tip before stroking it a couple times, bringing it to your mouth. He sets the tip against your tongue and you instinctively bring your hands up to reach for the base but Viktor stops you.

“Hands behind your back—use only your mouth.” He instructs.

You obediently place your hands into each other behind your back, leaning forward to take his cock in. You slowly sink onto it, bottoming out as it hits the back of your throat. You managed to take it all in through sheer determination and the inertia of your own arousal. Viktor breathes out at the overwhelming sensation. He returns his hand to your hair brushing it softly out of the way so he could see your mouth stretched around him.

You pull off, this time attaching yourself to just the tip, circling it with your tongue before moving to place wet, sloppy kisses along the shaft. Tender and lewd wrapped in one devastating blow, Viktor groans.

“Look at me.”

You lift your eyes to meet his gaze as you begin sucking his entire length, his own burn golden as he watches. You hum around him as you push his cock all the way in and all the way out, getting faster with each take. You hold eye contact as he had asked—and something in Viktor snaps.

Composure faltering, he suddenly braces his palms on the side of your face before thrusting himself into your mouth a few times, still trying to maintain some form of restraint. The noise from the movement was all together divine and obscene.

Wanting to pace himself, Viktor pulls out of you gently. Spit and pre-cum dribble from your lips as he guides you back up on your feet. The need pooled between your legs was beyond unbearable; like a mosquito bite that ached to be scratched or a dark-stained bruise that begged to be pressed upon.

He maneuvers you up on the edge of the work bench, steadying you as he captures your mouth in a feverish kiss. He could taste himself on your tongue as he moved deeper. His hands sought control, reaching to your hair once again to pull you back, giving him more leverage. A moan traveled from his lips to yours as you braced your hands against his lower abdomen.

Your shirt was decidedly in the way as Viktor brought his hands up to the collar, gripping the first button. Slowly, he made his way down until the entire garment was open, baring more of your heated skin to him. He trailed his mouth down your collarbone, biting and kissing down your chest.

Each contact elicited a different noise from you—and each noise you made stirred something more urgent in him. An erotic feedback loop neither of you planned on stopping anytime soon.

“So sensitive,” Viktor’s low, warm voice rumbles against your skin, he nips at your throat before pulling back. He can see that you are holding on by a thread.

“What is it, hm? You have to tell me what you want or else I won’t know, Miss y/n.” He taunts, but he knows exactly what you need. A pity, the one time he willfully decides not to read between the lines.

You feel yourself throbbing and desperate at your center, the muscles in your thighs flexing subconsciously. He waits with his hand pressed up against your now wet underwear, the warmth of his palm sending a shudder through you.

“Viktor, I want to feel you inside me,” you whine.

At your words, he swiftly plunges his fingers into your entrance and a trembling gasp flies out of you. Deceptively longer once they were inside, it was impressive how deep they reached.

He continues driving his fingers into you at a relentless pace, curling them slightly to hit that spot that makes your entire body reel.

“Do you want only my fingers, or would you prefer something else?” His voice lilts teasingly as you writhe and whimper.

“Mm—Your cock, please—“ you beg, too wrapped up in the moment to care how depraved you sound.

“Good girl.”

Viktor pulls his fingers out of you once more, rubbing your slick from his hand over his length. You lean back on the table, knocking over a pile of notes in your urgency causing a single pen to roll off the edge, landing with a tap on the floor. As you move your legs apart, he pushes your skirt back and your underwear to the side to line himself up to your entrance. He takes a moment to draw it out even more, taking the tip and rubbing it up and down your folds, circling your clit—

“Viktor, please—I’ve been good.” You whine as you try to make him see reason.

And to your surprise, it seems to work. He begins pushing into you, pausing for a moment to allow you to adjust before finally sinking all the way in. Your moans echo each other at the long-awaited sensation. You feel yourself tighten around his cock, filling you to the brim. God, you felt so full yet you were still greedy for more.

You begin moving your hips back and forth, rutting against him. A sound of amusement comes from Viktor at your action, but he doesn’t give in just yet. Instead, he takes both of your wrists in one hand and holds them in place against the table—partially to maintain control and partially to brace himself on his better leg. His other hand finds your still swollen clit, circling it to feel you clench around him.

“Viktor—ah—“

You attempt to speak but his length presses so deeply inside you that you come up empty. He lifts his hand from your needy clit up to your chest, pulling your bra down slightly. The cool air hits your feverish skin making your nipples harden. Viktor rolls one between his fingers as he speaks.

“Yes?”

“Please, move—” You can’t wait any longer, you might just come undone right now.

Viktor pulls back and snaps his hips into you just once. You gasp out a groan, the sensation makes your entire body catch fire. He’s enthralled with the way you respond to him, spurring him on even further.

He presses his hand against your lower stomach to feel how deep he reaches inside you. He hums in approval.

“You are doing so good, taking me so well.”

And just like that you find yourself tempered, the saccharine praise quelling your restlessness just so. And now that you have you remembered your patience, Viktor continues. He begins moving in and out of you, working you both up to an overstimulating pace. Each thrust was punctuated by an untamed noise squealing from your throat.

Viktor brings his hand to cover your mouth.

“It would be in your best interest to be quieter, Miss y/n—”

He pounds into you even harder, his action in direct opposition to the point he was trying to make.

“Or else our colleagues might hear how you sound with my cock inside you—and I’d rather keep that all to myself, truthfully.” He breathes out, not letting up.

The way he exudes control as he speaks, still so proper but with such filthy sentiments—you have never been so turned on in your life. You move your tongue past your lips, swiping them across Viktor’s fingers, he shudders. He opts to push his middle and ring finger into your mouth now, a slightly ineffective but incredibly arousing gag to continue stifling your moans. You take them in graciously.

The way Viktor drives into you so insistent, almost like a prayer, you can tell he is also getting close. He angles himself just right as he begins hitting a spot deep inside that makes your vision blur from ecstasy. A strange feeling starts to build inside you.

“I—I think I need to use the bathroom,” you squeak out sheepishly between tears.

Viktor displays a knowing smirk, not letting up.

“Mm—I do not think you need to go to the bathroom, Miss y/n, I believe you are about to experience something much better.” He promises.

You are powerless to stop it and in all honesty, you didn’t want to.

“I’m going to—ah“ your breath interrupts, “I’m so close—“

You do your best to communicate, and he is impressed you even managed to get that far. But you would be naive to think it would be that easy.

“Not yet—not until I give you permission, Miss y/n,” Viktor tells you, although you can infer he isn’t fairing that well either as his breathing becomes more labored and his thrusts become sloppier. The incessant noise of him repeatedly filling you up floods your senses as you hold on to the single shred of willpower he has so kindly left you with.

Your eyes meet Viktor’s in a desperate plea. Your face contorts; a sublime, raw image of perfection. You can’t hold out much longer. He caves.

“Come for me.”

Those three words in that deep, mesmerizing voice were your utter undoing.

The peculiar feeling from earlier suddenly snaps as liquid gushes out of you and on to the table while Viktor remains pressed deeply inside. A string of babbled exclamations and moans involuntarily follows. You convulse and shake, every muscle in your body seized by pure bliss.

Viktor brings his thumb to your clit, helping you ride out the high as you tighten around his cock incessantly—he will no doubt follow shortly. The sight of you coming undone like this, so vulgar and unrestrained, pushes him over the edge. And you can’t help the phrase that flies out of you in earnest—

“Please—come in me.” You beg him.

Viktor’s mind goes blank, reason and precaution are cast aside to attend to the fervor of your words—especially since you asked so nicely. He ruts into you, pulling your hips against his own as he releases deep inside, his cock twitching violently. Your praise was sung from his hoarse throat as he moaned, feeling his hot release coat your walls as they continue to clench around him with no mercy.

The come down was nothing short of transcendental as you both take a moment to bask in the after-glow. You pant heavily, your senses worn out to the point you barely realize Viktor’s hand had reached up to cup the side of your fucked-out face. He slowly pulls his length from you, soaked and numb from the high.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” Viktor coos, his breathing still a bit ragged. “Did you enjoy it?”

He smiles affectionately, appreciating the half-lidded state you were in. You laid against the table, spent and with no complaints.

“Yes.” You exhale out the only word you were able to remember right now.

He brushes the hair that was clung to your face through a sheen of sweat away as you sit up, still a bit wobbly. He takes a clean rag from a nearby drawer and uses it to help clean you both off. His touch gentle so as to not overstimulate you. He tucks himself back in his pants. Then he moves to bring your skirt back down for you before refastening your bra and blouse, placing a gentle peck against your forehead once finished.

“I hope you understand now how your patience can be rewarded.”

His voice is a smooth, rich sound filling the silence as he runs a hand across your jaw, lifting your chin to look at him.

“Mhmm—”

“Patience is a virtue, Miss y/n.” Your name rolls off his tongue.

“Who said I was trying to be virtuous?” You quip back softly. He chuckles.

“You are right—morally bankrupt suites you much better.” He purrs as his fingers trace down to examine the evidence of where his mouth had been on your skin, the marks littered across your neck and chest in a hedonistic display of ownership.

Now that you had both gotten a taste of the other, there was no stopping it. No denying it. You were, from this point forward, inextricably intertwined.

Hungry as often as you were satiated.

Obedient as much as you were rewarded.

And rehabilitated with each fix of your mutual addiction.

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

[norwayromanoff]

Girl wait a minute, I've secretly always wanted to get a tramp stamp tattoo and.........I can't stop thinking about how Nat would react to R having one 😏 (at first I was thinking about Norway Nat because she's so soft but any variant really)

natasha would probably die from attraction. hope this lives up to your expectations 😭 tried to keep the tramp stamp design vague? didn't know what you are interested in getting!

18+ to be safe

natasha initially notices your tramp stamp just by happenstance. you dropped something you were holding, and as you bend down to pick it up, your shirt rides up a smidge, and natasha’s eyes are immediately drawn to the ink that’s decorating your lower back. her lips part in shock at the revelation—she wasn’t aware you had a tattoo there, how had you kept that hidden from her all this time? but her surprise quickly morphs into desire, both the design and location making heat radiate throughout her body

ever since then, natasha has been on the lookout for it, and whenever she gets a little glimpse, her desire flares up instantly. no more surprise, no more being taken off guard, slick starting to soak through her underwear on sight. she’s supposed to resist you when you’ve got something like that on your body? oh, no, definitely not. you may not be doing it intentionally, but you’ve been teasing her with small flashes of the tramp stamp ever since she first saw it, and it’s time she does something about it

you two were planning on going out for lunch, and you’re just getting dressed in the other room while natasha waits. when you appear, clad in a pair of low-rise jeans, her mind promptly goes to what’s going to be on display in that outfit

“ready to go?” you ask, grabbing your bag. you turn to head out the door, assuming she’ll follow, but just as you’re about to open it, hand reaching for the doorknob, natasha’s on you, chest up against your back, body pressing you against the wood

“natasha?” you gasp out loud, her name a clear question

“you’ve been hiding this from me,” she murmurs, lips brushing along the back of your neck as she talks, hand reaching down to trace over the ink, just lightly following it, mapping out the design under her fingertips. you shiver and your knees begin to feel like they’re going weak

“natasha,” you repeat, breathier this time, the need she’s always able to bring out in you with just simple touches building

“i don’t think we’re going out anymore, detka” natasha says, voice laced with promises of what’s to come

[klownfuckery]

I love the way you write 👉🏻👈🏻 May I request some more Franco from you? Perhaps with a reader who is fascinated by him and follows him around only to panic when he spots her! (Totally not based on my behaviour ingame) Thank you! 🩷

Yes ofc 🫶 Sorry for the late reply. I’d kept making drafts for this ask and every-time I thought I was finished my brain was all like, ‘… yeah, that’s great. But what if we re-wrote it again? 🥴’

Anywho, hope you enjoy :P

.*✩Franco il Bambino Barbi/Reader ✩*.

Surviving in the Sinyala facility was no small feat, some took to their new living conditions more easily than others— like fish to water. You were not among those lucky few. If you were to continue the trend of using comparisons, you’d suppose you’re more akin to that of a sad little sardine. Flopping about awkwardly on the docks, waiting for somebody to grant you pity and mercifully nudge you back into the water.

Whereas others would brazenly leap into the fray, stun-rig ready at hand; you would creep around the perimeter of the trial-grounds. Scavenging and scouting, giving call-outs when able to. Never had you been a confrontational person, and if your teammates wanted to take a more combative stance, who were you to get in the way of that? You’d still support them, of course. Safely. From a distance.

It was during another such occasion, when you’d been helping chuck hearts at the Futterman targets. It wasn’t morbid once you got used to it, and as long as you didn’t think too long about the squishy organ in your hand— well. It was almost enough to not question where the hell a seemingly infinite amount of vital organs were coming from. Almost.

Creeping through the gloom of the faux diner to re-arm yourself with more hearts, you quickly scrambled under one of the booths with bated breath as the diner’s bell jingles cheerfully. Something, or someone, has followed you inside.

Through infrared goggles, you watch, transfixed, as the newest prime-asset, ex-mafiaso, Franco Barbi, stalks forward.

It was silly to admit even in the sanctity of your own mind, but you’ve always been a fan of those detective novellas. More specifically, their frightfully charismatic antagonists. You swore up and down, it was sheer happenstance that Franco unknowingly managed to check all of your boxes— and not the man himself.

You don’t think he can see you, at least you’d hoped so. The man’s eyesight is poor, and even poorer in the dark. You’ve used this against him more times than you could possibly count— and it was admittedly a little funny to watch the mobster huff and pout with you just a mere few feet away. One could even say he was almost… endearing like that.

Despite walking mostly blind, Franco moves with the confidence of someone who owns the joint— or more likely someone who knows nobody else could possibly lay a finger on him. That speculation is only exacerbated by the sight of his pinstripe suit. Neatly pressed— or as neat as one’s clothes can be in here. The desired look is heavily crippled by the generous smattering of ruddy spills staining the once pristine fabric. His shotgun, Lupara, hangs loosely from his hand like an afterthought. The way he carries it utterly flippant. As if it’s presence isn’t a herald of death, and just… is. Like a an extension of himself, a limb. There was no Franco ‘il Bambino’ Barbi without Lupara.

The man’s eyes seem to glow through the lens of your goggles, pupils reflective and giving a ghostly-look as he surveys the area. Lopsided grin growing, crooked teeth bared as he takes in the overturned chairs.

“ ‘S a real cozy joint,” he muttered, his voice a pleasant rasp. His tone was casual, but there was an edge hiding beneath it, a simmering promise of violence. “Real nice place for a late-night chat, don’t’cha think, Sweetness?”

His wing-tipped shoes crunched on broken glass as he sauntered further in, his gaze sweeping across the room. His grin widened, baring crooked teeth in a lopsided sneer. “You’s cozy in here, Sweets?” he called, his voice deceptively teasing, almost familiar.

You fought the pounding in your chest, the desperate thrum of adrenaline urging you to run, move, do something. The only thing stopping you was a heavy dose of self-preservation. Realistically, he’d hear you before you could take two steps, and you’d end up a gorey, painted smear on the business-end of Lupara. Not only that, but another part of you was morbidly fascinated.

So, like any other sane person in your shoes, you lay still. Crouched low to tiled floor, and watched.

Franco paused near the counter, his engorged head tilting again as though he were listening. His breath rasped in the silence, heavy and uneven. Then he chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made your stomach churn with unease. He reached out, dragging Lupara’s sawed barrel along a nearby table, the sharp scrape setting your teeth on edge. A wordless threat meant to rattle you, and holy-hell does it get the job done.

“You’re not playin’ fair, doll,” he drawls, voice taking on a mockingly hurt tone. Nasally in pitch, wobbly, as if he’s about to cry. “I thought we’s had somethin’ special.”

Abruptly, he fired without warning.

The booth beside you splinters in a deafening blast, plates clattering and metal screeching. The reverberation rings around in your skull, causing you to jolt in surprise— for a moment believing you’d been shot. In your panic, your cranium thuds against the underside of the table. Pain throbs through your skull, causing you to whip your hands clasped over your mouth, stifling the reflexive cry that threatened to escape. Above, the countertop rattles with your movement, betraying your presence.

Franco stills.

For a horrifying moment, you thought he’d heard you. Through the lens of the goggles, you watch him crouch low, one hand reaching out to grope blindly under the ruined booth. His fingers curled, grasping at empty air.

“C’mere mommy,” he mutters darkly. But when his hand fails to find you, he sorely swears under his breath. He then rises back up onto his feet, kicking at the splintered wood like a frustrated child denied dessert.

“Fuckin’ slut, givin’ me the slip.” he roars, spittle dribbling down his lip. The man’s stocky shoulders quake, panting heavily in enraged exertion. For a moment, you think he’s about to double down, rip apart every booth in a mad-rage until he found you. However, in the next moment, he’s taking a deep, stuttering breath. Already back to his smarmy collected calm in the next exhale.

With a disgruntled sigh, he straightens himself out. Wiping his mouth, gloved hand then reaching to fuss with what little hair he has left. When he’s ensured it was coiffed presentably back into place, he slung Lupara over his shoulder, meandering back the way he came.

As the bell jingled again, signaling his exit, your shoulders sagged in relief. The once palpable tension in the air melts, leaving you a trembling, boneless puddle. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Somehow, you’d slipped by him again. But you knew this definitely wouldn’t be the last.

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫・h.j

—for months you have dealt with constant intrusive thoughts, wondering what life was like before your head was swarmed with anxiety—until one day, you wake up and it isn't your OCD that you remember—it's hyunjin. alternatively: you find hyunjin baking your favorite sweet treat and you fall even deeper in love with him.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠・hyunjin x gn!reader // 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・hurt and comfort, established relationships, one sided angst, me trauma dumping, tooth-rotting fluff // 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・1.4k // 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・reader with OCD, could be read as any sort of obsessions + compulsions but focuses on the obsession of time and the thought that this state of mind will never change, one curse word, kisses, so so many kisses, kisses that end in food fights, food being made that ends in kisses, was the food ever actually made? the world may never know. // 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭・je te laisserai des mots by Patrick Watson

𝐚/𝐧・this kind of really sucks, but i decided to throw away my perfectionism for a little bit and just pour my soul out instead. I've recently been dealing with some serious OCD symptoms and I am trying to get a phycologist to help me navigate these symptoms and get diagnosed, but I thought of this today what it would be like to not wake up and immediately remember my anxiety and my obsessions...then started sobbing :D then hopped on my computer and wrote through the tears haha. edit cookie: I wrote this in early December hated it decided to post it anyways in the small happenstance that somebody might relate to it, I hope that somebody out there feels even the smallest comfort from it :)

You wanted to run away—to take Hyunjin by the hands and disappear into the forest brush; to press your palms into the earth until it felt as though your fingers had become roots, twisting and tangling, becoming one with the trees. You longed to rest beneath the grass, to watch as the stars sang like fairies, strung in sweet, serene stillness. You wanted to trace constellations on his skin, set fireflies alight in his eyes, to kiss him until you were sick of it—until your lips could bear no more.

You wanted to run away and never look back, but 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 always had a way of looking back at you. One day, you awoke, and all the stars had fizzled out—ripped from the sky like a fallen angel's wings. Your world had been dipped in ink, a single drop that spread underneath your eyelids as though you had never woken at all. It consumed you, a once-magical world stolen in a single moment, leaving you completely and utterly under their control.

The trees had grown thick with leaves, their vines crawling up your spine; creeping across your legs, your feet, your teeth. Go away, you wanted to scream. Go away, go away, go away! But the more you squirmed, the deeper they sank their thorns in. There was no escaping; you had become one with the fear, one with the shadows. The sense of what had been faded out, swallowed by the crippling uncertainty of who you were 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 the darkness returned.

Months later, that feeling still hadn't left, and it terrified you to imagine it never would.

In the small stretch of time, floating on the edge of an in-between, is where you felt most at peace. Only a heartbeat short of two seconds, where sleep was nothing but an echo, yet the world had not quite begun to spin again. And for a breath, as you stretch your palm across the silky sheets, still warm from the imprint of Hyunjin's body, you didn't think about 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞; you didn't think about anything but him.

You stay here long after the world began to spin again—waiting, wondering, sinking deeper into the thought of him: the fallen star nuzzled just beneath his eyelid, the feel of his fingers, soft and saccharine, brushing over your knuckles; the way his lips taste like oranges and his skin smells like fresh rain. You study every moment as though they were going to fade away—fluttering from your palms like ashed scrolls.

Then suddenly, it hits you. There were no intrusive thoughts, no anxieties—nothing but the ache where Hyunjin should have been; an ache that consumed you so greatly that you didn't have enough time to worry about 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞. The realization sinks deep into your bones, pulsing in tandem with your trembling heart—everything felt so overwhelming in that bed, 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 flooding back in. Though this time, 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 tasted bittersweet—a distant, muted sour, a small break from the usual loud, potent flavor it tended be.

Something about the thought made your chest feel heavy, your head feel loud. You wanted to ask yourself so many questions, so many things you didn't have the answer to, but instead, you decide to search for Hyunjin, rising to your feet.

The faint scent of bananas and honey wafts through the crack in the door, slightly ajar from where he had left minutes before. You follow the scent down the hall, willing your trembling legs to hold you steady, though the sight that awaits you makes you weak in the knees for an entirely different reason.

Hyunjin's standing above the stove, still disheveled in his pajamas, swiftly whisking a bowl of batter. Beside him lays a cutting board with sliced bananas and a bread pan, the inside sticky with butter. And when he tilts his head to check the stove's timer, you notice the streak of flour smeared on his cheekbone, and for whatever reason, that detail absolutely destroys you.

Dewy-eyed and weak, you shuffle towards him, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to shake the whisk from his hand. Hyunjin jumps, startled by the sudden touch, before he blanches, watching a single tear fall from your lash line.

The bowl drops onto the stovetop with a soft thud.

One second, you are feeling his heartbeat flutter underneath your palm, and the next, it is pressed against your cheek, the tip of your nose nuzzled into his throat. You breathe him in, filling your lungs up until it feels as though your chest has blossomed with the subtle scent. Hyunjin smelled like the forest's first breath—a faint, delicate petrichor that clung to his skin, as if he was the creator. A smell that brought you right back home.

"My love, what's wrong?" His voice hums against your cheek, trembling with a worry you were so reluctant to cause. It takes you centuries to speak, brushing through the vines creeping up your throat.

"I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought of was you," you whisper.

Hyunjin stills underneath your palms, his breath catching like weeds in his throat. It killed him to see you this way, utterly terrified by the very person he was so overwhelmingly besotted with. For months, he guided you through it, every restless night, every bad day, murmuring into your hair—when there's darkness look for the stars—with his hand held tight, you would argue "but there are no stars."

So Hyunjin created some. Every night before bed, he would coat your thoughts in honey, so with every kiss you would be reminded of him, and not them. It almost brought him to his knees, knowing all his hard work paid off.

He was over the moon, grateful tears collecting on his lash line. It takes him three shuddering breaths to push the words off his tongue—falling into your ears like sweet nectar.

"Oh, baby," he chokes, capturing your cheeks between trembling palms, still mindful of his sticky fingers. "I'm so glad, baby, I'm so fucking glad." Hyunjin can't hold himself back as he leans his forehead against your own, pressing his lips to yours.

He tastes like oranges and joy, so, so much joy it's dizzying. You seek out his elbows, then his shoulders, then his chest. He pulls you closer, so impossibly close, it feels as though your heartbeats have taken root within each other, a love sprouting through a single passionate kiss.

When there is darkness look for the stars—it was a quiet night four months ago when you first heard those words, nestled under the nighttime sky; his cheeks freckled with moon dust.

You could still feel it, the way your heart overturned as you shoved the words out of your mouth. It was embarrassing to talk about—how could you explain something you didn't understand? How could somebody sympathize with something that was so crazy?

Hyunjin didn’t say anything for a while after that, bestowing your words with all the deference you deserved. It felt as though you had died a million times before he finally decided to speak.

"When there is darkness, look for the stars." At first, you stammered, both confused and slightly offended—that was, until he hooked his finger under your chin and kissed constellations onto your skin, spreading the galaxy inside your eyes until that was all you could see, all you could think.

It was that night where it all began.

It takes one clumsy kiss for him to accidentally smear a fat strip of batter across your cheek, breaking your makeout with a startled gasp. He goes wide-eyed, only slightly apologetic as he breaks out into a smile, seeing how adorable you looked—lips swollen and red, banana and flour smudged on your face.

"Baby—" Hyunjin doesn't get to finish his sentence, not before a slice of banana is catapulted onto his forehead, sticking with an audible thwap. He yelps, utterly gobsmacked, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

You begin to laugh, a rib-splitting, belly-gripping guffaw that resounds throughout the entire kitchen. With a playful scoff, Hyunjin grabs a handful of bananas, flicking them at you like bullets. You don't stop throwing food at each other until your stomachs burn with laughter and the floor is coated with enough ingredients to make banana bread itself. Hyunjin pulls you in, lips dusted with flour and giggles. He presses his smile against your own.

You realize then, blossoming with adoror, you had been so focused on what it was like 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 that you never stopped to think about how 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 didn't include Hyunjin.

Maybe, just maybe, you could get used to 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫.

cookie owns this. thank you.

[skzdarlings]

sharing a bed ; seungmin ; sequel

masterlist.

original one-shot.

pairing: kim seungmin/reader content info: sexual content. enemies2lovers. sequel to sharing a bed one-shot linked above. morning afters. running from feelings. making reader jealous. confrontation with a creep and light violence. sexual content includes blow-jobs, hand jobs, strap-on blowjobs, 69ing, rimming, pegging, light choking. some brat seungmin and sort of brat tamer reader (kinda just likes the brat lol). word count: 7k.

-

Kim Seungmin, the perpetual thorn in your side and ache in your head, is torturing you. 

Not the fun kind of torture, either.   You had your fill of that two nights ago when a silly scheme resulted in a horny happenstance and you let yourself get carried away.  Your careful control not only slipped, but fell right into the hands of someone you once disliked. 

It left you befuddled in the light of the day, when you woke to Seungmin curled around you, his cheek pressing into your bicep and his leg hooked around yours.  Not to mention his morning wood digging into your hip.  It surfaced memories of the pretty and unexpected piercing you found there, how your idea of this guy was so so wrong.  And it made you wonder what else you were wrong about, and all the ways this burgeoning something could go wrong in turn.   Your thoughts spiralled. 

You were no longer handcuffed, so you slipped out of bed and walked right out the front door.  You hoped a walk through the brisk winter morning would help clear your mind.  It did, but only momentarily.  When you got back to the vacation house and ran into Seungmin, you fumbled.  Badly.  You meant to be pragmatic but came across dismissive.  Something about how last night was the only night.  Something about how you were bad at commitments.  Something about being better off friends. 

Seungmin was silent the whole time, letting you ramble like an idiot.  Then his eyes narrowed and he laughed.  It was an airy, unpleasant, and derisive sound.    

“Trust me,” he said.  “We will never be friends.” 

“Well, fine,” you said, bristling despite the fact you were the one rejecting him.  What did you care if he hated you again?  You didn’t.  You shouldn’t.  “Good.”

It was not good.  Saying it left a sour taste in your mouth and a pit in your stomach. 

And despite it all, your stupid horny hindbrain did not relent, purring like a kitten when Seungmin gave you a judgemental once-over and scoffed.   You could not help but remember the very different noises he made last night, again and again, in your hands and mouth, from your actions and words. 

You will never look at him the same way again.  You have no idea how to move forward, but you know you can never go back.  Pretending nothing happened will not work for once.   

It freaks you out.  You are usually good at shucking attachments.  His cold acceptance should not have hurt.  What did you care?  This vacation would end and you would go back to your own lives, right?   So you let Seungmin shove past you.  He ignored you for the rest of the day.  When he started an argument later, causing everyone else to groan, you replied like always, but it was half-hearted at best.   

Oh god, you think now, rubbing the bridge of your nose, I can’t start thinking with my damn heart. 

Emotional attachments and long-term romantic liaisons never turn out well.  You cut a dashing figure but your many flaws eventually find their way to the surface.  It is not worth the inevitable heartbreak when someone sees under the charming mask to the real you.   

Rather than suffer later, you are suffering now, brooding over a beer while doing your damnest to not look across the bar.  You know you will not like what you see. 

You and your friends only have a couple more nights at the vacation lodge, so you all went down to the nearby resort to drink and dance and enjoy a fun night out. 

You are not having any fun, of course.  You are sitting on a bar stool, all alone at the counter, in your signature leather jacket as you hunch over your drink and glare at nothing in particular. 

Seungmin, on the other hand, is suddenly a dazzling socializer rather than an obnoxious stuck-up jerk like he used to be.  You expected him to sit in a corner, making snarky remarks all night, but instead he has been moving from person to person, flirting with anything that breathes. 

He is also wearing an obscene pair of jeans.  No one else in the friend group seemed to notice, not a single eye so much as twitching in his direction, but you noticed.  Oh, yeah, you fucking noticed.  The second he came bounding the stairs, swinging on a stupid baggy letterman jacket like the twerpy little prep he is.  His dark hair neatly combed, bangs swept off his forehead, brightening his gaze. 

The jeans.  The stupid fucking jeans.  Straight-cut denim that has absolutely no business cupping his ass the way it does.  And why does he have such a nice ass anyway?  It also has no business looking that way. 

Kim Seungmin.  What a nightmare. 

You take a swig of beer and glare at the wall.  You tell yourself not to look at him.  He is probably leaning over some equally prissy knob and offering to buy them a glass of milk or whatever people like them drink. 

So, no.  You will not give him the satisfaction.  It is no coincidence that in all the time you have known him, Seungmin has never  been flirtatious or promiscuous, but the second you turn him down he is slobbering all over anything that moves. 

You will not let him get to you.  You will not look at him.  You will not react. 

Except he is already getting to you.  So you look over.  You react. 

“For fuck’s sake,” you grumble, abandoning your beer and stomping down from your stool. 

Seungmin is huddled in a booth with some colossal bitch of a man.  You recognize him from the other night, remembering how much time he spent harassing the bar staff.  Seungmin doesn’t know that.  He might be your enemy – or whatever – but you are not gonna leave the guy with that kind of jerk.  And you are not secretly thrilled that you are justified in storming over there, drawing up to the table with all the aggression that has been building inside you. 

You slap a hand on the table, bringing their attention to you.  Seungmin gives you a once-over, then smiles that stupid smile of his, all boxy and puppyish, like you are the funniest punchline to the funniest joke in the world.  There was a time you used to fantasize about swiping that smile off his mouth.  You are still thinking about occupying his mouth, just not like that. 

“Move along,” you say to the creep. 

“Excuse me?” 

He is already drunk.  You can smell it as much as see it.  Seungmin is looking very smug and you start to feel like he picked this guy on purpose. 

Seungmin drives you crazy, he really does.  One second he is all good boy, the next he is purposefully throwing himself at a creep just to get a rise out of you.  You feel like he would take a running leap off the mountainside if he was inclined to a prove a point to someone.  He is fearless and ridiculous and you want to hate him.  You want him to be the boring two-dimensional snob you thought he was.  You have no idea what to do with the complicated man in front of you. 

That’s a lie, you think, meeting his gaze.  You know exactly what to do with him.

You swear his eyes are twinkling.  He slouches back comfortably, arms crossed. 

“I told you once,” you say, tearing your gaze from him to look at the creep.  “Now move along.” 

“Try me.” 

The guy was only bothering women and seems uninterested in Seungmin so you suspect he just wants to piss you off, but then he puts a hand on him anyway, grabbing Seungmin by the arm so suddenly that it surprises him. 

Before Seungmin can shake him off, you snatch the guy by his wrist and twist.  He yelps, struggling to wrestle his arm back from your iron grip.  You slam him against the back of the booth. 

“Touch him again,” you say, “and I will break your hand.  You wanna try me?”

He opens his mouth, no doubt to spew some smelly rejoinder, but you don’t stick around for it.  You grab Seungmin by the elbow and yank him out of the booth.  You drag him away. 

“Excuse me,” Seungmin says, not politely, ripping his arm back.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I think I’m saving your dumb ass from getting felt up by every creep on this mountain.” 

“Meh-meh-meh,” he mocks, dodging when you reach for him again.  “I’m having fun.  I don’t need you to do anything.  It’s not like you’d really care if something happened to me.  Bad,” he smirks, “or good.” 

He knows he has you cornered.  You might have the physicality over him, but he is holding this entire scene in his hands.  You can only rub your jaw and shake your head, trying and failing to remember how to act indifferent. 

He has the tiniest drop of cream on his upper lip, leftover from the sugary abomination someone bought him.    

You say nothing in reply to his deliberate antagonizing.  You plant one hand on your hip and reach for him with the other.   When he tries to dodge, you grab him by the shoulder, firmly putting him in place.  He does not move the second time, standing still while you wipe a thumb across the sugary residual. 

Then you push at his bottom lip, press down, flicking your thumb so it bounces back.  His stare is unwavering.  He is not the blushing type, but he noticeably swallows. 

“Come on,” you say, zipping up your jacket.  “We’re leaving.  Now.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” he asks. 

You grab the back of his neck and drag him right up against you. 

“I didn’t ask,” you say.   

“Friends don’t get to make demands, dumbass,” he says, sneering the word friends.  He does not wriggle away, but he does not fully surrender either.  He meets your stare head-on, unmoving and unintimidated. 

He is going to make you say it.  He is not going to let you act sexy and charm your way out of it.  He is going to stand in this bar with your hand uselessly holding his neck until you do.   

“Fine,” you say.  You exhale.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I said all that dumb shit.  I’m a moron.”

“Yes,” he says.  “You are.” 

“I didn’t think it would matter that much anyway.”

“Because you aren’t the romantic type,” he says dryly. 

“Because I didn’t think you’d care,” you admit.  “You don’t like me and we don’t get along anyway.  I just—”  You finally drop your hand, waving at nothing and looking away.  You can feel him glaring at you.  “Look, I suck, I get it.  Believe me, I know all the ways I suck.  I figured I’d spare us the mess when you figured that out so I just walked away while it was still good.”

“You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought,” he says.  He is still frowning at you.  “I already know how much you suck.  It was the first thing I noticed, you arrogant, womanizing ass.”

“Hey now…”     

“You’re vulgar and loud and, for someone without a dick, you think with it constantly.”  

 “I… don’t…”  You do.

“And for some reason even though you are the biggest idiot and the worst person I have ever met,” he says, still glaring, “I still like something about you.  Because even though you’re determined to not let anyone see your good side, unfortunately you have one.  Even though it’s buried so deep you have to walk into hell to find it.” 

It did not really occur to you that Seungmin has already seen your worst qualities.  Because you did not get along, you never felt a need to hide those attributes.  Inadvertently, you have been more open and honest with this annoyingly handsome brat than anyone else you have ever known.

You cannot help the smile tugging at your lips.  Seungmin rolls his eyes. 

“You’re hopeless,” he says, shaking his head as he shoves past you.  “Take me home, idiot, before I come to my senses.”   

You turn to follow him, only to get bopped on the nose when he shoves a pointed finger in your face. 

“If you even think about acting like a moron in the morning,” he says, “I will kill you and make it look like an accident.” 

You draw a cross over your heart and nod.  He huffs in aggravation, turning on his heel and stomping outside. 

“You’re the worst,” he says.  He swings open the door and stomps into the snowy night, seemingly unbothered by the fluffy bits of snow swirling around his face.  He just swings up his hood and marches through the downy white carpet.  “You better make this worth my while,” he says. 

Your eyes are on his ass in those jeans, thinking about how you very much will be making it worth his while.  You look up when he keeps grumbling to himself, a marked sign he is maybe more nervous than he is letting on.  You remember his stubbornness before his eventual acquiescence, the way he hid his face at his most vulnerable moments. 

You might be in the habit of ducking out the door, but he deflects just as much with his wit.

You hurry your pace, catching up to him.  He is still muttering to himself, head down, a soft layer of snow dusting his jacket and hood.  It must be all over your head but you hardly feel the cold.  Your mind is on warmth, that stupid heart of yours suddenly flooded with it. 

You want this to be good for him, even if he would never outright ask for you to be kind.  It is all the more reason to make sure you are.  You really were such an idiot. 

Your grip is firm but not rough, hand curling protectively over his shoulder.  This touch invites more than demands. 

He stops in place, looking at you with a wary glare.  It disappears when you swoop in.  His hood falls as you tug him close.  He goes without protest, lips parting under yours with a claiming so heated that the cold does not stand a chance against you. 

You try to keep it romantic, a rare act of restraint on your part, but the supposed good boy drags the zipper of your coat down, down, down, then grabs your belt and tugs.  You stumble, uncharacteristically shaky, gasping against his lips when he grinds his knuckles against the zip of your jeans. 

“Tsk,” he says, lips still brushing yours.  “Not prepared.” 

“I was planning on sitting around feeling sorry for myself,” you say, with a helpless laugh despite his teasing.  You grab his wandering hand, leading it away from your crotch.  You are eternally grateful your dick is the kind you can leave in your sock drawer, because resisting him right now would have been impossible otherwise.     

“Trust me,” you say.  “I’ll make up for it.”

“Fine,” he says.  “I will.  You better not let me down.”  He looks at you when he says this, as close to imploring as Seungmin ever does. 

You feel the weight of that trust.  You nod, swallowing, looking at his lips, full and pink from the hard press of your kiss.  You lean in for more when he abruptly zips your coat again, all the way up to your chin so he smacks your jaw. 

“Come on then,” he says with that mean little laugh as he scampers away, grinning at you.  “Are you gonna prove it or not?” 

It is a short drive back to the cabin, and a torturous one to boot.  Not because Seungmin touches you, but because he doesn’t, and he won’t let you touch him either.  You try to put a hand on his knee but every attempt is rebuffed.  All you get is that cheeky grin or a glare, then a mere flick of his wrist as he brushes you away like lint.

Somehow it is more maddening than a direct touch.  You can feel him everywhere just by his proximity.  He even jumps out of the car before you unbuckle your seatbelt.  He is inside the cabin before you reach the door. 

You are panting from the sprint up the driveway, trying to keep up, not entirely convinced he won’t play you for a sucker and run right out the back door.  It would be like Seungmin to make you chase him up the mountainside.  You wouldn’t blame him for making you prove yourself, considering what an ass you were. 

But he is waiting inside the cabin.  Everyone else is out for the night and should be gone for hours.  When you close the door, sealing out the cold and the world, this cabin feels flush with more heat than you know what to do with. 

You do not hesitate. The tantalizing promise of more is like a touch on its own, heightened by his stubborn refusal to give you anything easily.  It makes catching him that much more satisfying, that soft sound all the sweeter when you pull him into your arms and finally steal that kiss. 

His skin is cool from the weather but his mouth is warm, the kiss searing hot.  He digs his blunt nails into the arms of your jacket, pressing the whole length of his hard body against yours. 

You remember his unexpectedly tender places, how just a faint stroke behind his ear will have him curling into you, how looping some hair around your fingers and tugging will deepen the rumbling sound that spills past his lips.  

You unzip his coat while kissing, licking into him while he scrambles to help strip.  The coat hits the floor in a damp heap.  You separate for just a moment, giving him the chance to tug his hoodie up and off.  You toss your own jacket over the nearby couch, then hook your fingers into his belt loops and pull him close.  

His hair is in an endearing state of dishevelment and he looks flushed from the rush of warmth after the chill.  Just looking at him like this has you throbbing.  You try to imagine telling the old you that you would feel that way, that the annoying friend-of-a-friend who mutually hated your guts would be looking at you like he wants to devour you and let you return the favour. 

You can’t imagine believing it.  Now it feels completely natural, letting him walk you backwards until your back hits the wall and his chest is pressed to yours, rising and falling with the quickness of his breath. 

He is looking aside, contemplatively.  You cup his jaw and draw him back to you, unable to resist a breathless laugh when he nips at your fingers.  You do not shy away or let go, and that seems to placate him.  He practically melts against you, your hand curving around the shape of his cheek, lowering to curl gently around the side of his neck.

“We should go upstairs,” you say.  The stairs are right beside you, but somehow the bedroom seems too far.  

Impossibly, ridiculously far, when Seungmin flicks some hair out of his eyes and looks at you intensely. 

“Don’t you want me on my knees?”  he asks. 

Your response is not a real word, just a rough sound.  He smirks, but is still flushed and a little shaky as he sinks onto his knees.  He gets your belt open, tugs it free, and tosses it to the side.  The sight of him licking his lips has you seeing stars before he even leans in. 

You brush some of his hair back, looking down at his face as he focusses on unzipping your jeans.  He has the fly down when you catch your breath and your senses. 

You gather the hair at his nape in your fist and tug, firm and sharp.  His mouth falls open and his breath stutters, eyes so dark and lips so wet and plush that you are tempted to drive his face right between your legs, where is obviously offering to be. 

But that’s not how you want to do this, not yet.   You move from his hair to his neck, wrapping your hand around his throat and watching his eyelashes flutter with surprise.  There is always a breath of panic in that surprise, adrenaline fueling the flood of desire that follows.  He is visibly hard, straining in those sinful jeans, breathing harder as you none-too-nicely push him down onto the stairs. 

“What are you doing,” he says, though it sounds like less like a question than acceptance.  Continue, waving his hand like a prince on silk sheets even though he is sprawled on his back on the staircase.    

“Making it worth your while,” you say.  He is not wearing a belt because these jeans are made for his body, snug and perfect and fitted everywhere, so it is just a matter of unbuttoning—

Oof. 

He plants his foot on your chest like last time, pushing you back.  He blinks innocently.    

“Shoes first,” he says. 

You smile, though it less playful than predatory, a promise in the flash of your teeth.   You nonetheless obey his silly whim as you tug off one shoe than the other.  It leaves a damp patch on your shirt which he remarks on.   You roll your eyes but tug your shirt off, sports bra following. 

The second time you push him down, you are even less nice.  You gather his hands in yours and pin them above his head, holding him there when he squirms ineffectively. 

“You’re kind of a brat,” you say, yanking his zipper down.  “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“You,” he says, panting around the word.  “Jerk.” 

You laugh, then cover his mouth with yours, swallowing the moan that takes him by surprise.  His hips buck towards you when you reach into those jeans to take him in hand.  He wriggles in your hold, arms straining while his hips lift toward you for more, following the snapping rhythm of your hand.  You trace the dick piercings that caught you by surprise last time, the metal smooth under your rolling thumb. 

You only release him when you duck down, tasting for yourself, relishing in the sounds that spill out of him.  He claws at your bare shoulder, spreading his legs to make room for you to lay between them.  His head falls back, resting on the step above while you work him in your mouth. 

“I’m—I’m—”  His voice gets lighter, breathier, his orgasm hitting him all at once.  He throws an arm over his face instinctively, head thrown back, hips lifting.  It catches you by surprise, making you choke just a bit, but he is already coming so you ride it out.   

He is still twitching when he finishes, gasping behind his arm when you roll a thumb around his piercing again.  When he hisses, knees jerking, you let go. 

Knowing him better than you ever thought you would, you move, stretching out alongside him.  You tug him into your arms and he goes without hesitation, burying his face in your neck.  You snake a hand under his shirt, stroking his back affectionately. 

Once more, you are genuinely endeavouring to be sweet. 

Once more, he shoves his hand down your pants. 

“Hello—”  It is all you manage before he is touching you, finding all that wet desire and rubbing a little haphazardly.  It makes you laugh and you grab his wrist, slowing him down.  “Easy,” you say, showing him a better pace.  “Just like that is good.” 

He learns quickly.  It was the same last time.  Every idea you introduced, he contemplated, experimented, then excelled.  With just a nudge now, he skillfully obliges.  He is breathing hard against your throat, pressed so close to your whole body, his fingers finding all your secrets and working them out.  You slide a hand down his backside, squeezing a handful of his ass.  The sound he makes has you coming faster than usual.

He puts his hand on your thigh, then lifts his head and grins at you.  

“I’m still winning,” he says.

“It’s still not a contest,” you reply, quirking an eyebrow. 

“It is,” he says.  “And I’m winning.” 

“I see.”

You scoop him into your arms and cart him up the stairs.  He situates himself by the time you reach the bedroom, legs around your waist and arms around your shoulder.   

“Still winning?” you ask. 

“Obviously,” he replies. 

You shake your head and sigh but with no real animosity, just like his smirk is more playful than vicious.  You still whole-heartedly believe he is capable of catching you off guard, so you are prepared for the brat switch to flip at the slightest provocation. 

You drop him onto the bed with a gentle thump, then cross your arms and look down at him. 

“Can I leave you unsupervised for two minutes while I get my dick?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he says, blinking innocently.  “Can you?” 

“Probably not,” you say, but retreat nonetheless.   Your equipment is in your travel bag.  You left it behind when you went to the bar because you were not in the mood for a hook-up, which should have been the first sign you were hopeless.  You were already in waters far too deep when you tried reaching for that shitty life preserver.  Learning to swim is not easy but infinitely more rewarding. 

You change into packing boxers and tuck your toy into it, buttoning up the pocket.  You grab some lube and a towel, then walk back to his bedroom, certain that he has somehow caused trouble in the five minutes it took to do all that. 

He’d naked.  Of course he is.  Sitting where you left him, perched on the edge of the bed, but his clothes are folded in a pile on the dresser and he has nothing but a bedsheet pulled over his lap.  He is not wearing his usual cheeky expression, though, and you are about to ask if something is wrong.  Then he says, “I’ve never done this before.” 

“Oh,” you say.  “That’s fine.”  It is the unthinking response, automatic as the admission is not too surprising.  You live in a world where strap-ons and gender games are the norm, so sometimes you forget that most people consider it inherently kinky or an anomaly.  A lot of men are new to it.  Seungmin didn’t even know what was packing was when you first mentioned it. 

But then he says, “Any of it.” 

And you say, “Huh?” 

“I’ve never done,” he says slowly, “any of this.” 

“Any.”

“Any.”

It takes a long minute to compute.  You think about his clumsy touches and experiments followed by his quick learning.  Unabashed and unjudgmental regardless of what he encountered.  Testing and figuring himself out just as much as you. 

“Oh,” you say.  Then, “Oh.  Fucking shit.  I’m such an asshole.” 

Because that was his first time doing anything with someone, and you just walked out the door without a word the next morning. 

He does not look upset about it anymore.  In fact, he laughs, though he tries to hold it back.  It turns into a snort he barely catches, amused eyes gazing up at you. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “You are.  We already knew that.” 

“I really, I just—” 

“Can you shut up and come take my virginity before I get beatified for involuntary chastity?”

“But you’re so fucking hot,” you blurt. 

It is obviously not the retort he anticipated, because he blushes profusely, which is not the response you expected. 

He clears his throat and looks away, rolling his eyes to compensate for the obvious vulnerability. 

“Thanks,” he says.  “Stating the obvious.  I’m also picky.  And apparently I scare people.”

“Scare them?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow.  “Who’d be scared of you?”

“Evidently not you,” he says.  His tone is snarky but he looks at you, up and down, and the look is a thoughtful one.  “Not ever.” 

Agh.  There’s that heart again, pounding away.  Who knew that thing could race so fast. 

“Well,” you say, finally putting the bottle and towel on the bedside table.  “That is their loss.  Not everyone is built for chasing luxury, I guess.” 

“Luxury,” he says with another snort, grinning despite himself.  “I’m high-end,” he says it like a fact, not a question.

“Naturally,” you say, approaching where he is sitting. 

“I’m going to be honest,” he says, eyes wandering your body before landing on your face.  “I thought you were going to be weird and egotistical about being with a virgin.” 

It suddenly pings in your head that you are his first, that there is a certain responsibility that comes with that.  That the wrong person could make this terrible for him.  That you want to make sure it feels better than anything he could dream.  These thoughts are completely and truly unselfish. 

And there is one admittedly egotistical and selfish thought, of making him irrevocably yours with one really good fuck. 

He glares when he sees the look on your face, his lips pursed, though a breath of a laugh escapes nonetheless. 

“Wow!” he says.  “You’re a pig, go away.”

“No, no, I’m not, I swear!” you say, laughing. 

He laughs too but shakes his head, pushing you away when you reach for him.  “No way,” he says.  “You and your ego.  Gross.” 

“Please, I promise,” you say, getting on your knees and lacing your hands together like a praying supplicant.  “I’ll be so normal,” you say.  “I have no ego at all.”

“You’re the worst,” he says dryly. 

“Yeah, but…”  You wiggle your eyebrows at him.  “You kinda like me anyway, right?” 

It is a more vulnerable question than you thought it would be.  It prompts him to look at you, really look at you, before he huffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Unfortunately,” he says. 

You giggle and he swats your head. 

“Are we just going to sit here all night and look at each other?” he asks, crossing his arms. 

“No, no, of course not,” you say.  You get back on your feet, standing bedside so you are looming over him. 

“What are we doing then?” he asks.   

“Well, you know what we’re doing,” you say, laughing when he rolls his eyes and huffs again. 

You reach out, cupping his face in both your hands and guiding him to look up at you.  Your heartbeat hammers away not only in your chest but everywhere else, a rapid current of heat that thunders most prominently between your legs as shiny dark eyes gaze up at you amorously from such a suggestive vantage.  

“First, before anything else, this.”  You speak in a lower voice, watching his spine straighten as the sound.  You run your thumb across his bottom lip like you did earlier, except this time it is a bruised pink from kissing.  It really makes you feel like that extra weight in your boxers is coming to life, connected to you intimately, ready and wanting as you are.  Especially when you tug on that bottom lip, when he leans towards your hand like he needs it, needs you. 

“Now,” you say. “Now I want you on your knees.” 

There is a sharp intake of breath before he nods, subtly, then shifts.  The sheets falls away from his lap, revealing he is already half-hard again.  There are goosebumps along his skin, from his nudity and the chill or just anticipation. 

Last time, he needed almost no direction.  He followed his own instinct, logically deducing that the part of the toy you could feel was the part at the base, closest to your body.  He uses his usual deductions when unbuttoning your boxers, taking a second to first press the base of the toy against you before leaning back and opening his mouth. 

It is not easy to come like this, but you are so worked up that it might happen.  It does not matter if you do.  It is not always about chasing the perfect orgasm.  This time, it is touch and sensuality.  He lets you teach him, rather than stampeding like last time.  You wonder if his heart is pounding given how red the tips of his ears are, blood rushing everywhere in a hurry.  You hold his face and slide back and forth, taking your time getting wet, both yourself and the toy, pushing him a little further each time. 

When his mouth is full and he blinks slowly, contently, every bratty remark and combative tone far from his mind, you smile and tug his hair.  He moans and you push a little more, gliding back and forward again. 

“You’re a fast learner,” you say.  “Bet you could get used to this.” 

It is a testing tease, to great success if the returned moan is anything to go by.  He squeezes his eyes shut and starts touching himself, finally moving his head instead of letting you guide him.  Before he gets too lost in the rhythm, you ease him back.  You smile and rub your thumb across his shiny lips as he blinks up at you.    

“Come here,” you say, and kiss him. 

He falls into the kiss, arms wrapping around you as you lay down with him.  He is eager in the searching heat of the kiss, long and deep and hungry.   You get on your back and pull him on top of you, give him one more drawn-out kiss with a filthy wet lick into his mouth, then smile. 

“Turn around,” you say.  “Keep going.”

It takes him a second to work out what you mean, but he really is a fast learner.  Soon he is laying on top of you, face where it was before, mouth wrapping around the end of your dick and his fingers searching beneath it to stroke you directly. 

You snatch the lube off the table and wet your fingers then him, taking it slow and easy, using your mouth and spit then more lube until everything is slippery and he gives in so easily into you.  He is breathing hard down between your legs, resting his cheek on your thigh and no longer using his mouth on you.  His eyes are closed and his hips are rocking, focussed on the sensations that you are certain are overwhelming him. 

You move him around, at which point he comes to attention, looking back at you.  This is the quietest he has ever been, all the action in his heart as you expected; you can feel it racing when you touch his chest.  

You lay him down in front of you, sidling up behind him.  You lay a hand on the wildly fluttering race of his pulse, throat cupped in your palm.  You turn his face to kiss him, your wet hand stroking your wet dick.  You probably should have thrown that towel down before getting started.  The sheets are a mess already. 

“Ugh, hurry up,” he says, reaching back to smack your thigh.  “You’re the worst.  I hate you.” 

You laugh.  Oh well.  No time to worry about bedsheets.  You give his throat a gentle squeeze and smile at the noise he makes, strained and needy, his hips rearing back into you. 

“What?” you ask, sliding the toy down his backside.  “You want something?”

“I will bury you in the mountain pass,” he says.  “They’ll think it was a skiing accident.  And that you got mauled by a bear.  And eaten by wolves.  And—”

To be honest, having him distracted and rambling is for the best.  It means he is more relaxed, not so focussed when you finally start pushing in.  Of course, he feels it pretty fast, and instinctively rebels.  You stop clutching his throat and hold an arm across his chest instead, holding him protectively and kissing that sweet spot behind his ear.  His groaning turns into a whine. 

“Okay?” you ask. 

“Gonna kill you,” he says. 

“That a yes?”

“Yes.” 

“Thank you.”  You hook a hand under his leg and pull it up, giving yourself leverage, then fuck into him completely.  His whine turns to a sharp yelp, hand scrabbling against the arm on his chest.  You let him catch his breath and adjust.  “Still okay?” 

“It’s weird,” he says. 

“Bad weird?”

“No,” he says.  “It’s… it’s good.  It’s just…”  You move a little and his whole body clenches then loosens.  He makes a strangled noise but softens in your arms, though his nails have dug a pretty picture into your skin.  You are surprised he hasn’t drawn blood.  “Ugh,” he says.  “It’s so wet.  I feel like a river rafting ride.”

“Not… what most people usually say… but okay…” 

“I’m… not… most people.”

“No,” you say, kissing that spot again and finally moving your hips.  “You’re not.” 

You are not sure if his little sound of submission is in response to your actions or your words, but with it he seems to all at once open to you.  You find a rhythm, holding his hand when his fingers search for yours on his chest.  He ends up biting your arm, which you should have seen coming, but it’s fine because you leave a visible bite mark on his neck in return. 

At that he gets into it, meeting the pace you set, altering it to what he wants.  It is a good thing the house is empty because you are not quiet at all.  If your fooling around was enough to send an aggravated Minho storming after you, then this probably would have led to him burning the cabin down. 

The thought makes you snicker, which makes Seungmin ask what is so funny, so you tell him then he laughs too. 

“Ugh, stop making me laugh,” he says. 

“You can laugh while making love,” you say, kissing his neck.  “It’s okay.” 

That does not make him laugh but it does make him sigh.  “Making love, huh,” he says dryly.  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It didn’t,” you say, finding another sweet spot that has his whole body rearing into yours.  “I guess I’m a fast learner too.”

“Ew, you’re so annoying,” he says, but squeezes your fingers in his hand. 

“I think you’re not getting fucked right if you’re still this bratty,” you say playfully, prompting him to roll his eyes. 

“What are you gonna do about it?  Make love at me?  Sap.” 

You laugh, kiss his neck, then move away to roll him onto his back.  He wriggles a bit, surprised with the change and sudden emptiness.  His legs part easily when you move between them, but you still snap, “Spread.  Good.”  Because it makes him swallow hard, his dark eyes sparkling and his mouth bruised, hair mussed and body flushed.  He is already a fucked out sight, but he wants more, and you give it. 

You snap your hips together and fuck into him.  This time you do hold his throat, gently, not repressing air but showing control.  He holds your forearm with both hands, his face scrunching up, eyes closed as he focusses in that intense way of his.  He breathes hard, makes sweet sounds, and not a single antagonistic or bratty word leaves his pretty mouth. 

“I think I’m finally winning,” you tease, to which he just makes a hiccupping sound of pleasure.  “Yeah, that’s right.” 

You hold his ridiculously pretty dick and give it the expert treatment it deserves.  The combination of sensations has him throwing his head back, clawing your arm as you work him in your head.  You cannot feel the end of the toy, but there is a magic in this kind of fucking, and when he comes and he clutches your arm and he screams your name, when the muscles in his abdomen clench and you know he is feeling sensation in every part of his body, you can feel him wrapped around you, wholly and completely, like you could feel him when he wasn’t even touching you at all. 

He writhes almost desperately as you keep touching him until he can’t take it anymore, then you ease him down and pull back. 

“Good?” you ask, sitting back, looking down at him, blissfully fucked out and dishevelled. 

“Yes,” he murmurs.  “I won. Again.” 

“Gonna need to supply me with that rubric one of these days,” you say. 

“Meh-meh-meh,” is the half-hearted retort, delving to a sleepy sigh. 

 “Gotta take care of yourself before you go to sleep,” you say, though you have a feeling it’s a losing battle, his eyelids already heavy. 

“That’s what you’re for,” he grumbles. 

That damn heart really does have a mind of its own.  It has clearly decided to make its presence known whenever it damn well pleases. 

You run your fingers through his messy hair, smiling when he blinks up at you. 

You tidy him up then scoop him into your arms to carry him to your bed, because that one is not a filthy sex nest.  He wakes a little on the journey.  And when you lay down and pull a sheet up, he rolls towards you and throws an arm and a leg around you, pinning you to the bed. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say.  “I promise.”

“Good,” he says.  “You’re too stupid to be out there on your own.” 

You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head, but you put an arm around him and nod. 

“You’re right,” you say. 

“Of course I am.”  He snuggles in close and sighs.  “Now go the fuck to sleep.  Your dick is in the sink so you have no excuse.  Good night.”  

“Good night,” you say with a laugh. 

I think I won too, you almost say, but decide let him believe he is the only winner for now, because he is already falling asleep with his head on your shoulder.   

You can tell him in the morning. 

[knowledgeableknitter]

Where It All Began

A little happy Drabble.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gender neutral)

Word Count: <500

Summary: Bucky's been smiling all night. He has a ring in his pocket and a question to ask you.

Trigger Warnings: a proposal? There's like nothing. It's fluff.

Author's Note: I need the energy to write a long Bucky proposal, one based off of how my hubby proposed to me, but I have not the energy. So I did this instead.

Masterlist

Bucky had been smiling all night.

The kind of smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth even when he tried to hide it. It was a soft, private smile that had flickered through dinner, through dessert, through the walk back to your neighborhood.

He wasn’t nervous. It was more like he was carrying a secret and couldn’t wait to share it. His thumb brushed against your hand as you walked beside him, fingers grazing yours before he finally laced them together.

The summer air was soft, still warm from the day. The city buzzed gently in the distance, but here in the park, things were quieter. The same park where you’d first met him. It had been happenstance, really. You’d shared a bench, commented about the weather, and a spark grew that never fizzled out.

Now the sky above was streaked in gold and lavender, the kind of light that made everything feel a little more surreal.

Bucky stopped walking just as you reached the clearing near your favorite fountain, the same one you'd passed a hundred times since that first night.

“What’s going on with you tonight?” you asked playfully, a small laugh escaping you. “You look like you’re up to something.”

Instead of answering, Bucky reached into his jacket pocket and slowly sank down onto one knee.

Your heart caught in your throat, time stuttering for just a second as the city sounds fell away behind you. He had steady hands, honest eyes, and was full of so much love you weren’t sure how he was keeping it all inside.

“This is where I met you,” he said softly. “And I knew right then, that you were going to change my life. I didn’t know if I deserved it, or how long it would last, but I knew you were going to matter to me more than anyone else ever had.”

He held out the ring, simple and beautiful, no hesitation in his gaze.

“I’ve lived a long life. Some of it good, most of it hard. But you…” His voice cracked, just a little. “You gave me something I didn’t think I’d ever have again. A future I actually want. A home. Peace. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

There wasn’t a part of you that had to think.

“Yes,” you breathed, nodding through the sting of tears as you reached for him. “Yes, of course I will.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, like he’d been holding his breath for years, and you knelt with him, your forehead pressing to his before he slipped the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. The moment wasn’t rehearsed or overly polished, and it was perfect.

Later, you sat quietly together on the same bench where you’d once shared your first conversation, your hand resting in his as the sky faded to violet. 

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods