#topic: the white devil

[symphonicsoul]

.: The Devil's Toll :.

⋆˖⁺‧���☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ He doesn't understand why his hair is getting stroked so lovingly but he also doesn't know why he's finding it so hard to pull away. There is a small hand brushing through white locks over and over and he doesn't quite know how he ended up leaning his head up on His Excellency’s chair like some kind of lounging cat but here he is doing just that nonetheless.

Words: 2.9 k   Pages:  6 TW;;  Depression, PTSD, Submission, Mental Illness, Survivor’s Guilt, gaslighting, possession, isolation, abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse, self blame, objectification, manipulation, injury, mental breakdown, intimidation, love bombing, dissociation, conditioning, punishment and praise, rewards, murder

His stomach twists in disgust as he realizes the true stakes of the situation and now if he moves wrong that hand in his hair will turn into a variable claw in the matter of a few moments. He hates how he can't remember ever laying down like this and quite frankly he can't remember waking up this morning either.

 It's becoming more and more frequent in recent days. He's missing entire chunks of time and he doesn't quite know what to make of it. He's missing chunks of time and he can't remember when was the last time His Excellency killed him. Somehow this seems like more of a bad thing than a good thing for as strange as that sounds. Shouldn't one want to be spared the pain of death? Well yes, and of course he does too but this also means that when the time comes that he inevitably messes up again, when His Excellency makes a move for punishment it will be the most severe one he's received to date. 

He's not stupid. He knows how this game works. Praise and Punishment walk hand in hand with this little beast and right now those same hands are in his hair and he can't move. He can't pull away no matter how much he wants to and he can't even flinch or breathe wrong unless he wants those small but deadly fingers ready to tear snow colored locks right out from his head. 

It's always such a wretched sensation.  

Nothing is worse than the feeling of his hair being pulled. He hates it. He hates the feeling and he hates the way it makes him feel so vulnerable. How the pain of it will bring him to his knees and have him fighting back the tears at the sensation. You would think one who has died as many times as he has would have more pain tolerance for something seemingly so simple but the sensation of even the root of his hair going taunt is enough to send his nervous system into overdrive. 

But what he hates the most is how he can feel himself start purring. He doesn’t know why he does it. He tries to tell himself to stop but he can feel those fingers grow softer as they stroke through snow. The louder he purrs the softer they get and he hates himself for finding so much comfort in the sensation. He hates himself for finding peace in this.  He should be running away from this beast as quickly as his body would carry him. He should be fleeing at any chance he gets but instead he allows himself to sink into his place on the arm of this chair as that little monster continues to comb through fluffy spikes with a gentleness that could only be described as care. 

That can’t be right. 

That’s just not possible, and he hates how many times he feels like he’s had this conversation with himself as of late. The beast does not love him. The demon does not care. The little devil felt nothing for him but yet those lips part and purr out affections of their own. 

“You’ve been so well behaved as of late, Precious.”  The small emperor sounds as his hand continues to work. “You’ve done your tasks so well. I’m proud of you, my Little Cloud. You’ve been such a good pet. Perhaps you deserve some time out of the castle? I think you’ve earned it.” 

He only increases the volume on his purring in response as if doing so will show his gratitude for such a notion but his lips are hanging in a frown behind the thin metal covering his face as the boy of pink continues. 

“You can go with Herba the next she leaves.” The Tyrant offers as he finally pulls his hand away and out of the Misterican’s hair. “But when she leaves you know the rules. Her word is as good as my word and you are to do whatever she asks of you. You understand, don’t you Precious?” 

“Yes, Your Excellency.” 

“That’s my good boy. You’ve become so well behaved. I’m so proud of you, Makenshi.” 

His purring only grows louder as those hands return to his hair and he doesn’t know how long he stays like that but it’s long enough that he doesn’t remember falling asleep.  Did he fall asleep? He doesn’t know. He does know that he woke in his own quarters the next morning and he was met with Herba throwing her arms over his shoulders to bring him into a very tight and very unwanted hug and she leaned to try to push a kiss to his cheek and he could only lean himself the opposite direction so far to avoid contact. 

“Makenshi.”  

His name was trumpeted in his direction in a small but authoritative voice and it has the Misterican standing up straight giving this damnable woman the space she needed to push those poison painted lips directly to his cheek even if it was covered in metal.  Dull jade is looking forward into the main hall with the entirety of his form tingling to both get away from this woman and get off the ground. The place just above the little demon’s head is calling his name because then he is both in eyesight but at the same time away from this gaggle of absolute morons. 

If he could never associate with any of them for the rest of his life ever again, he’s sure he could find a way to be happy. If only Rorahm could finally wake up - but  - jade moons downcast at the thought because at this rate his sun would never rise and he was going to be stuck here for the rest of said life. Should he make the most of it? Should he adjust?  

No. No. Listen to yourself Makenshi. You’re falling for that monster’s tricks! 

But are they tricks? 

It’s been too many years and he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t remember the sound of his Mother’s voice and he can hardly remember his Father’s face. He tries not to think about them too much because he doesn’t want to get himself all upset and then in turn upset His Excellency. The Tyrant isn’t exactly one to be any form of comforting if he were to simply explain that he was thinking about home. In fact, he doesn’t want that little monster anywhere near  anything to do with Misterica in the first place, so it would probably be for the best to simply forget it all anyway. If he can’t remember then the little beast can manipulate it against him. 

He can’t seem to remember most things lately anyway. 

He can’t remember going to sleep the night before and he hardly can make sense of the morning. He just wants this woman to get off of him but instead she lets herself sink down to wrap her arm around his and lean herself up against him like they were anything that could be considered close - which was comical in his mind when the closest he would like to be to this 

woman would be to watch her burn.  

Still he just adjusts to the feeling of her hanging off his arm as he focuses his attention on His Excellency instead because the only thing he ever needed to do was to keep the little gremlin happy and as long as he did that he’d keep his head. Why was the beast smiling at him the way he was? He doesn’t like it. It’s making his skin crawl almost as much as the feeling of the plant witch hanging off his arm is. 

“Makenshi, I am assigning you to assist Herba today. I expect you two to cooperate while you’re out in the field. Herba knows what needs to be done, so you simply need to follow her lead, and I shouldn’t have to repeat myself with what we discussed yesterday, do I?” 

“No, Your Excellency. I remember.”  He sounds, raising his free arm to cross it over his chest to give this pink haired abomination a half bow. What he was saying he remembers, he doesn’t know. Quite frankly, he doesn’t even even the day before. Yesterday? He couldn’t tell you. Herba’s face was where his memory picks up and he hates that too because there is something about thinking about yesterday that is turning his stomach but he couldn’t tell you why. 

So now they’re returning to that damnable airship and he hates being on it.  It’s nauseating and the amount of pollen in the air is enough to make him sick. His stomach is twisting in knots As he takes a seat. He doesn’t feel well but there is the sound of jingling chimes in the air as he looks over to the open deck just to the right of him. Chimes blowing in the wind and it's enough to tell him to just focus on the sound of something pleasant for once as he lays his head down and tells himself to just go back to sleep.  She’ll wake him when they get there. She always does. 

And he’s sure it’s for something nasty.  It always is.

He won’t do it this time though. He’ll never kill again and he doesn’t care how badly His Excellency beats him to death for disobeying orders. He will not stain the Holy Blade with yet more blood of the innocent… He just needs to not think about it and sleep. He’ll fight with her when he wakes up. His Excellency might be able to get the better of him but Herba won’t. He will never let that woman - 

“ ‘kenshi-darling? ‘Kenshi-darling, wake up you silly willy. If you told me you were tired, I would have gotten you a blanket, lovely.”  She smiles at him with a face that is possibly dripping with more venom than it ever has before. Her smiles are always fake and they turn his stomach, but she is taking him by the hand and he’s letting her.  He doesn’t feel like fighting with her.  

It’s a quiet town they’ve found themselves in this time. It’s closer to the outer reaches of Wonderland but not quite all the way out. A town that has larger than normal buildings built up and a large building he wonders if it is a church of some kind on the other side of town. She has him by the hand as they walk, and the people of this village don’t seem to be paying them any mind.  Children are laughing, the smell of fresh bread is in the air and the city itself seems at peace. 

Herba is leaning herself in to cling to his arm as if they were some sort of couple and it is taking everything in him not to shake her off. She just seems to be happy to take a stroll with him and he doesn’t understand what the catch is. Why did His Excellency let him out of the castle if there was nothing wicked for him to do? Why let him just come take in the sights of Wonderland if they didn’t mean for him to cause some kind of havoc?  

She’s strolling through the local bazaar with him as his nose catches the smell of sugar and it’s been so long since he has got to eat anything truly sweet. He sniffs once and then again and she’s making an Oooh? Sort of sound that he doesn’t like as she takes him by the hand to lead him towards the source of the scent. 

“You like sweets, don’t you, ‘kenshi? I’ll buy you something. I’ll buy you something nice, for how good you’ve been lately. Tell me what you want. Anything and you can have it. We all deserve a little treat every now and then.” 

Is she serious? She can’t be. 

The Church bell is ringing in the background as she pulls him along. A grin slipping on her lips as she pulls him into the middle of the marketplace, only to look back at the Misterican with bright eyes and a poison purple smile. 

“Anything you want, ‘kenshi-darling. Name it, and it’s yours.” She pauses to look towards the church and watches as the streets seem to fill as if the building is emptying further with each chime.  “Must be noon.”  She sounds returning her gaze to her companion only to watch as a pale hand reaches back towards the hilt of his blade to rock it free with a single click.  

“ ‘kenshi-darling?”  She sounds but still just continues to watch the man move. The swordsman takes his blade up into his grip and it is held out towards her at length as if extending the tip in her direction. Mist rolls out from behind bared teeth in plumbs when the devil growls.  He’s pushing off a foot to take off in a dead lunge in her direction but instead of striking at the object of his absolute hatred, the man of white races past her directly towards that of an older man down the way of the lane of the marketplace and cleaves the poor soul clean in two. 

More Mist rolls out from parted pale as his blade is swung to send a flood of white colored energy racing through the stalls like a spark on a wick until it reaches its destination and half the bazaar goes up in a massive explosion.  Screams fill the sky as citizens start to scurry and scatter. 

“The White Devil!!” They cry.  “The White Devil has come for us all!” 

Red stains window panes and runs along the cracks of the cobblestone as the carnage continues.  The man of snow does not cease his hellsent symphony even as men and women alike fall to their knees to beg for their lives. Their lights are snuffed out regardless. Children struck down with little concern and explosion after explosion brings building of stone tumbling to the ground. 

Before long the symphony of sayonara falls silent and the Maestro of the Massacre stands center stage, crimson dripping from the Holy Blade stained with sin once more. 

Only one other life remains and a dangerous gaze of dimmed jade is turning to glare daggers at the plant like woman. He’s raising his blade and taking stance to charge her when she merely raises her hand in his direction and snaps her fingers together. 

Jade eyes go wide before they start blinking rapidly and soon their owner is looking all around him with horror etching itself into his features.  Anger overcomes him as he refocuses on Gaudium’s Lord of Plants and Potions only to scream. 

“What did you do?! Answer me! You didn’t have to kill them!” 

But he only gets a small laugh in response as she floats over to him to rest just over his shoulders. 

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. You did this, ‘kenshi-baby. This was all your work. You killed them all gracefully and you didn’t leave a single one alive. Truly expert skill.”   

“You’re lying!” He hisses as his mind starts to reel at the possibility. Her lungs didn’t sound like she was lying. 

“Am I though?” She asks coyly. “Look at your sword.” 

And her hand is pointing a finger down causing jade eyes to drop along with it even if he’s scared to do what she’s asking. The Maken is in his hand and it is covered in blood. He’s covered in blood.  

His hand is trembling as the Maken is released and a deep guttural scream escapes him from down in his belly as the Holy Blade clatters to the ground. His hands are flying up to slip into white locks in between his horns only for the scream to get louder.  

What was going ON?!!!! This wasn’t right!!! He doesn’t remember ANYTHING!!!! 

His entire body is shaking as his knees hit the ground. All he can do is scream. He killed these people. He slaughtered an entire town and he doesn’t even know how or why. He can’t remember their faces. He never knew their names.  He slaughtered these people and -  

Herba is wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she hovers there next to him for the moment, nuzzling her face in close to his own. 

“ You did so good today, ‘kenshi-darling. Let’s go home and tell, His Excellency, about what a good job you did. I’m sure he’ll reward you. Oh and !”  She’s letting her feet hit the ground to shuffle over to the now destroyed stand of the vendor from earlier that had been selling all sorts of sweet treats and she picks up what appears to be some sort of hard candy on a stick and extends it out to him.  “I said I’d get you anything. A treat for doing such a good job.” 

But he couldn’t eat anything now.  Now it would only taste bitter.   

[coldfadingdeath]

yall what do ya do when someones views on things are so frustrating that it makes ya cry :)

[scooterfish]

obsessively checking the package tracking for my bf’s birthday presents cuz i get more joy out of buying him gifts than i ever have for myself

[tojicide]

OBSESSED. ☆ SYLUS.

📰 extra, extra! why is your bodyguard so obsessed with you? girl, you wanna know...

warnings. fem!reader, popstar!reader, bodyguard!sylus, established romantic history ( very brief ), pet names, semi-public, fingering, oral ( fem. receiving ), cowgirl, unprotected p in v. wc. 4.6k.

an. reused the header and a bit of the plot from an aaron hotchner fanfic i wrote on wattpad in like… 2021??? tweaked most of the details obvs but ig i was born as a bodyguard au lover

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Your bodyguard was such a buzzkill.

Dragging you out of every party you make an appearance at, replacing your shots with water once he believes you’ve had one too many, watching you like a hawk no matter where you are or who you’re with...

You despise those who have an inability to have fun, so as far as you’re concerned, Sylus is the devil reincarnated. You aren’t exactly shy about your opinion of him either, and perhaps in hindsight, that is exactly why he was currently pacing through the party you’re in attendance of to try and ruin your night yet again.

(Ruin your night or… do his job? Hell if you care about the logistics of it all. Two sides of the same coin, you think.)

His protective instinct only grew more intense ever since the two of you shared a kiss before a concert of yours that left your lipstick smeared over your face like there was no tomorrow…

And what did that asshole do? Nothing. It was in his nature to make your life miserable after all. Sylus let you walk out in front of your thousands of fans, makeup messy and appearance disheveled all from his mouth on yours alone.

And boy, did the tabloids have a time with that one… Who was the culprit? A new fling of yours? Fiancé? Possible baby daddy? Each and every news outlet had some uniquely wrong to say. Can’t a girl have a makeout session with her bodyguard in peace?

Unfortunately for you, the paparazzi have been hounding you ever since that day, itching to get the 4-1-1 on your love life.

And ever since, you haven’t given many people the time of day—including Sylus. Tonight, you’ve managed to stay two steps ahead of your dear bodyguard and evade eventual capture for just a bit longer. You’re currently surrounded by a few of your friends, socialites and actors alike.

Your lips seem to flap freely when you have a few drinks in you, but tonight, you’re sober but even more talkative than ever. Your chosen topic of conversation? Your overbearing and stupidly handsome bodyguard, of course.

Too lost in your story, waving your arms around to your theatrical pleasure, you hardly noticed the way your friends’ faces paled to a ghostly shade of white, their eyes nearly bulging out of their heads and their lips parted as if they had something to say but… couldn’t.

All the while, you were too busy blowing off the  steam that you’d acquired from your last encounter with the forsaken bodyguard. “…And I was like, why are you so obsessed with me?”

As fate would have it, you hear a throat clear behind you followed by an annoyed sigh that you’ve grown to know like the back of your hand. You spin around, already wearing a scowl.

“Obsessed with you, hm?” Sylus says, his voice low and seemingly dangerous, though your utter distaste for the man rids him of his intimidation. “You’re quite self important. I could never live in a world where I’d fall at the feet of an egotistical popstar.”

You roll your eyes at that. Who does he think he is? Everyone loves you—all except for the disgustingly handsome man standing in front of you.

“Mm… well, you can always die an untimely death and never have to work for me again,” you reply, giving him the most passive aggressive smile known to man. “Hopefully that gives you an ounce of hope.”

“It does,” he replies, returning the same expression that you gave him.

It’s borderline infuriating how undisturbed Sylus was. No, it is infuriating. No matter how many insults you chucked his way, he never cracked. (And the one time he did, it led to the two of you playing tonsil tennis in your dressing room...)

You shake your head, huffing in utter annoyance. You then hold your wrists up for display, cocking your head to the side as you give him a mock puppy dog expression. “Sooo… are you here to take me away, Officer Buzzkill?”

Sylus merely blinks in response to your taunting, taking a firm grasp on one of your wrists before he tugs you through the sea of partygoers. He laces your fingers together, squeezing tight as to not lose hold of you.

“Must you always make things so difficult?” he asks, keeping his eyes ahead.

You shrug your shoulders. “More or less.”

“More or less?” he echoes, glancing over his shoulder to properly look at you. “I suggest you try a different style of communication, sweetness. Your clipped attitude will get you nowhere.”

“Oh? But it’s gotten me so far already…” you trail off, glancing at his lips for a few agonizingly long seconds before a smirk tugs on the corner of your mouth. “In fact, I think it can get me even further.”

Sylus’s jaw tenses, his eyes slipping shut as he tears his gaze away from you. He can’t handle the way you’re looking at him—so unbelievably beautiful with those siren eyes of yours, the mere sight of you already stirring something unwanted within him.

He turns around to continue leading you through the crowd without a reply. You begin to glance around yourself, attempting to plot your brilliant escape.

“Don’t,” he flatly states, his iron grip tightening on your hand.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice holding a strong tone of defiance.

Sylus gives your hand one solid tug before you’re standing in front of him, his free hand pressing onto the small of your back as he keeps you pressed to his chest. “If you haven’t noticed, you brat, I will always chase you. I’ll find you just the same.”

You almost deflate under his intense gaze, his deep red eyes piercing through your own. It wasn’t often that Sylus manhandled you, but when he did, it made you feel… different. Intrigued, maybe.

“How touching,” you deadpan, “but you still get on my nerves.”

Sylus clicks his tongue. “Tch. Oh, I’m sorry… when have I ever cared about what you think?”

“Never,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “You know… if you hate me so much, you should just quit on me.”

Sylus rolls his eyes, his red irises drawing you in like no other. “I don’t… hate you. You should be rather thankful that I don’t, because I’m doubtful that anyone else would want this job of mine—you’re quite the handful.”

“Mm, I’m only saying,” you murmur with a shrug, giving his hand a harsh squeeze as if the roughness of your grasp would make him let go, but he, of course, does not. “You don’t need this job, and yet, here you are.”

He raises a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

You smile, the same shit-eating grin that he has grown to be all too familiar with. “Give me your wallet.”

Sylus huffs, his broad shoulders deflating as he fishes his black leather wallet from his back pocket and hands it over to you. You take it with ease, taking your hand from his as you crack it open.

You slip his Black Card from the sleeve, proving that he truly didn’t need the job for any monetary gain. And then, a triumphant smile graces your lips as you pull out none other than a Polaroid photo taken of you—backstage at your concert just before the kiss you two shared.

“Ooh… what’s this?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

Sylus reaches forward to try and snatch the tiny photo from you, but you are far too quick. “What are you revealing exactly? That you were secretly snooping in my wallet prior to now?”

“Yes,” you admit without hesitation, “and that you’re secretly rich and in love with me. Does that make us even?”

His jaw sets, his piercing gaze set on yours. He works to snatch the photo from you, tucking his belongings back into his wallet before he slips it into his pocket. “No. Maybe if you were less of a pain, we could be even.”

You wiggle your eyebrows in suggestion. “You’re not denying being in love with me, dear bodyguard of mine.”

Sylus gives you a deadpan expression. “Must you always be so self righteous? God forbid I am proud of you and your success.”

The genuine nature of his words set you back a step, your brows knitting together and your lips parting. If Sylus noticed the shift of your expression, he didn’t mention it. Thankfully. His cold fingers lace with yours once more, continuing the stride towards the exit of the party.

“Rather than putting on this show of yours, you truly should be thanking me for saving your reputation,” he quietly adds, his hand now curled around your waist as you approach the exit. “There is a swarm of paparazzi outside who are desperate to get their grimy hands on a picture of their beloved popstar doing something remotely scandalous.”

(And if Sylus knows anything about you, it’s that you love scandals. According to you, they ‘make life worth living’. Tch. Diva.)

You chuckle. “Aww, you care!”

“Do I care, or is it my job to look after you?” he asks, plucking his sunglasses from his pocket to place them on your face, shielding your eyes from the rapid camera flashes of the paparazzi. “Public intoxication numerous times a week is not a very good look for you, sweetie. Incredibly frowned upon.”

Your jaw sets as you listen to his words. While they are undeniably true, you don’t have any plans for admitting that—not now or in the near future.

“Making out with my bodyguard is frowned upon as well, but you didn’t seem to be complaining about that bit,” you say under your breath.

Your voice was low enough that your weighted words were almost drowned out by the booming music of the party and by the chatter of the photographers you’re about to be engulfed in. Almost. 

Sylus flashes you a glare. “You shouldn’t mumble. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You heard me,” you state.

He did hear you, that was exactly the problem. It was no coincidence that the two of you haven’t spoken much since your very intense lip lock. You’ve been avoiding each other, evading the invisible string that connects the two of you like both an electric current and a noose.

The tension between the two of you was tangible, palpable even—you could practically taste it just as well as you could still taste his lips on your own. It was intoxicating, imprinting, searing.

It managed to distract you from the flashing lights of the cameramen who were swarming you, capturing flick after flick of you being led through the crowd.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “You know, you can help me out with all of this,” you murmur, gesturing towards the paparazzi. “My publicist came up with an idea that will get them off my back for a while. Give them the answers they need and… whatnot.”

“Is that right?” he asks, glancing your way. “Do tell.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tuning out all of the chattering paparazzi who are currently surrounding you. “Be my impromptu mystery man for the cameras. I’ll give you anything you want in return, I swear it.”

Sylus hums, the sound omitting a deep rumble into the air. “Anything I want? My, my, sweets, you’ve made me an offer I cannot refuse.”

You huff, grasping onto the collar of his jacket as you pull him into you. “Just go with it.”

“Just go with wh— mmph!” Sylus’s words were muffled by your lips slotting against his in a searing kiss, his hands instinctively finding their home on the curve of your hips.

The kiss was… tame. It was supposed to be, after all. It was merely for the cameras, a way for you to put an answer to the questions that have been flooding your inbox and left your name circulating in the news for days on end.

But when Sylus’s tongue brushes against your bottom lip, you slightly pull away, muttering a faint, “Sylus, what’re you…” before he pulls you right back in, his large hand now resting on your cheek.

“If you’re going to use me like a whore at your disposal, I’d suggest you let me enjoy myself and taste you properly,” he sporadically says into your mouth, his hand shifting to tangle in your hair as he tilts you to his liking, your tongues meeting in with gentle swipes. “See? I knew you could do better than that.”

True to his suggestion, you kissed him like there was no tomorrow, your hands fisting his shirt in your palms as your lips moved in tandem with his. Lipstick and paparazzi long forgotten, you find yourself getting lost in the moment, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands give your hips a firm squeeze.

The moment he hears that sweet, impossibly faint sound of your pleasure, he knows that he’s in for it now. That’ll do it for him.

He abruptly pulls away, clasping his hand onto yours as he continues pulling you through the now stunned crowd of paparazzi. Sporting an erection and your lipstick smeared on his lips makes no difference to Sylus—if anything, he enjoys the world knowing that he has the hots for the woman who he has sworn to protect.

Sylus helps you into the passenger seat of your black SUV, closing the door behind you before making his way to the driver’s seat. He peels off, driving with intention through the streets of the city.

It was now evident to you that he was driving the SUV in pursuit of his favorite lookout spot, one that overlooks the bustling city from a distance. Sylus had taken you there once before as per your request to ‘stay out a bit later’. Nothing happened then, but you have an inclination that your luck has changed.

“I know what I want from you,” he states, placing a hand on your thigh.

How did he already manage to figure out what he wants in return for helping you? A raise? A car? The blood of his enemies? You’re intrigued, raising a brow. “You do?”

“I do,” he confirms without missing a beat. “Get into the backseat.”

A gasp leaves your kiss swollen lips as you mull over the utter implications of his words. It didn’t take a genius to understand them, but you were… surprised to say the least. “I think you’re overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Qin.”

In a literal sense, sure he was. But if the two of you were going to judge based on what you two want, he absolutely wasn’t—you both knew that.

He chuckles, the sound low yet infuriatingly sexy. His hand slips beneath your skirt, his middle finger brushing along the damp spot of your panties. “Your body seems to disagree with you, ma’am.”

And if you weren’t already wet before, hearing him call you ma’am was more than enough to do it for you. “Shut up,” you grumble.

“You can make me,” he suggests, setting the vehicle into park before giving your thigh a few pats. He nods his head towards the backseat. “Go on.”

Without hesitation, you kick your heels off and crawl into the back of the vehicle, thumping down on the seat with a sharp sigh. Sylus follows you within the blink of an eye, his knees settling on the spacious floor of the car.

“What’re you…” you ask, though your eyebrows raise as the pieces of the puzzle click together in your mind. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he repeats, his warm hands rubbing your knees as he spreads your legs apart, his lips finding the tender skin of your inner thigh. “You know… you truly should be resting for your show tomorrow evening.”

“Should I?” You bite on your bottom lip as he leans forward, nosing at your clothed pussy with a muffled moan of his own. He inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal driving him to the brink of insanity.

“You should,” he answers, pressing an open mouthed kiss on your cunt through the fabric of your panties. “You should stop talking too. You need to rest your voice just as much.”

You swallow hard, whimpering ever so softly as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs to give himself access to your glistening core.

His eyes are set on your heat, his cool hands hiking your thighs over his shoulders. He rests his cheek on the warmth of your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “Because believe me, sweetie, the things that I want to do to you will not be in favor of that beautiful voice of yours.”

“Oh?” you ask, titling your head. “What will they be in favor of?”

He grins, wicked and devilishly handsome. “I’m glad you asked, because there’s someone else I’ve been wanting to hear from.”

Before you have the chance to reply, he’s already got his face delving deep between your legs, the filthy sounds of squelches and slurping filling the otherwise silent car.

“Oh, I— mmh, you didn’t answer my… my question,” you stammer out between breathy moans, your head tilting back on the headrest as your eyes flutter shut.

Sylus smiles into your pussy, pointing his tongue to accentuate the squelching noises that your heat was making, entirely wet and dripping for him.

“Can you not hear her?”

Never in your life did you think that having a man on his knees talking to your cunt would be this arousing, but… you’re fucking soaked.

“I-I can,” you gasp, cracking your eyes open to look down at him. “Fuck, you can talk to her in fifty languages for all I care, holy shit.”

He quietly chuckles, the sound sending a spark of vibrations onto your already sensitive clit. Your thighs tense, aching to close on him, but he keeps them spread with his strong hands on your thighs.

Your lips part as a string of breathy sounds leave you, beautiful moans and needy whimpers alike—all of which play as music to Sylus’s ears. It was nice to know that your mouth was good for more than just singing and bickering at him…

Teeth nibbling into your bottom lip, you glance down at him, only to be met with the most crazed eyes known to mankind. So disheveled, your slick leaking down his chin while his tongue delves into your heat like a man starved. He looks like he’s in his own pussy drunk heaven.

When you feel his pointed tongue begin to curve and lick in ways it hadn’t before, you do your best to follow his movements.

S-Y-L-U-S he spells on your puffy cunt with his writing tool of choice—none other than his stupidly talented tongue.

“You’re so—”

“Shh,” he cuts you off, his voice more like a husky whisper now. His pupils were dilated to the size of saucers, sucking on your clit before releasing it with a harsh pop.

Filthy sounds fill the air, your own breathy moans spilling from your swollen lips in tandem with the messy sucks of Sylus’s lips on your cunt. Not to mention, your girl truly was loud.

“Singing so beautifully for me,” he rasps, his eyes flitting up to watch your blissful expression. Lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin—an absolute wet dream of his come to life.

You bite your lip, hardly focused on the words coming out of his mouth. “Mmh, what…?”

“Quiet, sweets,” he repeats, hooking his hands even tighter around your thighs as he gives your heat a few more harsh licks. “I told you I was talking to her, didn’t I?”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, your core grinding against his wet muscle as you chase your release.

Sylus was more than eager to give it to you, redoubling his efforts while locking his hands over your legs to keep you steady enough for him to pleasure you effectively. The warmth pooling in your belly was far too much, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“Mmh, I… I’m coming,” you warn through an airy whine.

And when you do, Sylus swoops in even more greedily than before, his flat tongue lapping at your honeyed release. There was no way he would ever be able to go without tasting you like this now that he has. Fuck, he’s such a goner.

As you come down from your high, you grin with a few pants. “Look at you, falling at the feet of your ‘egotistical popstar’—mmph!”

Sylus plunges two fingers into your mouth to shut you up, rising to plant himself onto the seat beside you. “That’s hardly an insult to me anymore, my dear. I know what I am.”

He pulls his spit slick fingers from your mouth, bringing them to your pussy as he gently circles your sensitive clit. His free hand guides you through the motion of straddling his lap. With a simple nod of his head, he gestures for you to lift your shirt up, and you do.

“And what’s that?” you ask, watching as he leans forward to mouth at your breasts through the fabric of your bra.

“I’ve already told you,” he murmurs, bringing his free hand to his belt to free his cock from the confines of his pants. “A whore at your disposal.”

“I knew it,” you chuckle, though the sweet sound is interrupted by a breathy moan that he coaxes out of you once he slides his fat cockhead along your folds.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to the side. “Are you not going to reciprocate my affection?” he teases, grasping tightly onto your hips. “Or do I have to work a bit harder for it, ma’am?”

Your knees would have certainly buckled if they weren’t firmly planted on the leather seats of the SUV. Who would have thought that you had a thing for white-haired bodyguards who call you ‘ma’am’?

Sylus raises a brow, a cocky smirk tugging on his lips. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You feel your face heating up more and more the longer you look him in the eyes, shifting your hips so that the tip of his cock finally meets your entrance. “Just… shut up and put it in.”

“How demanding,” he hums, smirking ever so slightly as he uses his grasp on you to make one sharp snap of his hips, burying balls deep inside of your heat. “But as you wish, pretty.”

You cry out immediately, the burn of the stretch fading into unfolding pleasure. Eyes locked on each other’s, breaths mingling with ease, skin slicked with sweat, it was…

“Perfect,” he whispers, smoothing his hands along your hips before one reaches up to cup your cheek. He pulls you into a deep, searing kiss. “So, so perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, you were merely testing the waters that had yet to be explored. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing your deepest points with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Sylus begins to help you move a bit quicker, rocking your hips forward in smooth rolls, earning moans from the both of you that seemed to come straight from your guts.

“Give it to me how you like it, baby,” he encourages, both of his hands planting firmly on your waist. “Use my cock however you need it, sweets, it’s yours.”

His words have your clit pulsating around his thick shaft, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you begin to work up a pace of your own that has your heart beating wildly.

“I always… fuck—I always knew you were obsessed with me,” you jest, your grin stretching wide.

Sylus hums, the sound low and deep, his iron grip on your hips helping you maintain the intensity of your movements whenever your muscles beg for a break. “Yeah? Needed me to be buried inside of you to have that bit of confirmation?”

You nod with a smile, hands wrapping around his neck as you plant your forehead against his. He smiles too, a breathy moan leaving his mouth as you circle your hips in a way that has him seeing stars.

“Fuck yeah, I’m obsessed with you,” he admits without a semblance of shame, tilting his head back on the headrest.

Already feeling your second orgasm approaching, you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat that made a musk that was so beautifully Sylus. His hands smooth over your backside, giving your ass a squeeze.

“Tch, let me see that pretty face,” he demands, nudging you with his shoulder so that you were sitting up once more. “You look so beautiful like this.”

You struggle to form a sentence, bouncing unabashedly on his cock, skin slapping together in an erratic pattern that spurred you even further. A string of whimpers and whines leave your puffy lips. Though your reply lacked words, it perfectly communicated what you wanted to say.

“Oh, I know it, baby,” he rasps, tilting his head back again as his eyes slip shut. “Pussy’s addictive—shit, I’m obsessed with her too.”

You begin to lose yourself all together, reduced to nothing more than a blissed out woman riding her bodyguard’s cock. “Sylus, I… mmh, I’m gonna cum.”

He nods in understanding, smoothing his hand through your hair as he brings you in for another kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and drooling in the most beautiful way possible.

“Gonna come inside you if you keep riding me like this, baby,” he warns, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

You feel his cock twitch inside of you, as if it were confirming his words. You don’t do this often, contrary to popular belief, but you are on the pill. Luckily. “Please do.”

Sylus pants through a smile, licking his lips as he guides you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Huh… you really are something special.”

A deep groan leaves his mouth as he dips his head, grip tightening on your waist as you ride him through your shared orgasm. You aren’t sure where yours ended and his began, or if you had gotten the order wrong entirely. All you know is that in that moment, the two of you became one.

Panting, your hand plants on the fogged up window of the vehicle, leaving your handprint in its wake. Sylus lets out a breathy chuckle, raising his own shaking hand to the window.

You watch through lidded eyes as he draws a tiny heart, writing his and your first initials inside of it with a little + in the middle. How cute.

Sylus then turns to face you again, bringing his hand to your cheek. You nuzzle into his palm, placing a kiss on his skin. “I have something to admit.”

He nods his head a single time, beckoning you to continue. “What is it?”

You give him a wry smile. “My publicist never gave me the idea for that publicity stunt.”

“…I figured that much, sweetie.”

note. bodyguard!sylus, my glorious king… ok i lowkey hate this but it holds no purpose saving up space in my drafts so :D pls interact if you enjoyed, rbs are greatly appreciated <3 thank you for readingggg !!!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[messyemmy]

Grapejuice (fic) Part Four

Premise: You've made a deal with the devil, and the next few days of vacation are proving what a silly mistake that was. But for Harry, this might be the most fun he's had in a long time.

Word Count: 15k.

Warnings: Smut! Mind-blowing banter. Use of She/Her.

Grapejuice Masterlist

Fashion Board / Playlist 

Other Writing

After a full twenty four hours- of grumpily scoffing, rethinking your every life decision, wanting to kill Jack and his stupid, sexy, friend- it’s time to put that well-practiced optimism to good use. Nobody will ruin your damn vacation. 

And if that means constantly dodging and dismissing Harry and his frustratingly enticing lewd remarks, so be it. 

This morning is simply perfect- everything you want from a summers day- and it would be a crime to spend another second couped up under the covers. Your mind runs over the little to-do-list of holiday activities you hope to try, easily settling on a trip to the Botanical Gardens. 

Getting dressed is just as simple deciding on when your spot the forest green corset with golden paisly swirls. You hadnt found the right moment to style it, but now you pair it atop a crisp white puff-sleeve button-up and some classic mossy straight-cut jeans. 

While packing the last of your necessities into a cream and green embroidered tote bag, the idea to invite Jack along seems fitting. Maybe as a little apology for the less than warm welcome he recevied upon your last encounter. He’s always the easiest to win over. 

The stroll from your villa to the ones where the boys reside is far too short for your liking. You need an oceans distance between you and Harry, let alone five hundred meters.  

You were about to brush your knuckles across the door a third time, but your hand quickly retreating as Jack came into view, beaming down at you. He‘s devoid of a shirt, wearing swim shorts and sandals, a towel draped across his shoulders, tote bag in his other hand. 

“Morning, lovely.” He greets, windening the door completely, and exposing the entrance hall and kitchen. 

And then you see Harry - shirtless, too -spreading butter across two slices of slightly burnt toast. His back turned, muscles flexing now and then.

You blink back, shoving sheer attraction to the back of your brain, returning your attention to Jack, trying to regain the memory of what brought you to their doorstep to begin with. 

“Ah, Judas. Settled in, have you?” You don’t care. He’s the reason you’re in this mess. 

“Mm. Don’t think I’ve ever been so cold in my life.” he sighs sorrowfully.

“You say that every year.” You scoff. 

“I do not.” 

Harry leans curiously against the countertop, taking another bite of his toast. Still, while chewing and swallowing, he ponderously mumbles,

“Don’t what?” You peer over Jack’s shoulder, and with faux-nonchalance, you capture Harry’s gaze- but only briefly, it’s as much as you can do without the threat of your thoughts straying from the topic at hand- eyes darting away and informing him, 

“Complain about winter.”

“Oh, he definitely does.” 

“Not every-”

“Every year.” Harry says with certainty, chewing on a corner of crust.

Jack sighs and shrugs his shoulders in defeat. Harry’s gaze is happily settled on your face, sending over a heatwave that warmed the blush beneath your cheeks. The longer he looked, the less real you felt- a fantasy under his watch, someone special and irreplaceable to him, and you were scared- to disappoint, to not live up to the person he saw you to be.

You returned focus to Jack, forcing yourself to remain centred and remember why you came here to begin with. Shifting weight to your left foot, a soft clear of the throat, 

“Anyhow… what are your plans for the day?”

“I’m heading to the beach, and I’m not returning until I’m so tan that the concept of winter no longer exists.” He informs. 

“Oh, alright, never mind then.” You should have known.

“Did you have something else in mind?” Jack clearly doesn’t feel much regret.

“I was thinking of taking a trip to Giardini di Augusto.” You prepare for repeated rejection.

“Say more.”

“Botanical Gardens.”

“Say more, more.”

“Flowers.”

“Say less.” He dismisses, wondering why his sister would even bother seeking his company to look at flowers rather than spending time by the sea. 

You sigh, there’s no use in arguing, it always results in someone tripping the other one up. But now there is a more stressful matter at hand, and he is sauntering over, torso still bare, sending you a suspiciously hopeful smile before stopping next to Jack and speaking up, 

“I like flowers.” 

“Ground-breaking.” Your eyes roll. 

“See, Harry can join you!” Jack concluded cheerfully. 

“Oh no, I’m perfectly fine going alone.” You waved them off, heat rushing to the tips of your ears, nose, and fingertips.

“Nonsense.” Harry waves you off in return. 

“No-” You start but never finish because he has already turned his back on you, tanned back rejecting your objection. Walking away, he calls over his shoulder, 

“Let me just grab my wallet.”

“And a shirt, Harry.”

He’s heading to the staircase but suddenly halts, his head tilting back to address you with a sassy smirk, 

“You sure about that?”

You can only scoff as he ascends the steps, and once you’re certain he is out of sight, you land a weak- but meaningful- punch to Jack’s upper arm.

“Oi!” He whines, hand rushing up to soothe the minor thump.

“Stop pawning your friend off on me.” The words leave your lips through clenched teeth, practically hissing, your eyes are like the slits of a snake, pointer finger aimed straight at him.  

“I thought you liked him now.” Jack’s brows furrow. 

“What?”

“Seemed like you were finally friends, is all.” He shrugs, resting against the door frame with far too much comfortability- as if he were already on the sand, soaking up the sun. 

“Impossible.” You defend, but reconsider,  “Acquaintances, maybe.”  conceding for the sake of nobody but yourself. ,

“Oh c’mon, you’ll have fun!”

“This is the last time, Jack.” You warn. 

He starts preparing to reassure you further, but the sound of Harry’s sneakers shuffling down the stairs means he is officially off the hook- for now- and with a swift goodbye, Jack moves past you and exits the villa in pursuit of summer. 

Harry rounds the corner, his mouth-watering chest now covered by a tan hand-knitted shirt and a pair of unnecessarily flattering brown shorts.

“Let’s go, lovie.” Harry announces, walking straight past your agitated figure, forcing you to fasten your steps to catch up, cursing him and his unnecessarily long legs. But, when you get a look at the delicately crafted and colourful design decorating the back of his shirt, you decide to play nice… for now… for fashion. 

🍷

The breeze carries the sun with each step taken, ensuring that the heat keeps you both simmering and agitated. Harry is strolling in sync, enjoying himself far too much already, considering you have only just arrived and have hardly made it past the entrance. 

You’re dreading the day to come, carrying it along like a duffle bag and pretending that the excitement Harry currently exudes isn’t extremely palpable. 

But, with the aroma of freshly grazed grass and an array of green leaves littered everywhere, you find your legs have started to carry you further along the cobblestones, chasing the sweet scents of summer flowers. Harry’s steps never slowed, as curious as yourself. 

“You don’t have to humour me, you know.” Eyes glued ahead, you remind him once his strides reflect your own and he is in synchronicity.  

“Hey now. He softly nudges your arm with his elbow, “I told you I happen to like flowers.” 

“Everyone likes flowers.” You inform like it’s common knowledge, “I’m sure you had something better to do with your afternoon.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.”

“How sweet.” You remark snidely, but dislike that your sarcasm is coating the truth; what he said is sweet. 

Maybe it’s time to attempt a positive attitude, leave all sass and snark at the entrance and just get through this date without any scandalous incidents. So, when Harry suggests the pair of you should follow the left path, you nod and send him a soft smile. 

Slowing your steps to scan the first few rows of flowers, planted neatly and flourishing greatly- an array of saturated colours- the type that seems straight out of the paint tube, so threateningly bright. 

Harry comes to a halt first, his pointer finger focuses in on a set of fuchsia and yellow pillowing petals resting upon gangly stems. He looks at them with nostalgic fondness, 

“Mum has some of these in her new garden.” 

“Snapdragons.” Stopping beside him before continuing, “How is your mum, by the way?”

“She’s good. She’s doing better. I saw her and Gem over Easter.”

All these newfound and reminiscent thoughts about Harry have you thinking about home a lot. What home means to you. 

Turns out, most of it means the people you grew up with. It’s strange to hear about the people you once saw so regularly. Before the thought shifts to one of sadness, your mind clings to the thing you missed most,

“Did she make her Decadent Double Fudgy Chocolate Cake?” 

“Of course.” Harry smiles so big it hurts thinking about the way you used to revel in just saying the elaborate name mum had given to her tried and true recipe.  

“God, I miss her cooking.” 

“I miss your cooking.” He counters. 

It's unclear who began strolling again, but both of you followed each other along the pathway, and Harry snuck his glances at every chance possible, baffled each time he was reminded of your straight, stern features.

“What are you on about?” Now, your forehead creased, wracking your brain for all the recipes you ever replicated,

“Oh c’mon, you know I love your lasagna.” he reminded incredulously,

“No, I did not know that.”

“Well, now you know.” Harry confirmed, pointing to a bushel of indigo star-like petals, “These?”

“Delphinium.”

“Delphiniums.” He repeated tenderly, but when he turned to you, that tenderness was nowhere to be found, and the familiar aching of dismissal wrapped Harry up into a cocoon of heart-thumping, head-throbbing unease,

“Does this count as our date?” 

“No.” He hardly lets you finish, washing away your curiosity with a wave of certainty.

“What’s taking you so long?” You groan- and you hope he doesn’t take it as a sign of stirring excitement, but mostly because as hard as you worked, the enthusiasm stirring in your stomach is impossible to dismiss.

“Antsy, are we?” He gently bumps his hip against your own, “There's no rush.”

“I just-  I don’t get you!”

You halt, arms flailing up in sync with your boot stroppily stomping along the cobblestone. He only smiles fondly- and quite smugly,

“That’s because you have little patience.” 

Harry continues strolling, knowing you’ll be quick to follow. And you are, taking a long stride to catch up to him, ready to prod him further, unsure if you’re just curious or actually looking forward to it like he suggests. 

“I Just find it interesting that you finally got what you persistently nagged for, and suddenly there's no rush?”

“ Don’t cheapen it.” He scoffs, “I gave you the chance to opt out, the offer still stands.”

“Why does it feel like you’re up to no good?” You wearily squint.

“Doesn’t it always?”

“You’re putting me on edge.”

“That’s also nothing new.” 

And though he should chalk it up to frustration, Harry can’t stop optimism from swallowing him whole, maybe, just maybe, you were actually keen on the date to follow. Before he allows his self-esteem to sink deeper, he shakes it off and simply shrugs, a cheeky smile curving at his lips, 

“When I do take you on a date, I want it to be a ‘lil more romantic than this.”

“You’re full of it, Styles.” You grumble, feet pattering further along the path.

“And you’re beautiful.” He shrugs once more, making sure to keep up.

You slow when Harry spots a bed of bright pink and red butterfly-like flowers and he looks down at you expectantly. 

“Impatiens.” 

“Pretty.” He admires before continuing down the path. You find your body constantly swaying towards his own, like he was your missing magnet, needing to have to close. It’s after your third attempt to create reasonable distance when Harry ponders, 

“What does your new house look like?”

“It’s only an apartment, but I think it’s cute.”

His mouth parts and releases something like a scoff and a laugh gets jumbled into one. He locks eyes with your own, ensuring you see his obnoxiously rolling as he chides, 

“That tells me nothing.”

“Cute is better than my home in London.”

“Well, that’s not hard to beat.”

“Okay, Ritchie Rich.” You mock, elbow brushing his forearm before you can think to fight the urge. He’s so beautiful that each flower seems to dull behind his stature. 

Especially when he smiles knowingly and ignores your sarcasm, 

“Tell me more.”

“Loads of colour.”

“Purple?”

“Oh, yes.” You deadpan like it’s moronic to assume otherwise. 

Harry has those all-too-familiar feelings where the past suddenly blends with the present and he cannot begin to comprehend it. Cannot begin to handle the intensity of how much he likes seeing you in your entirety. Chest tightening at the idea that he might be in even deeper than he thought. 

He still doesn't know how  to put it into words, but tries nevertheless, 

“It’s funny… You’ve changed, but you haven’t changed.” 

You hear him, but not really, because there’s this strange surge of excitement that has been sparking beneath the surface, and you want to tell him more,

“The outside is just, amazing. It has aged brick walls and a terrace with green railings… white window panes… oh, and the ivy’s been creeping up the walls, I’m sure they’ll cut it down eventually, but it gives it a fairytale-like feeling.”

“Sounds like a dream. Perfect place for a fairy, like yourself.” 

You can’t stop yourself, the compliments, the mushy feelings, it’s like word vomit,

“Maybe I can show you one day.”

“Oh, Clutz. Are you tryna get me into your bed?” He gently teases.

“No. Just, like… describing it doesn’t do it justice.” Your cheeks are swollen red and you dip your head to ensure it goes unnoticed. 

“If you say so.” He only shrugs and walks on with that stupid smug smile. 

“Hey, I do!” You chase, almost bumping into his suddenly still figure. He’s looking at you and waiting for a name for the burnt orange flowers with what seems like hundreds of tiny petals,  “Zinnias.”

“I’d love to see your house, Y/n.” He simply states. You wait a beat but he has no more to say.

“Huh.” Your astonishment is hard to repress. 

“What?” 

“Nothing… guess I was expecting some snide remark.”

“Like?”

You stop once more, turning your body’s attention to his own, your posture stiffening into one of impatience for his purposeful ignorance, 

“I dunno, something like, ‘it wouldn’t take much to get me into your bed.’”

“Well, it wouldn’t.” He shrugs like it's the oldest of news, “You’re irresistible.”

“There it is…” You smile… Why aren’t you annoyed? Worse- why do you feel a rush of satisfaction? 

Harry is easily distracted by something to your left, his features falling to a frown that has you quickly following his gaze whatever seems to perplex him. He’s having a stare-off with a bushel of leaves and stem, pointing curiously, 

“This seems out of place. What is it?”

“I think that’s just a shrub.” A giggle paints your pearly whites into a full-on grin, and you shamefully snort once he starts to shamelessly chuckle along with goofy humility. 

“Well, what are these, then?” 

“Narcissus.” You nod stoically at the array of tiny golden trumpets. 

“When did  you become a botanist?”

“They have labels, moron.”

You swat his arm with playful satisfaction, Harry might think you’re an easy target, but it’s nice to remind him that he’s just as easy- if not easier. 

Your phone dings once, then twice, then thrice, and you already know exactly who’s looking for you. Harry stands by as you begin to fish it out of your () bag. Once retrieved you confirm your suspicions, Savina. Your forehead apologetically furrows as you sweetly excuse yourself, 

“Savina is about to blow up my phone if I don’t respond.”

S: Are u out?

S: Can’t believe ur up before noon

S: I’m getting breakfast without u, yes?

Y/n: Beauty sleep is vital.

Y/n: I’m at the Botanical Gardens

Y/n: ….

Y/n: With Harry

Waiting for a guaranteed ‘omg’ for Savina to pop up, your gaze wanders in pursuit of Harry. He’s off to the right, crouched over and looking rather suspicious. You’re about to investigate before another ding jolts you back to attention. 

S: Ooh la la!

Y/n: Don’t start.

S: Is this the date?

Y/n: Apparently not

S: What is he waiting for?

Y/n: That’s what I said!

With that, you haphazardly slide the phone back into your tote and stroll along to meet Harry, who is already making his way back to you, one arm mysteriously tucked behind his back, and you can already see his lips beginning to purse with naughty amusement.

He arrives and wastes no time before whipping his hidden arm out to present you with the most chivalrous of gifts, proudly holding out a blooming red rose and offering it for your favour,

“I got you this.”

“You stole it!” Surprise has your voice squeaking on realisation- struggling between fearing the consequences of his crime, and finding his little gesture absolutely swoon-worthy. 

“Clearly.” 

“We’re not supposed to do that.” You whisper, and Harry declares himself dead at the sight of excitement glimmering along your face like glitter, eyes wide with adrenaline, cheeky grin chipping away at your gasp-spread mouth.

“Live a little, pretty girl.” In a hushed tone, he bows forward, hand still wrapped around the ruby petals’ stem.

“We’ll get caught-”

“We won’t.” He reassures with a certainty that has you confidently reaching out to accept. His palm feels as soft as the rose when his hand lingers and tickles at your wrist. 

Bringing the rose up to your face, about to embrace its’ sweet aroma, you’re nearly knocked off of your feet when Harry’s hand suddenly intertwines with your own and he begins to run down the trail, tugging you along. 

He’s cheerfully encouraging, “Run! We’re outlaws!”

And you have no choice other than to pick up your steps, giggling at his silliness, letting him get the most out of it. He has you winding down the pathway, turning left here, right there- and it’s only when your legs can no longer take the burden of held-in laughter, that the two of you decide to rest beneath the shade of a lemon tree.

The silence that settles is as soothing as the warm summer skies as Harry rests his back against the ageing trunk, proving how easy it is for him to get comfortable in just about any situation. 

He stretches out his mostly bare legs, ankles politely crossing atop one another. So you follow suit, making a home in the bouncy blades of grass, one elbow balancing your weight as you let your legs splay out like his own, scuffed boots inches from his much shinier pair. 

The birds have created an orchestra, they sing as a choral, buzzing bugs humming bass tones, the distant waves beat down on rocks like a thumping drum, wind in the leaves like flutes, and people chattering along the pathway all come together in the most serene of symphonies. 

Harry hopes he remembers this tune forever- at least long enough for him to jot it down in his most precious notebooks. 

And all of his thoughts have turned to lullabies about the pretty girl in green resting in the summer shade, hair strands wisping in the gentle wind, and a teeny glint of a content smile. 

Before he ends up writing an entire song, Harry’s voice smoothly calls for your focus, thick and curious, harmonizing with nature’s instrumentals, 

“Why haven’t you come to any of my album releases?”

“The ones at your house?”

“Yeah. For close friends and family.”

His stare feels like a laser beam aimed straight at your head. He looks at you with an expectancy sterner than usual, the type that you know will be impossible to dismiss or divert. Shamefully dipping your head, you busy yourself by twirling the rose stem still clasped in your hand,

“I-”

“No excuses.”

“I have been to your releases…For One Direction.”

You glance over through deeply furrowed brows and Harry’s features expand with bewilderment,  

“That’s a lie, too!”

“It’s not!” You sit up now, crisscrossing your legs like some type of defence mechanism. “You weren’t there for A.M.” He says it so factually like it keeps him up at night. 

 “Really?”

“Trust me.” 

Harry shifts his body into a more upright position, and his attention feels like you’re being prosecuted- worse- like he’s set up a lie detector and there’s no way around telling a fib. So, you shrug in all honesty,

“Didn’t think you’d notice if I was there or not.” 

“That’s ridiculous.” He scoffs.

“It is ?”

“Assumptions, Y/n…” He sing-songs at the chance to call out your hypocrisy. 

“Touche.”All you can do is shrug and concede, bashfully smiling at his success in stunning you to silence. Where were you during the album release? You must have been around, right?” 

Harry observes your microfeatures- each crease, every freckle, the corner crinkles of your eyes and lips. It would take a fool not to notice your thoughts were racing like a runner on the track. It’s cute- very cute- but he’d hate to let you spiral for much longer,

“I wanted you to hear some of the songs…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wrote more than on the other albums… Made a lot of home reference, and like, growing up I guess…”

He hopes you can read between the lines of his absent words as you do so often. Hopes that ‘home’ means to you what it does to him. Because let's be honest, the years leading up to stardom were the most real- the most consistent- the most time he got to spend with you. 

It’s a shock to both of you when a snide remark about childhood fails to leave your lips, instead, a shy smile starts to form and you say,

“That’s actually… very cute.”

“Is that affection I hear?” He coos. 

You take a beat, begging for the bashful blushing of your cheeks to fade, unable to return his teasing stare. It’s too late to reel back in your thoughts and too late to dismiss the dread prickling at and dampening your palms,

“I’m sorry I kinda just disappeared after college… I would’ve really liked to hear them… especially the first one.”

“The best one?”He prods proudly. Praying he keeps the gates of your vulnerability open for a while longer.

“Just felt close to home, so I guess, yes, my favourite.” You don’t understand the magnitude of the relief that riddles Harry when you confirm that his longing for home is palpable enough to share through a speaker.  

To cover your intrusively honest tracks- and dismiss the unfamiliar look in his eyes- you quickly add, “But, it’s a matter of opinion.”

“I value your opinion.” Harry simply states.“The most.” His constant certainty is discerning. 

“Don’t be a suck-up.” 

“What if I’m telling the truth?” 

“I’d say you need a better advisory.” You inform.

“Don’t want one.” He tilts his chin to the sun in a childish strop. 

“You want me?”

“Y’know me so well.”

He shakes his head and shrugs knowingly, letting his eyes flutter shut, sighing out in satisfaction as he soaks up this very moment. You can't look away- he seems so peaceful like he’s finally able to remove every version of Harry other than this one- a soft soul desperate to give love and be loved in return. 

It’s before noon and you’ve done more thinking than four years worth of uni studies. Wracking your brain for melodies of Harry’s that evoke that oh-so-familiar feeling of home. But your brain is in overdrive and every note blends into an auditorium of his husky voice humming along to a timid guitar. A single name doesn't even come to mind- all on the tip of your tongue, but so quickly they dissipate like candyfloss dropped in a puddle. 

You hate to ask for his help- hate the idea of him knowing he successfully wormed his way into your thought- but these moments of forgetfulness are the type that eat away at your entirety, there’s no way around it,

“Which songs?” His lashes flutter apart, crystal gaze greeting your own with curiosity. You elaborate,  “From the album.”

That all-too-familiar devilish smirk starts to draw his lips into a toothy grin, and you want to flog yourself for thinking he might make things simpler for a change,

“You’ll have to go back and listen.”

He’s so full of cheek and charm that it’s too compelling to do anything but exactly what he says. 

🍷

It’s sweltering today and the only thing you’ve been thinking of since waking up is the icy blue refreshment that is the swimming pool. So adamant to spend the day near the water, you had forgone putting normal clothes on after a quick shower. 

Huffing out after finally managing to securely tie up the thin strands of your favourite pink bikini with read hearts, it was time to grab a towel and some sunscreen. But when your stomach interrupts the quest with a deep and needy grumble, swimming will have to wait til after some brunch. 

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, it’s a bad sign when you spot Harry sitting atop the kitchen island, dangly legs gently swinging and bumping against the marble as he absentmindedly bites into what looks like a delectable golden croissant drizzled in gooey chocolate. 

When he finally notices you, he smiles a goofy grin- still chewing on his pastry. And at the simplest of gestures, you wonder if the temperature has risen or if it’s the hot irritation bubbling beneath your skin. 

He knows it sends you into a tizzy whenever he shows up unannounced- you think he revels in it. And he does. Of course he does.  

But he won't get in the way of you and those damn tempting croissants, stacked on a plate so enticingly just to the left of Harry. 

You make a break for the food, reaching out and snatching the nearest chocolate-garnished flakey goodness, and Harry watches on in amusement,

“Look at you, y’re practically salivating.”

Glaring at his astute observation, you skip the part where you grab a plate and fork, taking an over-ambitious bite, and you hold back an erotic groan as the croissant melts in your mouth, coating the corner of your lips in cocoa. 

You’ve already taken a second bite before the chuckle brewing in Harry’s chest has the chance to release itself, but when it does, he struggles to keep it at bay.   

He hopes your focus would be so dedicated to your self-appointed golden ticket that his soft giggles of bewildering endearment, but when he looks over, your eyes are already spitefully squinting his way.

Instead of words, you slowly raise the last third of the pastry to your parted mouth and push it past your lips, taking a couple of agitated bites before swallowing and shrugging him off. 

Wrecklessly clapping your hands together to dust your hand of all crumbs, you weakly attempt to swipe any remnants of pastry flakes from your chin and gear up to get on with your day. Harry just can’t let that happen, can he? 

“C’mere.” He requests. 

“No.”

“Just c’mere.”

Rationalising the fact that you find yourself standing before him, arms crossed over your chest as you maintain suspicion and wait on Harry’s reasons for calling you over. 

“Closer.” His instruction is tender and seems devoid of the standard mischievous intentions, so you take a broad step forward, toes close to bumping into the cabinet. 

He cautiously raises one hand and curls his finger in a gesture for you to lean even further into his orbit. And you do, so easily that it's actually pitiful. 

Your cheek practically guides itself into his palm as his fingers rest delicately atop your jaw and his thumb ever so gently brushes the corner of your lip before he hastily removes your face from his hold and raises his thumb to his mouth, 

“Y’missed a lil’ bit of the chocolate.” He shares, popping his thumb past his plushy lips, sucking sweetly before pulling away with a sultry ‘pop’. 

You don’t need to see it to feel how your pupils have swollen with frustrated allure, and Harry surely notices too. His tongue flicks out to glide across his bottom lip and it’s so unnecessarily sultry that it seems to tug you nearer, has your body slotting itself between his parted legs. 

Harrys trapped, for a change, and by the looks of it, he hardly minds. With both hands balanced on the countertop, your arms create a trap around him- well, more like his legs and torso, but Harry pretends to be at your mercy nevertheless. 

He softly chuckles, vibrating against the crown of your hair, then his body softly shakes with humour and yours rumbles by proxy. 

“What’s so funny?” You tilt back to see him better. 

“Just thinking about the last time we were like this.”

“Halloween?” You remember it like it was yesterday.

“Mm.” He hums with praise, leaning in, his body like a velcro. 

“I hope this time ends better than the last.” You tease, left hand trailing up the expanse of his forearm.

“Well, that depends.” He hushly whispering into the shell of your ear, before pulling back to lock his gaze with your own. 

“On?” Your palm rests on the crook of his shoulder and neck, nails testingly raking his freckled skin. 

“Is there anyone in this house who wants to punch me for talking to you?” He says with suave sarcasm.

“Shove off.” You scoff and it completely contradicts the swell of adoration that seems to hit you head-on. 

And though you can't stop the cheeky smile that turns your cheeks to swollen cherubs, your free hand still instinctively reaches out and lightly swats his chest. 

“Just checking!” Harry uses this to his advantage, wrapping his expansive palm atop your own.

“He was my boyfriend.” You chide as a matter of fact. 

“Hey, I get it.” He shrugs goofily, guiding your linked hands to rest atop his lap, “I would have felt the same way if-”

“If you were my boyfriend?”

“Precisely.” He nods cutely but his tone is that of praise. And the way he eyes you, lips supple and slightly parted. 

For a split second you wonder if he likes what he sees, and you’ve never been more grateful that Harry doesn't allow you too long to ponder when he trails off, 

“Wouldn’t have hit anyone…”

“Just sulk about in a corner instead?” You tease sweetly.

“Tried and true.” He smiles smugly. 

“You’re so predictable.” 

Harry playfully scoffs, leaning into you and practically blinding you with the silly smile he sends your way. You peer up at him, and Harry is instantly reminded of the simplicity of your impact on his head and stomach- your beauty effortlessly a siren song sent straight to his heart.

Nothing new here, though. Harry has seen you more times than countable but cannot fathom how you manage to make it feel like the first time- every time. It takes him back, it lurches him forward- what is this, what could it have been, could it still be? 

He removes his hand from atop your own- it’s important to note how much this surprises you both- when you make no attempt to remove it from his meaty thigh, and, man, Harry can feel just how soft you are- he’s hot at the thought of how good it would feel to have his cock cradled in your palm- and as for your needle-like nails absentmindedly digging into his neck, 

Harry’s lightheaded at the thought of you leaving harsh reddish scratches down his back, the idea of making you feel so good that you cannot help but ravish him completely. He’s almost certain that you’d be a biter, he wouldnt mind terribly if you decorated him in little bruises. He’s about willing to do anything to have your marks on him- wants to feel his shorts swell whenever he catches a glimpse of your fading loveletters.

It’s not hard to see that Harry’s thoughts are a mile a minute, his eyes darting across your face- unsure of where to settle. You know he wants to say something-  perhaps batting your lashes oh so sweetly will encourage him. 

It does. He’s drowning in your desire-oozing eyes as they become more and more devoid of colour, his own gaze holds on for dear life as he reclaims his confidence, 

“I would have been a good boyfriend… To you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You risk it and slip your fingers into soft chocolate curls at the base of his neck, tugging and twirling.

“Would’ve bought you flowers and chocolates- oh, and cheap teddies.” His chest is nearing your own,  “Burned a CD of songs that reminded me of you,” His spare hand reaches out, twirling a finger through a loose strand of your hair, “Taken you on picnics and baked your favourite pastries...”

“How very high school of you.” You manage to tease through the sudden suffocating and tightening of your throat, stomach clenching and cheeks threatening to swell with sappy cheeriness. 

Harry only hums sweetly, his finger brushing against your jaw in a bid for your affection,

“I’d be even better now.”

“Thought about this before, have you?”

“Once or twice.” He shrugs, and your stomach is a swarm of sensual butterflies. 

“Don’t think I’m about to humour you.” 

Though your hand has somehow hiked its way up to his mid-thigh, your undying stubbornness is far from extinct and may be the only thing holding your sanity together as of current, and now you’re not sure if it’s Harry or yourself luring your body closer to his own.

“Not even a little?” He pries with a darling pout, his hand reaching out and wrapping around your waist, palm splayed flat against your lower back. 

“It never leads to anything good.” 

“Kissing me isn’t good?” Harry lures, hoping to lead you into some sort of feisty discourse.

Your gaze is fixed on anything but his own, even so, you already know that his lips are curved into a cheeky pout, forehead crinkling with faux-concern. 

But in true betrayal, your newly-freed hand has trailed its way along his stomach, dragging slowly and settling atop his shoulder, fingers linking into a necklace clasp at the back of his neck,

“Stop throwing bones, Styles.” An eye roll. “You already know how I feel.” 

 “Still nice to hear.” His whole body shrugs, gaze piercing your direction, especially at your refusal to look back at him. He wants- needs- to see you better. “You never answered my question.”

Finally, with frustration, your stare snaps back to his own and stuns Harry once more with how seductive and alluring you are, and unintentionally at that. Ensuring his attention is all yours, but praying he doesn’t find out how much you mean it, 

“You’re a good kisser, Harry.” 

“Such a sweet girl…” Both of his arms are now snaking around your figure, fingers softly pressing into your flesh, hopefully pulling you nearer with his words, “But that wasn’t the question I was talking about.”

“What, then?”

“Ask me nicely.” He taunts, but you only threaten to remove your hold on him altogether. Instead, his hold only tightens, legs spreading and slotting your body in between.

“I said I won't humour you.” You let him keep you for his own. 

“Brat.” Harry concedes with cheeky fondness, his heart filling with copious amounts of adoration for the ridiculous stubbornness that stirs you into his version of the perfect partner. 

But it only makes him desire your lips with almost too much fervour to maintain composure, and he simplifies, 

“Is someone gonna try to punch me?”

Your body is bouncing with bewildered laughter at Harry’s insinuation

“Well…” Your toes leave the ground, chin tilting and lips plumpening with each word, “Are you gonna try to kiss me again?”

“If I said I was?” Harry’s head dips, his mouth ready to take your own. 

“Can you take a punch?”

“For you?” He speaks with such certainty, “I’ll take a thousand.”

“Then, I think you should risk it.”

The distance is dissipating with thick desire, Harry’s palm has found its place wrapped along your jaw, his thumb stroking at your cheek as he leans in and submits completely. 

His eyes are involuntarily closing- lashes fluttering with the same ferocity as those of the butterflies in his stomach- and Harry can feel himself slipping further into the intimate bubble of your energy, demanding his lips find their home along the crevices of your skin. 

Your legs will hurt later, but your impatience wishes for him to meet you sooner, annoyingly desperate for the frighteningly familiar feeling of his soft kisses scattering along your skin. Right now, if Harry were to ask, you would do anything for him- to him. 

With a cute huff, you carefully tug his neck closer, foreheads brushing, noses colliding, his lips pressed to the corner of your mouth. Harry chuckles softly and- 

“Harry?” The call is coming from inside the house! 

“Y/n?” Dear god, there are two of them. 

“Where are you?” The voices are getting closer. 

Harry’s never seen someone move so quickly- hardly blinking twice before you had both released him and slipped your way out of his grasp- and if it weren’t for his shared panic of being caught in a rather telling situation, Harry would have taken a second to mourn instead of brashly clearing his throat and calling out, 

“In the kitchen!” 

🍷

That little incident back there has left you blood boiling like a lobster in a steel pot, but you can’t shake off the obscene thoughts battling with those of swimming, and you’re in an almost haze by the time you finally reach the pools edge. 

And you’ve never been so grateful for the icy shock of water enveloping your ankles, then calves, and then your whole lower body sinks below the surface and life just about makes sense again. Chasing this feeling, you let yourself become fully submerged, limbs gracefully kicking and bobbing, hair fanned out like an halo, a second of serenity. 

Who knows how long you revel in the water, gliding back-and-forth along the pools length until it feels like you’ve never touched land before. It’s only when your face reemerges and Savina’s figure comes into view that you even consider returning to reality. 

Her upper body is dry and resting against the wall of the pool, large circular-framed sunglasses shading most of her face, straight mousy-brown hair pulled back and up with a claw clip. 

She’s just so self-assured- exudes coyness with unbridled confidence and certainty. How do the people around you have the such a power for certainty? Where is the doubt? 

Swimming the short distance to her poised figure, a smile creeping along her heart-shaped lips, Savina waits for you to near, your body wading in the tiny water waves, before letting you in on her latest idea, 

“I think we should hire out a catamaran.”

“Aren’t you scared of boats?”

“Only the little ones.” She dismisses.

“Well, I’m not a fan of boats. Any types.”

Savina looks at you like you’ve become a stranger and you already know the next thing she utters will be laced with confusion,

“Why do you do so many water activities, then?”

There are dozens of stories revolving you and the water- many are of disastrous incidents and oft resulted in some form of injury- but it must be firmly noted that every single activity involved the dangerous duo that is Jack and Harry. 

“I can’t say no when people ask me.” 

The troublesome two who have mastered the art of convincing you into almost everything- even if, on occasion, you find yourself greatful for their persistence, that information is privy to you and you alone. What you will say is,

“One of these days it’ll be the death of me.”

You glide towards the pools edge, using your arms to hoist the rest of your body out until you’re sitting atop the warm tiles, legs dipping back into the refreshing water. Savina follows suit, gracefully plopping down beside you. She rests her glasses atop her head and her brown eyes glow golden beneath the cloudless sky as she asks, 

“So, what day should we book for?” 

“Wednesday?” 

“Perfect! We’ll visit the coastal towns, try out that Posillipo I mentioned at the, what was the-”

“August Clambake.” You finish for her, eyes rolling at the memory. 

You share a reminiscent stare before scoffing and with synchronicity, reciting, “The clambake with no clams!” 

“These ones will blow your mind!” She reassures. 

“I’m sold. It’s a date!”

Not a moment later the shadow of a six-foot man casts over your crisping skin,

“A date?” Harry gasps dramatically, walking into view, “Y/n, are you two-timing me?”

“You haven’t set a date.” Your head tilts up to scold him eye-to-eye but the first thing you see is his thick thighs practically squeezing the yellow material of the tiniest of swim trunks hanging low on his hips. 

He’s still strumming up a retort, and you have to peel your gaze away from the muscular divots of his hip bones- and how his unintentional flexes are fastly stirring a deep desire within- when Savina becomes a surprising saving grace, 

“We’re taking a catamaran to see the island.” She informs. Problem solves. For a beat, before she pulls a classic Savina and enthusiastically suggests, “Come with us. You and Jack!”

“Savina.” You hiss between clenched teeth. 

“We’d love to!” He’s all too enthusiastic and you hold back a scoff.

“How does Wednesday sound?”

“Wednesday it is.”

Once again, you are victim to a group consensus that would be harder to argue against than to just cave in and follow along. That’s a problem for Wednesday’s Y/n, though. Today’s problem is still towering over you, cruelly blocking the sun. 

And when you need her most, Savina checks her watch and hops up, 

“I better get ready for lunch with Jeff.” This is news to both you and Harry and Savina must notice when she adds, “One last gossip session before he leaves.” 

What the hell are those two talking about at these lunches? You’re almost certain that it mostly surrounds this bizarre dynamic between the two of you. Is it that confusing that people on the outside have noticed? 

The thought is enough to make you sick, stomach twisting from a cocktail of fear from drawing attention to yourself and the still present arousal that started the moment you walked into the kitchen and were met with Harry. 

 If anyone asked Harry himself, he would say that this day has been more than enjoyable, in fact, his excitement is through the roof at the subtle validation he receives at the idea that maybe the approval of outsiders may soothe your constant doubts- give you permission to take a chance with him. 

What he wants to say is ‘you can see this undeniable chemistry, cant you? I’m not making things up, right?’ but refrains and says,

“I hope you have nice things to say about me.” 

“Darling, we always do.” 

Savina sends the least subtle of winks your way and bids her goodbye’s. Harry wastes no time in taking two large strides towards the pools edge, raising his arms to the sky, arching his sculpture-like body, his back muscles contorting and you know exactly where this is going. 

Just as his feet are about to turn into a bouncy spring aimed for the water, you hurriedly yell out to Harry,

“Don’t splash-” But it’s no use- he’s in the air, a breaching dolphin landing in the water, followed by a large splash that sprinkles your almost fully dried skin with cold droplets. You squeal out, and when Harry finally resubmerges, face slick with water and a sly smile, all you can muster is a simple, “I hate you.”

“Do you though?” He wonders, paddling along the waters surface.  

“Loathe.”

“Go on.” He treads closer before standing up, water bumping the skin of his waist down. 

“Detest.”

“Mm?” Harry closes the gap between your bodies, his glistening chest bumps against your knees like boats in the docks.

“Despise.” 

He shifts to stand to your left, leaning his back on the pools edge, his elbow perched just inches from the bare expanse of your thigh, and his free hand settles just above your knee, fingers faintly tapping rhythmically,

“You’re so hot when you turn me into adjectives.” 

“Pesty, irritating, frustrating, antagonistic bastard.”

Harry’s hand encloses over your thigh and squeezes in tune with an sarcastic- erotic- groan, 

“Stop or I’ll bust.”

The insinuation shatters all self control and your body shudders under his hold and his stare. There’s that familiar ache of neediness- neediness for Harry’s hands to do more- for him to do something to finally rectify that disastrous encounter in the kitchen. 

Harry isnt making any further steps, but he’s well aware of the way your body seems to tense with anticipation under his touch- the same as it does whenever he’s has you cornered- and he wishes you would say it aloud. 

It seems on the tip of your tongue, lips weakly parted, trying your hardest to find the least pathetic way to tell Harry to just fucking have at it. 

But ego runs deep. So deep that you gently shrug off his hand and swiftly stand up, body coming to attention as an automated response slips from your lips, 

“You are the worst!”

He’s laughing and your lower body shudders. Now you cant tell if your bikini bottoms are soaked from the swimming pool. As unlikely as the chances that Harry isn’t shamelessly staring at the way your ass gracefully bounces with each stroppy step you take towards the sunbed. 

🍷

In all fairness, Harry had started it. And then he re-started it. And now, he definitely hasn’t stopped as he strode past the sunbed you occupied, teeny tiny trunks fully drenched- streams of water descending his thighs as he purposefully picks the sunbed furthest from your own and practically throws his body atop the rolled out beach-towel. 

You were pushing it- and it was obvious- but you’ve been teased with the littlest of tastes all day and you are just salivating for more.

Its impossible for any thoughts to remain innocent- each move he makes is as tantalizing as it is taunting- he doesnt even seem to know it. Just looking so relaxed and unbothered, as if your presence means nothing. As if you’re the only one about to explode from pure sexual frustration. 

It’s infuriating, and mortifying, and only adds to the shameful arousal you cannot shake off. It’s all consuming- he is all consuming. 

And when Harry obnoxiously stretches for a third time, you fugue into a complete frenzy- eyelids hooded and hungrily watching the muscles of his flexed arms, his ridiculously tiny swim trunks slipping lower, creating the sultriest of trails from his stomach to his hipbones for your gaze to happily follow. 

No longer willing to hide behind the most adorable of pastel pink heart-shaped sunglasses, you’re a roast on a spit and if Harry won’t take the hint and bite, it’s time to catch a hint.

Harry’s pretty features are hiding behind an aged-denim baseball cap, one arm flexed behind his head as a makeshift pillow. This has you wondering if he’s even awake and that’s the final push you needed to get up and stealthily stroll over to his sunbed. 

Bending down and leaning your body over his own, your bikini-clad breast brush against his chest as you reach across him for a book you couldn’t even currently recall the title of- resting next to his half-empty lemonade on the side table. 

“You’re kidding.” Harry mumbles through the material.

“What?” You feign innocence, pressing further into him, waist coming down on his stomach.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” He torts but lets you continue with your teasing.

“Getting my book?” You ponder, taking much longer than necessary, letting your fingers dance along the cover, tilting down and further sticking your sun-kissed skin to his own.

Harry removes his flexed arm from its position as a pillow, using his thumb to hook under and remove the cap from hiding his face. He looks at you with a stern furrow of the brows, but his eyes are nothing but amused, and egregiously aroused,

“You’re a little liar.”

With ease, he wraps his arms around your waist, giving you a good squeeze as he flips you over, causing you to snatch a hold of the novel just as you find yourself bent and folded over his lap, ass up in the air, your chest resting against his thighs.

“What the-”

Now Harry has you, and you feel silly for thinking you could have ever gotten away with being so clueless, banking on the falseness of his lack of interest in your presence. He had lured you right in leaving you lying across him, completely at his will.

Not that you would want to be anywhere else, but you can’t help the embarrassment stirring at your stomach, ringing in your ears, you hope Harry doesn’t notice, and it seems he is far more focused on the sultriness of your arched back, your bikini bottoms becoming a frame for the ass cheeks that Harry quickly deems an artwork.

His fingers glide along the curve of your spine, satisfied with the shiver that shakes your body beneath his touch,

“You’re a naughty one, aren’t you?” He notes, letting his hands continue to trail along your curves. 

He ponders for a moment, watching for each reaction you might let slip, hyper-focused on your shaky breaths, the rise and fall of your breasts against his legs. He needs more though- needs to hear you,

“I think it’s time you’re punished for all of this brattiness.”                                           

“I’m not a brat.” You huff defensively for no reason but to protect your pride, still stuck and at his will.

“But you act like one.” He tuts factually, his hands gliding along your lower back before his palms finally settle on your ass cheeks, giving you the softest of pats.

You can’t admit such just yet, it was clear you were behaving like a true brat, but your words would be the last thing that would confirm that. Instead, you start to let the book slip and attempt to let it drop with little care,

“That’s the same-”

Harry refuses to let you finish, his tone dripping with discipline, his hands squeezing at your skin to ensure to cut you off and keep you focused on his filthy intentions,

“Read your book. Must be interesting if you were willing to go to such great lengths to retrieve it.” He is keeping you hooked like an floundering fish, baiting you with the promise of leaving little red marks along your pillowing bum cheeks.

Your lips part with the desire of protest, letting the book loosen in your hand, waiting for it to finally part from your palms. But Harry is watching like a hawk- waiting for you to misbehave once more, knowing you far too well. Still, you rally all of the defiance you have to spare,

“I-”

“Read the book.”

He gently digs his nails into your skin, and you want to protest even harder, but his simple sternness is salivating and instead, you choose to repent for your sins, balancing on your elbows, sighing and reopening the page to your bookmark with zero intent in actually reading.

With satisfaction, Harry kneads at the mounds of your skin before suddenly lifting his palm and bringing it down against your cheek with a sweet slap.

Your neck tilts back against your will, and your grip on the book starts to slip once more, biting back a surprised sigh.

“Uh, uh.” He scolds, “Read, Y/n.” 

And you prop the book back up with embarrassing haste. 

“So bratty…” By this point, Harry speaks with astonishment.

You cannot resist scoffing at his statement, busy regaining the strength to snap back at his ridiculous demand, but his hand comes down against your cheeks with a sterner smack and you switch back to the pretence of reading in hopes of another spanking.

“Tell me about the plot.” He insists, enjoying his little power trip far too much, whilst shifting back to pinching and squeezing at your skin.

“You’re being ridicu-” You try but another harsh smack followed by the soothing rub of his palm over the blooming mark buries you in submission, “Fernando just showed up at Fermina’s house…”

“Tell me more.” 

“Then… I… I have no idea.” Your head bows with shameful admission. 

Harry seems more than satisfied, kneading and squeezing at your skin. He decides that your honesty earns you points, it would be cruel to deny you sympathy for such an important attribute. But he truly does know you too well, doubting your little relinquishment, and he needs reassurance,

“Gonna be a good girl from now on?”

He doesn’t expect you to nod along so quickly, never mind so avidly, and now, Harry is gripping onto your dips and curves for dear life. But he cannot stop the teasing that slips past the gap in his teeth,

“For who?”

You roll your eyes, well aware it goes unnoticed by him, but Harry can feel the way a huff causes your chest to rise and fall, his own starts to expand with a light chuckle. And said chest catches a sharp breath and keeps it there at the feeling of your body slumping against his own as you bravely say, 

“For you, Harry.”

To say Harry was elated would be an understatement- his whole body alight with the mere sight of your body slung across his lap, let alone the feeling of your soft flesh moulding like clay beneath his hold. 

He doesnt think he can get used to how pliant and responsive you become under his touch. If this is what happens when he pathetcially parades about hoping to attract a pretty girls attention, Harry doesn’t mind behaving like a peacock more often. 

“Now, what exactly were you expecting to happen with this… little act of yours, hm?” His hands squeeze at any available skin,  “Think you’d get away it?” His fingers glide dangerously close to your undeniably damp bottoms, “That I’d just pretend it was all just an innocent mistake?”

“It was a mistake-”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Yes-”

The harsh crack of Harry’s hand colliding with you left cheek has your back arching, squeaking out a whine, toes curling all at once.                         

“Are you sure, Y/n?” 

“...No.”

Your head drops, cheek resting on his thigh as your body slumps in full submission, and, hell, Harry wishes you could see how wide his smile is at the sight. His hand circles soothing strokes atop the palm-sized pinkish mark starting to bloom- beyond satisfied with his brilliant work. 

“Was that so hard?” 

“No, sir.” 

You answer with a haste that takes Harry by such surprise that he feels all sense of superiority substitute itself with the fear that maybe you were right, maybe you’re more than he can handle. 

“Christ.” His chest is tight, heart racing, and he feels a harsh sugar drop, suddenly trapped beneath your supple figure- dominance is dissipating, Harry comes to the realisation that he is never in charge- not even when you feign submission. 

He fears the unfamiliarity of letting his partner take control. Being intimate is one area of his life that he can truly make decisions that he wont spend an eternity revisity and cruelly critiquing the outcome. This is a place where he can act freely and intuitively- all he’s ever known is a dynamic where his lovers follow suit. 

Why does he want to do this forever? Why is he already planning all the ways he can show you just how desperately he’s willing to become your personal plaything? 

You’ve grown impatient with the slowing of Harry’s actions- you may have sacrificed your stubbornness, but your pride surely wont have you slung across the lap of a man if he’s not at least making you squirm with pleasure. 

Harry can’t find the words as you slyly and swiftly escape from his hold. It seems like you’re about to make a break for it but when you only turn to face him and confidently sling your leg over his lap, he’s quick to shift for your ease, helping your body settle in his lap. 

Your arms snake up his arms, palms splaying out atop his shoulders. Harry’s hand are already trailing any part of you he hadnt previously had access to, starting with the curves of your waist, his cock twitching as his fingers rake along the waistband of your bikini and you shift excitedly. 

He squeezes at the creases where your pudge pushes against the restraint of the stringy swimwear straps, and Harry tauntingly twirls them around his fingers, threatening to dismantle the carefully-tied bows, 

“So flimsy, all it would take is one little tug...”

“And you’ll deeply regret it.”

You press your lower body further into his lap, biting back a satisfied sigh as his cock continues to stiffen, brushing those pesty swimwear along your progressively soaking slit. He needs to be closer- you need to ensure he is just as wrapped up in this all encompassing bubble of desire as yourself. 

“Why’s that, angel?” 

Harry tries to keep his voice steady as you press your breasts against his chest, the aroma of sunscreen, salty water, and sweet conditioner suddenly surrounding him, intoxicating his senses with a swift dose of dopamine. His body is sinking further into the sunbed as you start building a staircase of sloppy kisses towards the shell of his ear, 

“Because I’ll stop doing this.” You move back slightly- its obvious he wont let you get far- and your body mimics that of a person ready to run, “In fact, I’ll leave and take care of myself.”

And as mouth-watering as that visual is, Harry tugs you back into place- even closer- until his nose is brushing the curve of your collarbone, his hand gliding along your goosebump-riddled spine until it cups the back of your neck and in between timid kisses to your sternum, he tuts, 

“Well, we wouldnt want that, would we?”

Your head shakes in agreement, tilting down to get a better look at him beneath those unruly brunette curls. 

The moment his glossy lips leave your skin and he peers up at you through lust-driven eyes, you throw all snark, games, wit, and stubbornness to the wind. All you want is to suffocate him with your kiss. 

Maybe Harry really can read your mind because he tilts his chin, lips puckering in anticipation for your own, and how sweetly he lets your hand wrap around his jaw- lets your thumb flick his bottom lip, parting them so politely as your finger slips into his mouth and he selaciously sucks on it. 

Your thumb is barely out of his mouth when your teeth latch onto his bottom lip, giving it a gentle tug before your tongue slips past and seeks out his own. 

Harry kisses you back like it’s life or death, lips slipping, exploring, and when you capture his tongue and suck it between your slick mouth, he wants desperately for you to soothe his aching cock however you see fit. 

Your kisses have strayed to the curve where his jaw and ear meet, sloppily trailing down his simmering skin, taking a little nibble of the creamy crook of his neck- which earns a surprised yelp from Harry, 

“G’na show me how good you can be?” 

“Ask me nicely.” 

He can’t muster anything more than a deep chuckle- turning to mush at the playful streak peaking through your lustrous stare. Harry, unlike yourself, doesn’t mind a little grovelling- in fact, he thinks he’s made that more than clear. 

His voice turns as tender as his touch, sincerity seeping through the thick layers of his arousal as he lets his lips graze your ear,

“Please, Y/n.” 

That feels good to hear. Criminally good. Like, the type of good that has you missing this exact moment while it’s still happening. 

It’s as if he’s uttered the secret password and it’s your duty to ensure his success doesn't go to waste. 

All remnants of Harry taking control are null and void the moment your hips rock along his own. Your clit brushes atop his throbbing cock- begging for release from this hellishly restrictive swim trunks- and with a sharp hiss snaking past your lips, Harry’s sure he’s about to cut off all blood circulation. 

He decides to be the most helpful boy he can be, cradling your ass cheeks, letting your hips guide them wherever you pleased. With deliberate and curious swirls, you hold back little mewls each time his cock brushes along your throbbing and increasingly damp pussy. 

Your hands cant decide where to graps as they switch between pressing into his lower abdomen, trailing along his forearms, one hand wrapping along his neck while the other impatiently tugs at his chin, tilting his mouth to latch onto your own. 

Harry doesnt hide the pleasure pulsing through him with every touch and hitch of your breath, gliding his tongue along your lower lip and with a subtle thrust, he coaxes a hushed sigh from you, taking the chance to slip his tongue past your teeth, lapping at your mouth with such lewdness that your hips rock on their own accord. 

Less calculated, more explorative, swirling left to right, up and down atop his full length, testing what feels good, what makes his body twitch and whine with approval. 

It’s hard to focus, Harry’s pressing into whatever part of you he can reach, holding onto your hips as if he feared you might evaporate into another silly fantasy, hoping his little moans of satisfaction express how desperately he wants you. 

You’ve never heard something as beautiful as Harry’s moans- they haunt your dreams and often coax your hands into your panties on lonely evenings. Raising slightly, your right hand reaches back and strokes along his thick length and Harry’s hands needily glides up and harshly cups your breast. 

He’s tauntingly tugging at the flimsy material, perversely tugging it to the side to reveal your pebbled nipple and his teeth are around the perky bud before you can say something about the dangers of getting caught. 

In honesty, you’re not thinking about that at all- it only stirs fiercely at your lower belly, pulsating with filthy excitement. Your hand wraps around his neck, pressing him further into your chest as his free hand cups and kneads at your other breast. 

Thighs working harder than most days, you try to keep a consistent pace, needily chasing a high, searching for that sweet spot, and Harry wants nothing more than to assist. 

His hands retreat to your ass, one raising you slightly as his other adjusts his cock to line up with your dripping entrance. You’ve soaked through your swimwear- so slick that Harry can feel his swollen tip dampening at the contact. 

He’s pushing  up into you, and there’s something so lewd about fucking you through your swimwear that has the two of you feeling more feral than ever before. So good that the world around you is still, nobody else exists, and the only thing you care about is being so close to Harry’s cock pushing past your entrance. 

It’s teamwork when you hastily stand and turn around, seating your drippy pussy right atop his length. Harry guides your body back and forth, releasing a gravelly groan when your thighs tighten and generously knead his balls, hand reaching between the two of you as your hands press and stroke the expanse of his cock, from tip to taint. 

Huffing out each time he brushes against your throbbing bud, the need to have him closer is overwhelming. And the way his hips are starting to jut impatiently, you might not be the only one. His hips are bucking up into you, possessively searching for your pussy.

Harry does needs more, needs to see those erotic visuals of your pleasure-soaked face that have plagued his mind for the last three months,  

“C’mere pretty girl.” 

He has you facing him again, pinning him to the chair, arching your hips to up so that each grind targets his tip and aims for your slit, triggering a new current of euphoria to send shockwaves up your spine. 

Maybe he’s stopped thinking completely because Harry reaches out for the top of your bikini, using one hand to spread the material apart until they are framing your bare breasts like an artwork- which, Harry deems they certainly are. 

He’s squeezing at you, nipping and nibbling, and your nails are piercing into his shoulders, holding on for dear life. When Harry sinks his teeth down onto the supple skin of your throat, harshly sucking as your thighs clench around his at the sudden and arousing sting.

His tongue lovingly licks at and soothes the soon-to-bloom bruise. You know he’s marking you to prove a point, and it shouldnt have you reeling with such excitement at the thought of being his, enough to break your silence, 

“Fuck, Harry.” 

“Feel good, sweetheart?” His name has never sounded so special.

“So fucking good.” You pant, pushing yourself down onto him with ferocity. 

And Harry couldn't predict that you would shuffle back, hook your fingers into the band of his shorts and free his cock from its cruel confinement. Only just past the tip is visible and the harsh sting of the cool air is quickly replaced by the warmth of your pussy. One layer separating him from the tight embrace of your hole. 

Your breasts are still in line with Harry’s face, one of his hands still lazily squeezing while the other slides down your torso, tickles at your ribcage before abrasively cupping your pussy and he’s grunting out, “So, so wet.” 

Your head lulls back at the obvious observation, and the desperate need to coat his length until he’s just as soaked has got your eyes rolling in ecstasy. 

Harry heinously loops his finger into the side of your swimwear, tugging it to the side and whining out, “My God” at the sight of your bare pussy, slick and begging to be fucked hard and proper. 

You’re pressing down on him before he can truly marvel at how puffy and pretty you are when riled up, but as your torso arches back, breasts searching for the sky, hand digging into his stomach for balance, Harry gets a view so tasty, there is actual drool pooling at the corner of his lip. 

The tip of his cock is disapearring between the folds of your pussy, instantly soaked and twitching from sensitivity, you’re bucking at a rapid pase, synchronising your bursts of pleasure. Harry knows this will be a core memory, something that will project across the lids of his shut eyes every single night for eternity. 

His hips are thrusting up to meet your own with soft slaps, all-encompassing pleasure twisting at his lower abdomen, building and peaking, and then you mewl out the most salacious of sounds- a wordless plea to help push you over the edge, and Harry is jutting with haste, wrapping his arms around your back, guiding your body atop his until the orgasm you’ve desired so deeply starts to reach its peak, and you’re urgently, desperately using Harry’s cock. 

You gazes lock- eyes blackened, lids hooded- and you utter out the sweetest and softest of pleas, “Wanna come.” 

Harry’s nodding avidly, holding you tighter, pressing you nearer, bucking his cock up into the folds of your pulsating pussy, each time his tip slip and brushes your entrance, he knows he wont last longer. All he can do is honestly ask of you, 

“Please.” He’s smothering you neck in kisses, “Please come for me.” 

That does it. You don’t care about Harry witnessing the pronographic whine that follows- you don’t care who hears or sees, all you care about is the earth-shattering pleasure swallowing you whole, your body crumbling, struggling to keep up your movements as your orgasm takes over completely, grabbing at his arms, his back, his torso. 

Harry’s stare is frozen as you start to unravel above him, but his hips are working overtime, pumping himself against your pussy and your chest is humming in tune. 

Sloppily, one hand raises to tenderly cup his cheek and you latch your lips to his in a sensual, slow tongue-tango. The unfamiliar feelings of affection fusing with arousal is the final straw for Harry. 

There’s no time to vocalise anything before he’s pushed completely over the edge and can only manage a filthy moan that vibrates against your lips as Harry comes undone and his thrusts turn uneven before his cock is spurting thick pleasure between the folds of your pussy. 

Your bodies slow down to a halt and you can no longer hold yourself up, collapsing atop Harry’s chest as he works to even his breathing. Both of you are surely sticky messes, and reality is rapidly returning. 

It’s only now that either of you glance around to see if anyone may have noticed, and though shame is sure to follow, that can only happen once you separate your sweaty, lethargic bodies. 

You let the moment linger a while longer before regretfully loosening your hold and peeling your skin from his own. When Harry whines out disapprovingly, you almost crawl right back into position, but that will be the start of round two. You need time to process round one. 

Harry puts up little fight, though every part of his living being wishes to have you cradled in his arms, cuddling up against his tired torso, instead pulling his trunks back up to hide his cock, he shifts and takes in the magnificent of views- you stand and gather your book, eyes glazed-over, cheeks flushed and chest unevenly heaving. 

“So you can be a good girl.”  

“So you can be something other than annoying.” 

Harry’s already thinking about the next time, and the next. But your thoughts are swiftly veering towards uncertainty and the excuse for a shower is the only thing keeping you from passing out right in front of him. 

“I can be anything you want, Y/n.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You definitely will. 

Harry acts completely unbothered when he returns his body to the position that started this entire encounter, retrieves his hat and settles in for what seems like a nap. Relaxed son of a bitch. Why isn’t it rubbing off on you? 

“I hope you do.” Harry hums from beneath the cap and all you can do is wander away from him and into the house in a complete daze. 

🍷

Dinner with Savina is, at best, depressing. Fork aimlessly stabbing at the same piece of lettuce, you clearly aren’t on this planet anymore. 

Dazed, avoiding the air around you as if it might trigger another feral response. Worst of all- you’re ashamed of how shameless you still feel in Harry’s wake.  

Savina has been eyeing you from across the table for well over ten minutes before that ghostly look on your face becomes too much to tolerate, 

“Why do you look like you just witnessed someone being ejected from a vehicle?” 

She’s squinting suspiciously when you briefly glance up at her with sheer mortification,

“That’s awful.”

“You’re acting like something awful did happen.” She defends, and you cave in an instant, quickly mumbling some type of explanation that has Savina asking, “What’s that?”

“He spanked me.”

Silence thickened with surprise settles between the two of you. In defeat, you put down the fork and settle back in the handcrafted dining chair and pout at Savina, clueless of how to process this information on your own. 

Her forehead and bushy brows are raised, her own meal discarded at this sizzling new development. But she’s observing the way your features morph from mortified to confused to sheer helplessness, and Savina will get to the bottom of this,

“And this is the face of someone who enjoyed it far more than they care to admit?”

“This is the face of someone who enjoyed it.” You sigh out. 

It’s just getting weirder, Savina finally concedes that you weren’t exaggerating when you expressed how confusing the dynamic you and Harry share truly is. Savina doesn’t know where to start,

“That’s… messed up, Y/n.”  

Then she tries the ‘positive reinforcement’ tactic, “Harry seems-”

“Don’t say his name.” You shush. 

“You’re so dramatic!”

“Yes!” Your hands flail wildly, “And he’s driving me crazy!”

Savina finds this all-too amusing, returning to her food and reveling in this obscure situation she is so grateful to witness first-hand, she hums provokingly,

“Ugh. I want a summer love.”

“We’re too old for this.” 

You’re trying to remind yourself of this- of any possible reason to prove the impossibility of getting closer to Harry. The only things currently going for you is memories of the past, and even those are being muddled by new perspectives. It’s nauseating. 

In a cheeky conclusion, Savina only coos out a request for one last thing,

“Please, let me live vicariously.” 

🍷

Déjà fuckin vu. 

A new day and… why is Harry here? He’s splayed out on that sunbed again, and you won’t be caught falling for it this time… regardless of how the sun casts sultry shadows along his torso, highlighting the divots of his stomach muscles… 

You hasten the drying process, roughly rubbing the towel along any damp skin- eyes trained carefully on his still and shining body.

But, you can’t help yourself from at least letting him know that you are well aware of his tactics, he must understand that you are nowhere near as easily tempted as you were before- that a lapse in judgement had lured you straight into his lap. (How many lapses can one’s judgement have before you have to admit it wasn’t a mistake?) 

Your softened feet pad along the warm tiles until they stop just before Harry’s resting figure. His ray bans hide any sign of consciousness, but it’s obvious that he’s already hyper-aware of your every move. 

You steal a couple of glances for your personal ‘before bed’montage, which by now consists mostly of visuals of Harry just, being Harry. 

It certainly helps to daydream about him warming beneath the rays, golden skin glistening, arms and torso taught and littered with all those tattoos and freckles, flexing just for you. 

Your figure hovers over him like a cloud and Harry is quick to tilt his sunglasses, balancing them on the bridge of his nose as his amuse-soaked gaze is peering up at you through wispy lashes. 

He waits on you, knowing that this is the second step in his trap. And how easily he seems to have coaxed you into it once more. He’s prepared to be chewed out, and his stomach twists in delight at the thought. 

And how simply you exacerbate his excitement when your arms come to rest across the curves of your underboob, brows furrowing and fresh-berry lips pursing to firmly inform Harry that,

“Try all you want, it won't work this time.”

“I wasn't trying last time.” He shrugs smugly. 

“... Well it won’t work today.”

Harry shifts himself to an upright position, his large palm lazily sliding the shades from his face, as he plans to ensure you get the perfect view of him. 

He feels like a teenager, attempting to convince you of his attractiveness, but there’s an underlying giddiness that always follows and he prays you feel it too. Even if he could resist teasing, the silly scrunch of your nose and squinted searing gaze guarantees he won’t stop.

“Spiralling again, sweetheart?”

“After interacting with you? Always.” You scoff and Harry’s skin melts under your glare. 

“Why does that turn me on?” He whines tauntingly.

“Dont ask me, I rarely understand you.”

Harry almost laughs aloud and with each passing second, the ache to shamelessly rake your stare along his limbs becomes a challenge not to succumb to his will. Yet you cannot possess yourself to walk away just yet. 

So you keep your eyes fixed on his own, watching as playfulness and enticement colour his eyes in hues of deep green, desperate for his next words to be enough to dismiss you from dangerously slinking back onto his lap. 

It’s like Harry has figured out that he occupies a space in your head. Like he’s weaselled his way in there and anticipates your every thought- your every move. 

Why else would his next move be to slightly part his legs, like a damn invitation, juicy thighs begging for a bite? His elbow presses into his thigh, balancing his chin atop his hand as he watches you like it’s his only reason for living, choosing his next words carefully, 

“I don't believe that. I think you understand me just fine.”

“Whatever. I need to head inside before I burn.” If that were true, it wouldn’t be from the sun's rays, but the desperate desire to fuck him senseless.

“Ever the cautious little one.” He coos through the fondest of grins.

You muster the will to take a step back, and then another, shrugging knowingly at laxness,

“Take that up with the sun, Harry. Put some sunscreen on while you’re at it.”

One final glance and you turn on your heels, heading for the sliding doors as Harry’s boastful voice sings out, 

“Not necessary, but thank you for being such a doll.” 

“Don’t come crying to me.” You hum contently, proud of how well you had resisted his charm, but body still pining for his hold.

🍷

Sunset painted the blue skies with pastel candyfloss peach and pink, clouds casting the trees into shadows, and with the most idealistic view of the orange-streaked ocean visible from your balcony, allowing the last soft rays to cast the villa in warmth, lulling you into a cosy daze in front of the tv, legs splayed out on the sofa, eyes slipping in and out of focus. 

Everything slowly melts into euphoria, the dialogue on screen turns to muffles, waves kissing the shore, and you can’t recall the last time things felt so easy- so still. 

But your departure from consciousness is cruelly interrupted by the thudding of a fist against the front door. Whoever knocks has hasty determination as they hardly pause before tapping the hardwood again. 

All remnants of a possible nap were gone with the setting sun and your bare feet were padding along the cool linoleum without thought, heading towards the persistent knocking with a desperate desire for it to just stop. 

It must be Savina, and she must have left her keys behind again, and if that’s the case, she’s about to receive a mouthful and a half. You’ve already sucked in a scolding breath whilst unlocking and opening the door, only to be met with the surprising sight of a very flustered and very red-faced Harry, frowning brow matching his pretty puckered pout. 

All you can do is exhale and before the giggles can even register to bubble, he’s taking a desperate step forward, pointing his finger and warning,  

“Do not laugh.”

You can’t even, staring back at him in utter shock, scanning the unbelievable redness of his skin, 

“Oh, dear God.”

Harry’s shamefully tilts his head, rosy arms folding atop his chest as he bashfully peers up at you through puffy lashes, 

“Help me.” 

Without hesitation, your body steps aside to welcome him, watching as he pitifully slinks past, discarding his slides, and making great effort to avoid garnering your attention. 

Shutting the door, latching the lock, and giving Harry one more look over before beginning to walk past his sulking stature, you make for the bathroom. Certain that he’s trailing closely behind, you allow a good laugh to slip, shaking your head with incredulity, 

“What did I tell you?”

You can hear him change directions as his feet squeak and shuffle away from the kitchen in pursuit of your recently occupied spot on the sofa. 

All you can do is embrace an eye-roll whilst wandering toward the bathroom and locating your trusted tube of after-sun before heading towards Harry’s now resting body, slumped far too comfortably into the cushions. You mutter,

“Make yourself at home.”

Something resembling a glimmer of hope flashes across his features, followed by a grimace of further flaring his skin as you hold out the half-used tube of eucalyptus, patiently waiting for him to accept the offer. 

He wants to hold your hand and wishes you would linger a moment longer so he could revel in this foreign feeling of appearing before you in such a ‘weakened’ state. Instead, all he can think of is the need to complain choking at his chest,

“Feel like Satan put my face between his ass cheeks.” 

“You look it.” 

“Everything hurts.” He whines.

“I’m sure.” You concur with a cheeky lilt. 

Your gaze hasn’t wavered from his face, and Harry wonders if you can see the shy blush mixing into his sunburn- would it be worse if you did? 

Luckily, there isn’t much that can deter your examination, no longer masking amusement as your features freely raise in awe at the sudden thought,

“How long did it take for you to notice?” 

He says everything by shamefully darting his gaze into the distance, and it would be cruel to deny you the right to laugh aloud- hand pressed to your forehead, chest bobbing with each chuckle- which he allows you for longer than you imagined before interjecting,

 “S’not funny!”

Harry knew he had to leave all pride on the welcome mat when he made the almost instant decision to ask for your help- especially since a sunburn could be dealt with on his own- but he was only and he sure feels a sting of humility. 

He scoots to the edge of the couch, returning his feet to the ground before leaning forward and balancing one arm atop his swim trunk-clad thigh. Harry wastes no time in uncapping the lid, smearing a large dollop into his palm, about to rub his hands together and presumably smother and lather his face.

A tiny part of you has faith that he’ll treat his skin with a tender touch, but he practically slaps his palms across his cheeks before transferring the cool gel and it becomes all to clear how rough he intends to be and you can’t stop yourself from a gasp of frenzied panic, 

“What are you doing?” You try to keep your tone from expressing how disturbed you are by the man on your sofa, especially when he peers up at you through a curiously innocent gaze,

“What?” He peers up at you with such pretty innocence. 

“You’re so aggressive. It hurts to watch.” 

Your lips form a pout to match his own, and if you weren’t so sure that Harry was only here, in your home, out of convenience, you might be swayed to believe that the small smile swallowing his pout was a result of your kindness.

He remains as still as a statue, too fearful of making another mistake that would surely result in another sigh of disappointment on your part. With his stare frozen and directed at your own, he makes it perfectly clear that he plans to make no moves without further instruction, seeking guidance by asking,

“What am I supposed to do?” 

“Give it here.” You offer him your hand and his own darts out to accept, forcing you to ignore how nice it feels to have him at your will. 

He seems to feel the same, at least from the soft smile threatening to dimple at his cheeks. With your free hand, you swipe your fingers along his palm and collect all remnants of lotion, edging forward and leaning your body over his own. 

With a lack of certainty, you release his hand and with the lightest of touches raise your palms to his face, left hand cupping at his jaw, confidently, but tenderly, tilting his chin to the ceiling.

Harry peers up at you through those charcoal spider leg lashes, curious to see you continue your mission, totally at your will- nothing new. He gratefully lets you guide his face wherever you feel need be, and he fights hard against allowing his eyes to flutter shut. 

And you do, gently spreading the gel along his forehead, creating little circular swirls along his skin, pretending that your palms don’t have a pulsating electric current, creating sharp sparks as they trail his soft, freckled skin. You worry that any further contact will cause your body to short-circuit, allowing all shyness to surface in blotches across your cheeks. 

Your featherlight touch only leaves Harry in desperate need of further comfort, almost instinctually pressing his forehead into your palm like a needy cat. 

If he’s getting a taste of what it’s like to be welcomed into your bubble, Harry wants to have another bite, and another, coating his skin in your sweet, sugary loves, hoping you won't ever let him go. 

But you do, swirling your ring finger along his forehead once more for good luck before sorrowfully releasing his face. Neither of you let your disappointment surface, instead sharing shy smiles as you lazily step back.

Harry’s gaze follows you, and even now as your head tilts to scan the room, the intensity of his focus is palpable, drumming the pulse beneath your own wrists, it feels like you’ve been cluelessly lured into a pressure cooker, slowly boiling you inside out. 

The only way to cool down is to return your attention to his own, eyes like magnets desperately seeking out their counterpart. And as the two of you glue your gazes with such ease, Harry would be amiss to tease,

“Who knew you had a soft side.”

“Don’t start.” 

You shut him down before his observation has the chance to further sink in, knowing that if he catches your sympathetic gaze for a moment longer, it would only reinforce how correct he was- and worse, how good it felt to love on him. 

No longer in contact with his skin, the feel of warmth refuses to let his touch leave, your fingertips burning like his face was past boiled. 

He sits idly, merely enjoying the soothing sensation tingling along his burns, swiftly sinking into the cushions, his heart swelling and full, and his head… which, now that he noticed, is throbbing in tune with his singing chest. 

Harry can’t avoid the sudden wince surging up his spine as he stupidly presses a palm to his forehead and reignites the burn, 

“Head still feels like a rave.” 

He’s cute- too cute for your heart to retreat into trepidation- and for a change, you bask in the fuzzy fondness, face and limbs all relaxing under the goofy gaze of his adorable helplessness. 

Once more, you disappear down the hallway, rummaging through a cabinet for painkillers. As reach your next destination- the kitchen- you retrieve a glass and call out, 

“How have you survived this long?” 

“Pure luck.” He thinks. 

Harry looks like he feels sorry for himself- the idea alone warms you with familiarity. You extend out your offering of meds and water and instruct him to, 

“Drink the whole glass.” 

He does, with enthusiastic haste, evoking an odd excitement at the sight of his enthusiastic submission. Attempting to rid this sensation, you subtly shake your head and walk over to the vacant spot on the sofa, plopping down with a soft thump.

Harry wipes away the trail of water dripping down the corner of his damp lips, turning to look at you with increasing admiration, 

“You’re an angel, I owe you.”

“Don’t you always?”

“Add it to my tab.”

This is surely the part where Harry gets up and says goodbye, but if anything, he seems more comfortable here than anywhere else. You’re watching him intently, attempting to anticipate his next move, praying he will leave you to pine on your lonesome. 

Instead, Harry slinks back into the cushions, shuffling himself until comfortable. It takes little to give up and give in to his company, taking the liberty to pull your legs and fold them to rest (), reaching out for the remote and unpausing the show Harry so woefully interrupted. 

He glances at you, and then the television, and then back to your still features, 

“What are we watching?” 

“Fleabag.”

“Seen it before?” 

“Plenty.”

Expecting Harry to sit quietly was extremely optimistic. He does try- really- but there’s just so much to digest! “Is that her sister?” He whispers. “What’s the deal with the statue?” Two minutes later, “Are they married or…?” 

“Let’s start over.” You make sure to groan dramatically, 

“You don’t have to-”

“Zip it, strawberry boy.” 

Confusion orbits his moony eyes, wondering if he missed out on something. You must notice because you simply shrug and casually elaborate,

“Y’look like one, with your pink cheeks and little freckles.”

Harry likes that. He really likes that. He’s still watching you- all lovesick- as your focus fixes on rewinding from the very final episode to the very first. 

As the intro starts, he tilts his head and seeks your attention,

“Y/n?” 

“Harry.”

“I always knew you had a soft side.” He teases knowingly. 

“Shush.”

It’s strange… why does it feel as peaceful with Harry by your side? Perhaps more than. But you’re not gonna think about that right now. Not while a sweet strawberry boy is sitting so near, looking cosier than ever, ready to embrace one of your favourite shows. That can wait until tomorrow.

---

Let me know what you think! - Emmy. xo

[aajjks]

Desperado (m)

synopsis. There was no time for intimacy and jungkook learned the hard way.

warnings: MÄTÜRE THÈMÈS. YÄNDÊRÊ, DÄRK, mêntǐöns öf prẽgnâncy, mêntǐöns öf älmöst dy-ng dürïng chïldbïrth, obsěssïvè bëhävïöür, pössessïvênêss, jk ïs cräy cräy, cryïng, smüt (förëpläy), kïssïng, lüsty jk, he ïs jǔst hörny änd w-nts tö fück lmäo

note. I understand that this kind of a topic can be a sensitive topic for many of us, pregnancy is not something everyone is comfy reading about so viewer discretion is advised!

He never wanted you to get pregnant.

This was not supposed to happen,

Jungkook couldn’t help but glare at the tiny little sleeping human in the white crib as he sat right infront of it.

The baby’s chubby cheeks huffed as he took little breaths, a little hue of pink sprinkled over them.

how could he sleep so peacefully after ruining Jungkook’s life! Jungkook bit the inside of his cheeks in jealousy.

This tiny little brat has already taken you away from him. You were Jungkook’s only happiness but now ever since you gave birth, you are obsessed with this little devil.

You have forgotten about Jungkook completely. He who was the reason you got pregnant in the first place!

Jungkook regretted doing that… why can’t he ever control his lust when it comes to you, and now his lust was the result of the baby who was sleeping so peacefully right infront of him.

And now, here he is after so many sleepless nights to watch over the baby while you were busy showering. You are really paranoid and possessive when it comes to the child and it’s safety.

And you have made jungkook promised that he’s going to watch over the baby while you tend to your business.

Jungkook’s head hurts so much. When was the last time you guys had sex? He can’t even remember. It’s all gone now.

You have been snatched away from him and he can’t do anything! Jungkook will never understand why you wanted to have this baby anyways?!? You guys together were already perfect.

And not to forget that you both are still so young, and there was no need to hurry.

This child is a devil and you fail to see that! Having this baby almost killed you, your fragile self was not ready for it, Jungkook hated him so much, so fucking much.

But you have always so stubborn.

Your maternal side was something that Jungkook used to adore, because you were always so loving and caring towards him.

But now? Now that you were an actual mother, you completely neglect your boyfriend. Jungkook huffs in annoyance as the thoughts run through his mind.

You always wanted to become a mom.

His glare never left the baby who was soundly asleep, it was unfair that how much he looked like Jungkook, anyone could tell that that was his son.

It was undeniable. The baby even stole his face!

Jungkook hates his child so much!

Jungkook hated children, he always despised the idea of someone else coming in between you, you were always supposed to be his and only his!

Jungkook is a needy person and he knows that… he needs your love and attention like a little child, he is addicted to you, and now that his addiction isn’t being satisfied.

He is starting to lose his sanity.

“Y/N…” Jungkook whines into your warmth as he feels your fingers scratch his head, his warm breath hitting your tummy as his hands grabs wrap around it, his legs are resting onto yours as the man is on top you, laying so peacefully and your scent is calming his mind and your touch feels so good, His eyes are closed as he snuggles deeper and deeper into you.

Your hair is still wet, and you smell so fresh.

God… you smell so good, how much he’s missed this… you.

“Y/N…. I miss you so much..” You hear Jungkook speak in a broken tone, like he is so tired. “You don’t pay me any attention anymore, you don’t care for me anymore…” he cries, his head shaking to the sides, as he lifts his face up from your belly. “I need you so much… you don’t even make love to me anymore!”

He whines again, complaining as he looks into your eyes while you look at him with confusion, Jungkook stares at your face, he notices the tiredness, your eyes are absolutely tired, dark circles present. “Please love me too! You only care about him!” He groans as he nuzzles his face in your neck.

It tickles because hes breathing so heavily.

“When was the last time you touched me, do you even remember Y/N? Fuck… I ache for your touch on my body… please.” He could barely whisper, but his tone changes to a seductive one as he presses light butterfly kisses on your neck. You close your eyes as your heart clenches in guilt when you hear the desperation in his voice.

Even though he’s complaining most of the time, but he’s not completely wrong.

It is true that you have been neglecting him, heck, you love your baby so much that you have forgotten about Jungkook.

“I’m sorry baby… you are right… I’m sorry… but I’ve been so tired ever since… Ji-Hwan came into our lives… I’ve been super focused on him- “B-But what about me yn?” he cut you off, eyebrows furrowing as he removes his head from your neck, and he is glaring at you, “I should be your first priority!” Jungkook harshly says but when he sees you getting shocked at his sudden change in demeanor.

And now he feels guilty.

so his eyes soften, and he apologizes,

“But I can’t really blame you because you are so tired… please, let me make you feel good… you look like you need it.” Jungkook gets up from your body and takes your hand and guides it towards his crotch.

You gasp as you feel it.

“See? I’ve been so needy for you that your touch got me all hard… please kiss me, can I have a kiss now? Baby don’t you think that I deserve it?” Jungkook’s eyes are dark, hey bites his lower lip, eyes filled with lust, as he leans close to your face stopping his rambling.

He looks at your body, and he notices the dress that you’re wearing. It’s cruel how much you look good in that dress, it’s so simple yet so sexy.

Your lips were only a centimetre apart, until Jungkook connected them together, your lips immediately melt into his.

Jungkook doesn’t waste a second to take your breath away by sliding his tongue inside your mouth, exploring it, his tongue hitting every corner of your mouth.

His hands grab onto your breasts as he squeezes them, moaning into your mouth, his kiss only gets more feverish as he starts to grind close to your heat.

You moan lightly at the fraction, as he presses his lips to yours harder, moaning again.

“F-Fuck… you feel so good baby… need you now..” he cries, voice all breathy and you can’t help but whine in response, your body feels so hot.

His husky voice sends shivers down your spine, he pushes you into the bed as your lips finally disconnect after what felt like hours.

Jungkook quickly takes off his shirt as he climbes on top of you, impatient and hungry.

His hand plays with the strap of your floral dress, but it’s been so long that his warm hands feel so cold and, foreign to you. “Fuck fuck fuck!” He curses in excitement as he pulles you in another kiss.

Your lips connecting together once again, Jungkook groans in desire. His strong hands grip on your shoulders so tightly that you welp in pain.

“Sorry baby can’t really contain myself… I need to be inside you so bad!” His voice was laced with lust, he was almost crying, his apology is rushed.

But as soon as his hands are between your legs, his fingers taking your panties off, you’re waiting in anticipation, And he’s almost taken them off,

I can’t believe that he’ll finally get to have sex with you after so long. His heartbeat is so loud and he is so impatient but then the luck isn’t really on his side, because you guys hear the baby monitor beep, and your senses awaken immediately in realisation.

“Jungkook get off! He’s awake, he must be hungry!” You push the man off you as you quickly get up,

Not giving a chance for Jungkook to react or even comprehend, what just happened now, he’s watching you with shock in his eyes,, you exit the room while fixing your dress before, he can call out your name.

And behind you, Jungkook cries, cussing out loudly, growling,

“FUCK MY LIFE.” with a raging boner.

[theegyal]

THIRD WHEEL

[STACK x OC ]

Synopsis

Stack and Janae had known each other for years. Their cohabitation knew some ups and downs but never circumstances too hard to overcome.

Two broke students trying to figure out how to live their life

Two broken hearts that longed for unrequited love

Two people who gonna learn to love themselves before mending others to do.

Stack had been her roommate for three years.

What started as a mutual arrangement between two broke students sharing a worn-down two-bedroom in a creaky old complex, had grown into something tangled. The kind of closeness that wasn't exactly friendship, but not quite anything else.

They shared groceries when money got short,passed each other in towels, argued over speakers left too loud and toilet seats left up. She learned his horrible, partygoers sleep schedule. He learned her silences.

And somewhere in the quiet, Janae had fallen in love with him.

She couldn't say exactly when. Maybe it was that night he rolled her out of a panic attack with his deep voice steady in her ear. Maybe it was when he told a random guy at a house party to keep his 'ashy-ass hands' off her, even though Stack barely glanced her way otherwise. Or maybe it was just a slow build : one lingering stare at a time, one laugh too loud in the kitchen when she burned the eggs, one tired smile shared across the couch while she was struggling with her homework.

He never noticed. Not really. She wasn't his type, and Janae knew that. The girls he often brought home were all the same kind of beautiful : Tall or petite, caramel skin or porcelain, thick only where it counted, bubble ass, pretty white toes, curly hair or Betty Booped pixie, fit with flat tummy, eyes that tell fairytales...everything she was definitely not and couldn't really be.

Janae was too thick, too big. Well, at least, through the way her eyes saw her own body. Never did she get complimented for her coiled locsed her which she bleached ashtray blond to contrast with the glow of her hot shaded black dark skin.

One common thing with the beauties he shared bed with, Janae also got a roundish ass—would have enticed Stack, maybe if it wasn't covered by stretch marks and sculpted on hips dip.

Despite all, she watched him. Waiting for him to glance a meaningful eye toward her.

It was a Friday night when everything shifted.

Stack was at a bar downtown — one of those dim spots where the music didn't try too hard, and the drinks came cheap if you knew the bartender. He'd gone with a couple friends from his old neighborhood. Nothing wild, just the usual laughs, poker talk, smoke breaks. He was winning a game hand when he saw her, sitting by the bar.

A woman, fair porcelain skinned, a brown classy Bob hair crowning her head. She seemed older. Mid-to-late thirties, maybe, but that didn't dull her edge. If anything, it sharpened it. She wore red like the devil from her lipstick to her heels, her dress was magnificent, the kind that clung to her hips and opened just low enough at the chest to be a statement. She sipped something clear from a stemmed glass, nails clicking softly against it. Her gaze was intense and her mouth inviting.

Stack noticed her the same way men like him did, with a quick sweep, a tilt of the chin and a flicker of interest he didn't try to hide.

She met his eyes. Didn't smile. Just looked.

And that was all it took.

He ended up beside her at the bar with two drinks in hand and that grin he knew got him ways with women. He said something smooth — probably too much. She answered with a quiet laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You always try that hard?" she asked.

A bit embarrassed, he chuckled, licking a drop of rum from his thumb.

"Only when it works."

She finally smiled.Not widely, just a poised, seductive smirk.

"My name's Mary."

"Stack."

They talked for long minutes to an hour, discussing of relevant and irrelevant topics. Close enough for their knees to brush. She didn't ask how old he was. He didn't ask why a woman like her was out alone. When she leaned in, he leaned back. When she reached for her drink, he let his fingers linger too close to hers. One thing was to respect her boundaries the other was to missed the chance to get her number. Stack decided to be bold.

"Are you only available by mail or appointments can also work?"

She laughed, teasing her perfect teeth, then responded

"Texts or call are always an option". They exchanged their numbers.

Later, when the bar thinned out and her driver pulled up, she gave him a look that left the door open.

He walked her to the car. Hand brushed her back. A kiss on her cheek that landed too close to her mouth.

She was gone after that. But he could tell that something had already started.

He got back to the apartment a little past two in the morning

The hallway smelled like someone had burned popcorn again, and the door stuck slightly when he pushed it open. Stack stepped inside, letting the warm weight of the night trail behind him — the faint bar lights still swimming behind his eyes and the subtle scent of Mary's perfume clinging to his collar.

He shrugged off his jacket, kicked off his sneakers without looking, and caught the faint blue glow of the TV in the living room.

Janae was still up. Curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath her like always, face washed clean of the day. Her bonnet clung to her edges, and her pajama set was mismatched: a worn-out pink T-shirt with a faded logo on the front and gray bottoms that hugged her big thighs.

Stack saw her and smirked, easing his keys onto the counter.

"Ain't you too young to be dressed like somebody's auntie?" he said, voice low and teasing as he dropped his keys into the bowl near the door.

Janae didn't answer, nor look at him right away. Her eyes stayed on the TV screen, the sitcom laugh track filling the silence he left behind. She didn't even like the show. She just used the noises to keep her loneliness from humming too loud in the room.

"Better than smelling Prada with no dollars in my pocket," she finally muttered, still not turning her head.

"Oof." He laughed, walking past her toward the kitchen. "You got jokes tonight."

"I'm not joking."

He opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, and leaned against the counter, watching her from across the room.

"You good?" he asked, drinking before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Janae shrugged. "Mmm."

She turned, finally looking at him. Not long, not hard. Just a glance. But it was enough.

His curls were slightly damp at the edges like he'd sweated on the bar's dance floor. A smudge of red lipstick clung to the collar of his hoodie. He didn't notice. She didn't tell him.

"Did you have fun?" she asked, quiet.

"Yeah. It was chill."

She nodded, trying not to flinch at the simplicity of his answer.

Trying not to imagine the type of woman who had him sounding so casual.

"You meet somebody?" she asked. The question came out too lightly, like she wasn't holding her breath, waiting for him to say no.

He grinned "Kinda. We'll see."

Janae gave a small, polite smile and turned her face back toward the TV. The show had ended, the screen now offering her the next episode. She didn't press play.

Stack crossed the room again, pausing behind the couch like he might say something else. Instead, he reached down, rustled her bonnet gently like she was his little sister, and said, "Don't wait up for me next time, old lady."

Then he disappeared down the hallway.

Janae sat there, blinking at the — now — TV black screen, her chest tightening piece by piece.

The laughter from the sitcom she'd watched echoed faintly in her mind, canned, fake, and too bright for how hollow her heart felt right now.

She waited until his door shut, then stood up and dragged herself down the hall to her own bedroom.

Morning light slipped through the cracked blinds, cutting soft stripes across Janae's room. She struggled to wake up, the clock displaying 10:04.

Her heart dropped to her stomach. Fuck, she was late again!

She pushed herself up, muscles stiff, eyes red from yesterday's tears. She stormed to the bathroom, wearing the same loose, faded pink T-shirt and big, large cotton drawers, worn and stretched from too many washes. She loved her grandma-style panties! Sure, they weren't flattering or sexy, but they were very comfortable. And, let's be honest, she had nobody to please and no one to look at what she hid under those, so what was the problem?

She moved fast, mind already racing from the assignments she hadn't finished, the notes she hadn't copied, to the professor who already looked at her like she didn't belong in the room.

Janae's fingers barely touched the bathroom door before it swung inward. She stepped inside and ran face-first into Stack.

He was shirtless, his strong abs laying like a river on his honeyed skin, towel low on his waist drawing a sharp line of his V, barely hiding his crotch. Janae shifted her gaze up, urgent, to the toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

Time stopped for a second.

Stack looked up. His eyes flicked over her—from bare thighs to the hem of her worn, stretched panties, to the startled twist of her mouth.

"SHIT, Stack!" she snapped, slapping the door shut.

She leaned hard against it, breath shallow, palms sweaty.

He had seen her. Not even dressed up, covered. No—Stack had seen her half-naked.

Bare: her big, flabby thighs, her huge soft tits hanging under the pink T-shirt, those damn granny underwear damp from sweat.

That fuckboy had seen the body she only knew how to hide and never how to offer.

He had seen her big stomach, the stretch marks branding her dark-skinned thighs. Thankfully, he didn't have the time to analyze it. To glance at her round ass that curved just so wrongly.

"Damn, my bad," Stack's voice came through the door, amused. "Didn't know you was up. Or... out here assed out like that."

Janae closed her eyes.

Of course he joked. Of course he found something to say. He always did—smooth and careless, like it didn't mean anything. On God, she already knew that seeing her like this could never stir any aroused reaction from him. There was no better way to rub the truth raw on her already wounded pride than this.

The truth hurt, but Janae had learned to swallow it.

"Get the fuck outta this bathroom. I'm already late!" she shouted, less energetic than before.

She tugged her shirt lower. It didn't help. Couldn't hide anything.

For a second, she thought about not going to class. Curling back into bed, letting the day pass without her.

Stack finally headed out—teeth clean, playful face, ready to tease Janae more.

But before the words could pass his mouth, she'd already hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Tag list

Hello, I took this tag list from my fanfic Hush. If you want to be removed, just tell me I will do it !

@thelifeoflagab @juniooox @tadjoa @shamansha @brownskincheyenne @freelandgoddess @Ib-xci @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @iammyownlover @stormynovashambler @summrsovrinterlude @prettygirl2800 @puffmamaa @harleycativy @jasssdee1 @itstayleigh @queenofklonnie22 @bigjh @tadjoa @Isc72 @forzaferrariii , @blxckberrie @avidreader73 @partylikemajima @lolalikesgames @ultralspblr @post-woke @jasssdee1 @lizbehave @rkiiives @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @lestatthelioncourt

[athenaeum-of-the-herald]

• Blackness and the Worshipping of "The White Man's God" •

TW/CW: Racism, anti-blackness, religious trauma

With my next few posts, I wanted to dig into some far deeper, more emotional, and personal topics that I feel I haven't seen discusses in the helpol community. Please understand that these new few posts come from my personal lived experiences and don't apply to everyone, but I feel like are topics that should be discussed and seen.

There is something to be said about growing up in religion, as many young black girls do. Even more to be said when we leave the faith we grew up with behind.

From a young age, I was taught the Christian God. Warned that leaving his side meant damnation. Taught that to leave God and even learn other religions was condemning myself to a life of sin. And this isn't just a young, black experience, as every race deals with the intensity of religious trauma spread throughout generations in the form of tradition. But in the black community, this feeling suffocates. It is ingrained in our very being, as our ancestors who were slaves were made to pray to a God that wasn't ours until we forgot what ours looked like. Until too many generations had folded their hands on their knees in pews forcibly carved by their fathers. Their grandfathers. Their great grandfathers. And that's not to say the black community is indoctrinated, but maybe it is.

No, indoctrinated isn't the right word. We simply pass down what we were taught, as our parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins were.

I remember when my church swapped out the photo of Jesus for a black one. I remember looking at it and wondering where the Jesus with lighter skin and blue eyes and wavy brown hair went. It was only when I began developing a sense of self that I had realized blackness meant not serving "the white God." Jesus was black. Every black person knew that, and to deny it meant you yourself weren't black.

Yet we still worshipped him in buildings modeled after those built by our great grandfathers who worshipped a Jesus with lighter skin, bluer eyes, smoother hair.

To be black is to be Christian. Catholic if you can afford the gas to drive to the bigger, nicer churches. And to leave Christianity is to be exiled from the community that you spend your whole life with. Your family. To not believe in God means you have the devil in you. Even the gang members that lived on my street had Bible scriptures tattooed on their bodies. Men I would see at church every Sunday in suits with their grandmothers and mothers. Folding their hands and praying for their friends that had been gunned down by other black men earlier that week. I'm sure the men they gunned down the week prior did the same thing. Funny enough, I remember as a little girl, when the shootouts would happen, my dad would have my brother and I get low to the ground in the house, and pray. So that in the unfortunate event that a stray bullet found its way into one of us, at least God would take us.

Even steeped in sin, to be black is to worship God.

Leaving Christianity was hard. It wasn't an all at once thing. It happened slowly. Starting with an interest in Greek mythology and Egyptian gods. I read Heroes of Olympus in middle school in secret, my dad would've thrown away my books if he knew I was reading about the Greek gods. My history class did a segment on ancient Egypt, and I studied every book on Anubis in the school library. I never checked them out, I was afraid they'd be found.

Maybe there was a taboo to it. To be black and interested in other religions. The spiral away from Christianity started there.

It was only in tearing my eyes from black Christianity that I began to notice that there were 2 paths of religious blackness. Christianity, or ancestral. You either worshipped the one and only God and no other, or you worked with your ancestors and respective black deities and rejected any other. Two very opposite paths, both with one similar rule.

You do not worship the white man's god or gods.

A black hellenic polytheist isn't some strange anomaly. Some rarity that's impossible to find. But it feels that way. I have met a handful of black helpols, and funny enough, we all typically come from previous religious backgrounds.

Of course black hellenic polytheists exist. But it could be considered that the vast majority of those within the religion are of lighter skin than we are. To announce yourself as a black follower of Greek gods tends to be met with off-putting looks from other black people. At best, a light laugh and a "sure". At worst, condemnation from the religious. Blackness means worshipping black gods. Or the capital G. Gods forbid your skin be lighter like mine is, where you'll be met with "that's that white in you."

On the other hand of this, you have non-black/poc worshippers with their own racial biases. Those who consider this religion theirs and not something for the black community to taint. I've been told plenty of times, "You have your own religion."You have closed religions and practices already. Why can't we have this one?" Mind you, none of these people were of Grrek descent. Simply ignorant children and adults with no understanding of themselves or how religion works.

So where does that leave blackness in hellenic polytheism?

Well, sometimes I don't know. But I find comfort in the gods I worship. In the gods I revere. Perhaps my blackness will always be a source of religious contention internationally. Perhaps externally.

But within the community I find in diverse spaces, there will always be acceptance of my blackness, and I pray that any black hellenic polytheist reading this feels the same.

Xaire the deathless gods, who do not see the color of my skin, but the beauty of my offerings ♡

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 9: Delicate Hostilities

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Whistledown didn’t get the scoop. But you did. One charming rogue. One stiff-jawed Viscount. And a room full of witnesses who live for polite conversation with venom tucked neatly beneath the surface. The suitor. The rival. The diamond. And you—right in the eye of the storm.

The golden hour settles over the Bridgerton home, spilling warmth through the grand windows, casting soft golden hues across the drawing room where laughter rings bright and unrestrained. Seated among the family, you find yourself drawn into their playful banter, the warmth of their camaraderie, something you have long cherished.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Daphne leans forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “how does it feel to be at the very heart of Lady Whistledown’s latest scandal?”

Benedict chuckles. “Yes, I do believe she took particular delight in writing about your charming little tête-à-tête with Lord Lucien Blackbourne last evening.”

At the mention of his name, the teasing only grows in fervor.

“Oh, and what a sight it was,” Colin adds, smirking. “He looked at you as if you hung the stars in the sky.”

Violet, ever the composed matriarch, merely smiles over the rim of her teacup. “He did seem rather…captivated.”

Before you can respond, the door opens, and a maid steps inside, her hands clasped neatly before her. “My lady, Lord Blackbourne has come to call.”

Silence lingers for a fraction of a fraction of a second before Eloise gasps, dramatically. “Speak of the devil!”

Laughter ripples through the room as the maid steps aside, allowing him to enter.

Lucien is dressed in a deep navy waistcoat, the colour rich against the crisp white of his shirt, his dark curls just slightly tousled as though he had run a hand through them moments before arriving. He sweeps a courteous bow, his eyes seeking yours first before addressing the rest of the family.

“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying a warmth edged with amusement. “It appears I am the topic of discussion. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Daphne grins. “That depends. How serious are your intentions?”

Lucien arches a brow. “Oh, quite serious.”

A beat of silence. Then an eruption of reaction–some teasing, some pointedly intrigued.

Your cheeks warm slightly at the boldness of Lucien’s response, but he gives you no reprieve. He steps closer, his gaze holding yours as he adds, “Though, if you are in need of reassurance, I am more than happy to offer it.”

The room is alight with laughter again.

Eloise smirks. “You do realize you are vastly outnumbered here, my lord? We have had years to sharpen our wit against one another. Are you certain you wish to enter this den of wolves?”

Lucien tilts his head, feigning deep contemplation. “Ah, but you see, my lady, I do love a challenge.” His gaze flickers to yours. “Especially when the prize is worth the battle.”

A hush falls, just for a moment. You hold his gaze, something flickering in the depths of your eyes.

Benedict claps his hands together. “Well then! Let us see just how well you fare, Blackbourne. Tell us—what are your intentions?”

Lucien chuckles, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Must I truly lay my heart bare before an audience?”

“Oh, but of course,” Colin grins. “Consider it a test.”

Lucien glances at you again, his voice dropping just enough for only you to catch the subtle shift in meaning. “Then I supposed I must pass with flying colours.”

You inhale sharply, the weight of his words pressing against you, even as the family remains blissfully unaware of the charged undercurrent beneath them.

Before another jest can be thrown Lucien’s way, the door opens once more.

Anthony steps inside.

His presence shifts the very air of the room. A quiet settles as his eyes sweep over the scene—his siblings laughing, you smiling, and Lucien Blackbourne…sitting just a little too comfortably beside you.

“Lord Blackbourne,” Anthony greets, his voice cool. “I see you are making yourself quite at home.”

Lucien bows slightly. “Lord Bridgerton.”

A moment of silence lingers between them, a battle of wills spoken in the silence.

Eloise, sensing the tension, hums under her breath. “Well, this is positively interesting.”

Anthony ignores her. “I take it your business here is of some importance?”

Lucien smiles, ever so slightly. “Indeed.” His gaze flickers to you once more before returning to Anthony. “It is a fine day, and I thought it best spent in pleasant company.”

Anthony’s jaw tenses, but he merely inclines his head. “How fortunate, then, that my family is so accommodating.”

“Quite,” Lucien replies, his own smile unwavering.

Colin, ever the instigator, leans toward Benedict and murmurs, “Oh, this is better than the theatre.”

The veiled remarks begin.

Anthony, never one to let a challenge go unanswered, tilts his head. “I do wonder, Blackbourne, do you make such calls often? Or is this a rare occurrence?”

“Rare,” Lucien admits, “but only because I prefer my attentions to be meaningful rather than fleeting.”

The implication is clear. You shift slightly in your seat, watching the exchange with something unreadable in your expression.

Anthony exhales slowly. “Meaningful.” He nods, as though weighing the word. “Then I suppose I must ask—what exactly do you mean?”

The room is silent. Even Eloise and Colin have fallen still, watching.

Lucien does not break his gaze from Anthony’s as he answers, his voice steady. “I believe my meaning is quite clear, my lord.”

Anthony’s grip on his gloves tightens. “And yet, I would still like to hear it from you.”

Lucien glances at you once more, and this time, he lets the weight of his words settle fully. “I intend to court her.”

A sharp inhale from someone—perhaps Eloise. A satisfied hum from Violet.

A hush falls over the room, thick and expectant. Anthony remains still, his expression unreadable. The weight of Lucien’s words linger in the air, undeniable, unshakable.

And then—

The door opens once more.

A soft, elegant voice carries through the room, light as a melody.

“I do hope I am not interrupting.”

Edwina Sharma steps gracefully into the drawing room, her serene smile perfectly composed. She is clad in a delicate gown of lavender muslin, her hands folded demurely before her. Her dark eyes sweep across the gathered company before landing, with unmistakable warmth, upon Anthony.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she greets, inclining her head ever so slightly.

Anthony, despite the tension crackling in his stance, straightens immediately, his expression shifting into one of practiced charm. “Miss Sharma,” he replies, stepping forward. “It is a pleasure to see you today.”

Daphne, ever the observer, glances between the two of them before exchanging a knowing look with Eloise.

Edwina’s gaze flickers to Lucien, her smile unwavering. “Lord Blackbourne, it seems you have also chosen to make the Bridgertons’ acquaintance today.”

Lucien inclines his head, offering her a polite, but confident smile. “A fortunate decision, it seems. The company has been most delightful.” His eyes flicker—just briefly—to you.

A slight shift in Edwina’s expression. Barely perceptible, but there. 

She turns back to Anthony, her voice warm. “I had hoped to find you here, my lord. My sister and I will be attending the park tomorrow. I wondered if you might join us?”

A pause.

Anthony, ever composed, glances at you just for a fraction of a second before answering. “It would be my honour.”

A subtle tension coils between the lines of this exchange.

You, caught between the currents of the room, feel the weight of the moment. Anthony, standing before Edwina with all the poise of a gentleman fulfilling duty, responding to an invitation from an esteemed lady of the ton. Edwina, a vision of grace, playing her role effortlessly. And Lucien—watching you, watching him, with something undeniably deliberate in his gaze.

Benedict, watching the scene unfold like a man witnessing a well-crafted play, chuckles under his breath. “Who knew teatime could be this thrilling?”

Eloise sighs dramatically. “It is a shame Lady Whistledown cannot witness this firsthand. What a column it would be.”

“Then it is settled,” Edwina says with a bright smile. “I shall look forward to your company, my lord.”

The words are innocent. But in this charged atmosphere, they land like a perfectly placed chess move—one that neither you nor Lucien can ignore.

Lucien leans back in his chair, stretching his legs slightly as he observes this unfolding tableau with keen interest. “Ah, how fortunate for Lord Bridgerton,” he remarks casually. “A morning stroll in the park with such charming company. Truly, some men have all the luck.”

Anthony’s head snaps toward Lucien, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “And yet some must make their own fortune, mustn’t they, Lord Blackbourne?”

The air between them shifts—sharp, poised.

Lucien smiles. “Indeed. Though I have always found that the most rewarding pursuits are those which are earned, not merely inherited.”

A subtle blow. Calculated.

Anthony’s grip tightens around the back of his chair, but his answering smirk is practiced, composed. “And yet, there is something to be said for the weight of responsibility. Those who bear it know that fortune alone does not sustain a legacy.”

You inhale sharply, your gaze flickering between us. You can feel it—the battle lines being drawn.

Violet takes an extremely slow sip of her tea, contemplating if she should intervene.

Eloise, never one to miss a moment of intrigue, perks up. “Well, this is rather fascinating.” She glances between Anthony and Lucien, eyes alight with mischief. “Shall we wager on how long before one of you reaches for a dueling pistol?”

Colin snorts. “Oh, please. Blackbourne is far too civilized to engage in such theatrics. He’d simply outwit our dear brother until he surrendered out of sheer frustration.”

Benedict hums. “Now that would be a sight.”

Anthony’s glare sharpens, but before he can retort, your voice cuts through the exchange—silken, effortless.

“Now, now,” you muse, tilting your head. “If you boys must squabble, perhaps you should take it outside? Or shall we turn the drawing room into a battleground for wounded egos?”

Laughter ripples through the room at your words.

Anthony exhales through his nose, fixing you with a look—one that speaks of irritation, but also of something else, something lingering.

Lucien, on the other hand, has no shame in letting his gaze sweep over you, his smirk deepening. “Ah, but where would be the fun in taking this outside? I much prefer an audience.”

Your eyes meet his, amusement dancing within them. And yet, beneath the jest, something coils tight in your chest—an awareness of him, of Anthony, of the unseen war playing out around you.

Edwina, blissfully unaware, clasps her hands together. “It seems I have interrupted something.” She glances toward the Viscount, then to the seat beside you where Lord Blackbourne lingers, something unreadable flickering in her gaze.

Eloise grins. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Violet gently clears her throat, “Well, it’s lovely to see such…spirited conversation at this hour of the evening. Perhaps a second round of tea might cool a few tempers, hmm?”

Anthony, sensing the precarious edge upon which he stands, schools his features into politeness. “Not at all, Miss Sharma,” he says smoothly. “Lord Blackbourne and I were merely…comparing perspectives.”

A pause.

And then—because Lucien simply cannot refuse—

“I do find comparison fascinating,” he muses. “Particularly when the subject is so—” he glances at you, briefly, deliberately “—coveted.”

The air crackles.

You can feel Anthony tense.

And you, you feel the heat of Lucien’s words settle over your skin like a slow, smoldering fire.

The gauntlet has been thrown.

Now, the question is…who will pick it up first?

______________________________________________________________

And so, the pieces are on the board.

One gentleman wears his heart like armor, the other like a loaded weapon. But only one will walk away with yours.

Choose wisely. Or recklessly. I won’t judge.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor

[luverine]

Vampire Hunter x Bitten! Reader

He did everything right- he protected you, locked you in his home, the safest place. Yet there you stood, clinging to a vile creature as it drained the very life from your veins.

Word count: 3.1k

MDNI // NSFW // blood // death // crybaby men // cannibalism? // religious topics ⁽ʸᵒᵘ’ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ʷᵃʳⁿᵉᵈ⁾

“NO!” Dallon tightened his grip on the sickle, his knuckles white with fury as he charged forward. His piercing blue eyes locked on the creature that had you pinned, its pale, sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. You were slumped against the monster, your body lifeless in its clutches.

Tears blurred Dallon’s vision as he swung the sickle with a savage cry, embedding it deep in the devil’s neck. With a sickening crunch, he wrenched the blade, severing its head in a single, desperate motion.

No blood spilled- not from the beast, at least. But yours… yours stained the earth.

Four puncture wounds marred your neck, teeth marks that spelled doom.

Dallon dropped to his knees, gathering your body into his trembling arms. “No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You aren’t leaving me. Not yet.” He pressed a kiss to your clammy forehead, his lips trembling. “I won’t let you go.”

Back home, the room was a chaos of rituals, desperation made manifest. Dallon worked tirelessly, his mind a tempest of hope and dread. Holy water ran in rivulets down your still form, pooling on the floor. Crosses adorned every surface, crucifixes hung from your wrists and neck, garlic encircled the room, its sharp scent mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

“Everything will be as it was,” Dallon muttered, his voice unsteady as he poured the beast’s blood down your throat. It was a final, unholy attempt to tether you to life.

For two days, he prayed without rest, his knees bruised, his voice hoarse. He clasped your cold hand, his silver-ringed fingers trembling as he whispered fervent pleas. “Please, Lord, take the devil’s mark from them and bring them back to me. I beg of You.”

But the heavens remained silent.

On the third night, exhaustion finally claimed him. Dallon lay beside you, his body curled protectively around yours. He clung to you even as your skin turned colder, even as your veins darkened to an unnatural hue. His tears soaked the crook of your neck, a silent vigil of despair.

It was nearly dawn when a bit movement jolted him awake.

A twitch.

His heart leaped into his throat as he shot upright, clutching your hand. “You moved!” he cried, his voice thick with conviction. “My love, stay with me. Stay.” His hands flew to your chest, rubbing life into your still form.

Your chest rose and fell in a shallow, ragged breath. Then, with a guttural sigh, you turned your head toward him, your golden-ringed eyes opening for the first time.

Dallon recoiled. “No…” he whispered, shaking his head as if to banish a nightmare. “No, darling, it’s me. You’re still here. We can fix this.” His trembling hands poured holy water on you, expecting a reaction.

Nothing.

He staggered back, his legs giving out as he crumpled to the floor. “Why is it not working?” he sobbed, clawing at his hair. “What am I doing wrong?”

But your hand found his, your voice- a whisper of what it had once been- calling his name.

“Dallon… it’s me.”

Weeks passed. Though you breathed, your body defied life. You did not eat, yet you lived. The hollow gold of your eyes became a constant reminder of what he had failed to prevent. The church must not know, Dallon concluded. No one must ever find you.

In the quiet of the night, Dallon watched as you sat by the fire, your fingers trailing along the worn pages of a book you had once loved. Your pale skin reflected the flickering flames, your darkened veins a stark contrast to the warmth of the light.

He stood in the doorway, his heart pounding. You were still you. Weren’t you?

Dallon stepped away, retreating to the hidden room where his collection of weapons and relics lay. He traced a trembling hand over the hilt of a blade, his thoughts clouded with anguish.

“I won’t let them take you,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “I won’t let them burn you.”

The church’s rules were clear- no abomination could be allowed to exist. But Dallon had no faith left in their mercy.

Behind him, a faint rustle drew his attention. He turned to find you standing there, your golden eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Dallon?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with uncertainty. “What are you doing?”

He turned away, unable to meet your gaze, and began fiddling with a silver chain on the table. His hands shook as he spoke, his voice low and raw. “They’ll find out. Sooner or later, someone will come asking questions. I can’t let them take you, not after everything I’ve done to keep you here.”

You frowned, your head tilting slightly as you studied his hunched form. The weight he carried was palpable, but there was something else beneath his words- something darker, more desperate.

“Dallon,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinched at the contact, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you moved closer, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. “What have you done?”

He laughed bitterly, a hollow sound that filled the cramped room. “What haven’t I done?” His shoulders sagged as he finally turned to face you, his eyes red-rimmed and brimming with unshed tears. “I’ve betrayed the church. Lied to the people I’ve served my entire life. Killed to protect you. I’ve prayed every night for forgiveness, but heaven’s silent. And now…” His voice cracked, his hands trembling as he reached out to cup your face. “Now, I don’t even know if you’re still you.”

The words struck you like a blow, and you recoiled slightly, your golden-ringed eyes widening. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, his lips parting as if to answer, but no words came. His gaze dropped to your hands- hands that had once been warm and full of life, now pale and cold, veins like dark threads beneath the surface. His fingers brushed against your cheek, lingering on the faint discoloration that crept across your skin.

“You’ve changed,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I can feel it. You don’t breathe like you used to. You don’t dream. You don’t eat. It’s like…” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “It’s like you’re caught between two worlds. Not dead, but not alive either.”

You stepped back, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “I didn’t ask for this,” you said, your voice shaking. “I didn’t ask to come back. You made this choice for me.”

Dallon’s eyes widened, and he reached for you, but you backed away further, your arms wrapping around yourself. “You couldn’t let me go, could you?” you continued, your tone bitter. “You dragged me back from death, and now you’re afraid of what I’ve become. But I didn’t choose this, Dallon. You did.”

“I had to!” he snapped, his voice rising with desperation. “I couldn’t let you leave me. Not like that. I couldn’t live without you!”

His confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You stared at him, searching his face for something- remorse, understanding, an apology, but all you saw was his overwhelming grief.

“Maybe,” you said quietly, your voice like a fragile whisper, “you should have let me go.”

The words broke something inside him. He staggered back, his hands falling limply to his sides. “Don’t say that,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “Please, don’t say that. I can fix this. I just need more time.”

“You can’t fix this,” you replied, your golden-ringed eyes narrowing. “You don’t even know what you’ve done. Do you?”

Before he could answer, a sudden noise echoed from outside the house- a faint creak, like a footstep on the porch. Both of you froze, the air in the room growing tense.

Dallon’s hand darted to a blade on the table, gripping it tightly as he moved toward the door. “Stay here,” he hissed, his voice low and urgent.

But something stirred within you, something primal and foreign. The scent of whoever- or whatever- was outside drifted in on the cold night air, sharp and tantalizing. It set your nerves alight, your senses sharpening to a terrifying degree.

“Dallon,” you said, your voice shakier, hungrier. He paused, looking back at you, and his eyes widened at the sight of your expression.

Your pupils had dilated, the golden rings around your irises glowing faintly in the dim light. “Don’t go,” you warned, though your tone held an edge of something darker.

Dallon hesitated, his grip on the blade tightening. “What’s out there?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You licked your lips, your gaze fixed on the door as your pulse quickened. “I don’t know,” you said, a faint smile curling at the edges of your mouth. “But it smells… delicious.”

His eyes widen, and he freezes, unsure of what to do. He glances back at the door, then at you. “If it’s another hunter, we should answer. They’ll stay away for a while if we answer.”

But you’re not listening. The hunger gnaws at you, a sharp, all-consuming ache that drowns out all reason. Your focus is razor-sharp on the door, where the scent of dinner lingers just beyond. “I’m so hungry…” you whisper, your voice raw and trembling. You hunch over, clutching at your stomach, desperation pouring from every word. “Please don’t let me starve, honey.”

Dallon looks at the door again, a shaky sigh escaping his lips. His hand slips into his pocket, fingers clutching the rosary he keeps there. He presses it to his lips, murmuring a prayer for forgiveness. His voice breaks. “I’ll take care of you, always. Just like we promised at the altar.” A tear slips down his cheek as he turns the knob.

He doesn’t look at you when he opens the door.

Your eyes lock on the old man standing outside- a traveler, a wanderer. You don’t see the worry etched on his face or the pack slung over his shoulder. You see prey.

You lunge.

There’s no hesitation, no thought, just the overwhelming need to feed. Your teeth sink into flesh, the man’s screams piercing the air before fading into a gurgling silence. Warmth floods your senses as his life drains away, his body crumpling beneath your hands. Blood coats your face, your hands, your clothes- so much blood.

Behind you, Dallon collapses to his knees, clutching his rosary like a lifeline. His whispered prayers blur with choked sobs, his tears staining the bloodied floor.

When the hunger finally subsides, clarity returns like a cruel slap. You look down at what remains of the man- torn, lifeless, unrecognizable. Shame and horror ripple through you, but they’re distant, muffled by the satiation humming through your veins. You chew the last bite mechanically, then rise and turn toward your husband.

Dallon is curled up on the floor, his shoulders shaking. He’s at war with himself- his faith, his promises, his love for you.

You kneel beside him, pulling him into your arms. He clings to you desperately, his grip so tight your back pops. His tears soak into your blood-caked skin, and the sound of his sobs breaks your heart all over again.

You rub his back, murmuring softly, “Shh, it’s okay, sweet. None of this is your fault. I’m so sorry.” You press a kiss to his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, rocking him as if you can soothe the storm raging inside him.

Eventually, his hold loosens. His red-rimmed eyes sweep over you- your tangled hair, the blood smeared across every inch of you. His gaze drifts to the doorway where the man had stood, and his frown deepens. The realization hits him like a blow: it wasn’t a hunter. It was just a traveler. An innocent soul.

The night fades into a fragile quiet.

The next morning is eerily still.

Dallon sleeps on the bloodstained floor where you held him. You rise before dawn, moving through the house in silence. Cleaning the mess is your burden to bear; he’s already carried enough. You bury the remains without ceremony, the weight of guilt pressing heavy on your chest.

By the time he stirs, the scent of breakfast wafts through the air. Bacon sizzles on the stove, its comforting aroma filling the kitchen.

He splashes cold water on his face and stares at his reflection in the mirror, willing himself to look presentable. When he finally steps into the kitchen, he’s met with a table set just for him: eggs, bacon, bread, and sliced tomatoes- his favorites.

A small, weary smile tugs at his lips.

You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek before sitting across from him. He looks at you, his smile faltering as he takes in the lingering streaks of blood on your skin, the faint shadows in your eyes.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, softly, he says, “Thank you.”

And you nod, your heart breaking all over again.

The following week drifts by in silence- two broken hearts, each pulling him apart from the inside.

Dallon feels hollow, consumed by the ache of your absence. He craves your touch, longs for the warmth you once brought to his world. Now, that warmth is gone, replaced with a coldness that somehow still feels so tender.

He’s stopped praying. The prayers went unanswered for so long that he began questioning if there was ever anything to pray to at all.

What remains is the yearning, the weight of unshed tears. Most nights, he sits before the fireplace, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames, his eyes shut tight as if he could- hoping for your love to be unvarying.

“Dallon?” Your voice breaks the quiet. “What are you doing? It’s late.”

His eyes snap open, wide and tearful. When he sees you, his breath catches.

“I miss you,” he murmurs, his voice trembling as the tears finally fall.

Your hand rises instinctively, cupping his face, your thumb gently brushing the streaks of wetness from his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice heavy with regret. “I never wanted things to end up like this.”

You lean in, pressing the softest, most tender kiss to his lips, as though trying to pour all your sorrow and love into that single moment.

He looks at you, lips parted, words failing him. Awe fills his cerulean eyes.

“Let me take care of you this time,” you say softly, your arms wrapping around him. You run your thumbs across his back, soothing him with slow, tender movements.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Dallon breathes again.

Dallon nods, his gaze softening as you slide closer to him on the divan. Your fingers trail lightly across his shoulders, your lips brushing tender kisses along the curve of his neck.

He exhales a quiet hum of satisfaction, tilting his head slightly to give you more access. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, as his hand slips to the nape of your neck. Firmly, he pulls you closer, capturing your lips in a kiss that deepens with every passing second.

His weight shifts as he leans over you, his body pressing against yours. The heat between you grows, his touch igniting a fire in your skin.

“Dallon,” you whisper breathlessly, “I need you- I’ll make you feel goo-”

Your words are swallowed by another kiss, his lips demanding and consuming, silencing you in the most intoxicating way.

His desperation is unmistakable as you feel his arousal pressing firmly against you. With a tug, you lift your shirt, baring your chest to him. His reaction is immediate- his lips find your sensitive nipples, his mouth warm and eager as he sucks and teases, his hands kneading your soft skin. The sensation sends shivers through you, pulling moans from your lips as you melt beneath him.

Dallon pulls back just enough to smirk, his voice teasing. “I’ll make you feel so good.” He tugs his shirt over his head, his movements quick but deliberate, and sheds his pants and underwear in one fluid motion. His hardness stands proudly, already glistening with anticipation, twitching in time with his shallow breaths.

You match his pace, slipping out of your bottoms and meeting his gaze. The way he looks at you- full of adoration and desire- makes your heart flutter. “I love you too,” you whisper, your voice soft but steady as your eyes roam over him, silently asking for permission.

“You never have to ask,” he murmurs, his tone gentle yet commanding. “I’m yours.”

The words send a surge of confidence through you. Moving closer, you wrap your hand around his thick length, stroking him slowly, relishing the weight and warmth in your palm.

“Oh god- I need you,” Dallon groans, his head falling back, his hands gripping your shoulders to steady himself. “Please- more.”

You smirk at his plea, brushing a kiss to his hand as you murmur, “I’m all yours.”

Before you can react, he guides you both upright, pulling you into his lap. His hands settle firmly on your hips, his voice low and filled with longing. “Put it in?” he asks, the vulnerability in his tone making your heart ache in the best way.

With a nod, you oblige, aligning yourself with him. Slowly, you sink down, your body stretching to take him in. The moment he fills you, both of you let out deep, primal moans, the sensation overwhelming.

Dallon’s grip tightens as he begins to move, his hips meeting yours in a rhythm that sends sparks dancing across your skin. Each thrust is deliberate, each movement a testament to how desperately he needs you, how deeply he adores you.

“I’m close- can I fill you?” Dallon whispers, his breath hot against your ear, his pace steady.

“Do it- come inside me, Dallon,” you moan, your voice trembling with need. As he lets go, a warmth spreads through you, his release filling you completely. A wave of relief washes over you both, a reminder of the deep, unbreakable love you share.

He exhales shakily, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. “I made you feel good, didn’t I?” he asks, one eyebrow playfully arched, though his eyes hold a hint of vulnerability as he waits for your answer.

You smile softly, brushing a kiss to his chin. “Like you’ve ever had a bad performance,” you tease, your voice laced with affection. “Of course, you made me feel amazing.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer as you settle against his chest, your ear pressed to the steady, drumming rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Can we stay like this for a while?” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dallon looks down at you, his lips curving into a tender, tired smile. Softly, his arms tighten around you as the world fades.

“Anything for you.”

A/N: love y’all ‹𝟹 I got an idea in my head of a vampire/zombie thing where if you kill the vampire that turned you, you’d turn into a zombie kinda creature. Also put my religious trauma to its best use- a sad little horny vampire hunter (lol)

Likes, reblogs, comments appreciated ‹𝟹

Don’t steal my works!

Divider: kodaswrld

[gigiii1sblog]

DORM-ROOM DEVIL 015

Warnings: mature content, fluff, sexual content, teasing, dirty talk, unprotected sexual content, angst,sensitive topics!

Chapter fifteen: The Waiting Room.

Y/N POV:

The walls were white.

Too white.

Sterile and blinding, like they were trying to scrub the shame off of me.

The floor creaked beneath my feet with every shift in the plastic chair.

The teenage girl across from me had her sweatshirt pulled over her knees,

face hollow,

like she’d left her soul somewhere in the parking lot, she looked at least fifteen.

Chris sat beside me.

Silent.

Still.

Too sober for once,

too awake for the moment.

He didn’t hold my hand.

I didn’t offer it.

I don’t remember breathing.

Just the crinkle of paper forms.

The nurse calling my name like it belonged to someone else.

I stood.

I walked.

I died a little.

The hallway was colder than I imagined.

Everything smelled like bleach and endings.

She asked me questions.

I nodded.

I nodded because it was easier than thinking.

“Are you sure?”

No.

But I said yes.

They handed me a gown like it was just another thing to wear and toss in the trash.

Like this wasn’t about to unravel every part of me.

I changed.

Folded my clothes like maybe if I kept them neat,

this wouldn’t feel so messy.

I sat on the table.

Legs swinging.

Heartbeat wild.

I stared at the poster on the wall—

something about anatomy,

something about options.

And then—

I felt it.

Not a kick.

Not a flutter.

But something deep,

rooted.

Like a voice inside me whispering,

“This isn’t how your story ends.”

And it wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t guilt.

It was something more ancient than that.

A pull.

A scream in my chest that said:

“You can’t undo this without losing yourself.”

I climbed off the table.

Fumbled with the gown.

Hands shaking like I’d seen a ghost.

The nurse looked up.

Concerned.

“Sweetheart?”

“I can’t.”

It was a whisper.

A whimper.

My throat burned with it.

She said something.

I didn’t hear it.

My pulse was louder than her voice.

I grabbed my clothes,

buttoned my jeans wrong.

Didn’t care.

I ran.

Through the hallway.

Out the double doors.

Back into the waiting room where Chris shot up like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

His eyes searched me.

Landed on the tears.

“You didn’t—?”

I shook my head, sobbing.

“I tried… I really tried…”

He caught me mid-collapse.

Held me like a wildfire,

arms all around me,

like if he just held tight enough, he could put out all my pain.

And for a second—

just one—

I let him.

I let myself cry into his hoodie.

Let myself fall apart in the middle of that awful waiting room.

Let myself be the girl who was scared and messy and fucking overwhelmed.

“I can’t do this,” I whispered.

And he said—

“Then we’ll do it together.”

But I don’t know if I believed him.

Because promises from boys like Chris always sound like lullabies before they burn you.

And still—

I stayed in his arms.

Because even broken things crave warmth.

Even girls with shaking hands sometimes choose to carry the storm.

CHRIS POV:

I didn’t say much on the drive.

Didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know what would hurt more—

telling her how I felt

or letting her do what she needed without me in the way.

The clinic was smaller than I thought it would be.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

She sat next to me, knees bouncing, hands locked together like if she let go, everything would fall apart.

I wanted to reach for her.

I didn’t.

Because maybe I’d already ruined enough.

Because this wasn’t about me.

She didn’t cry when we got there.

Not even when they called her name.

She just stood,

and I swear it felt like my heart walked away with her.

I sat there for thirty-seven minutes.

Counted every goddamn second.

Watched the receptionist drink her coffee.

Watched two other girls come in and go.

I kept thinking about her.

In that cold room.

Alone.

Making a decision I wasn’t brave enough to help her make.

I didn’t want her to do it.

Not really.

I wanted to scream,

“Keep it. We’ll figure it out. I’ll step up. I swear.”

But who the hell was I to ask her to carry a future I hadn’t even figured out how to hold?

She said she couldn’t do it alone.

And the truth is, I’d made her feel alone long before this.

So I sat there.

Silent.

Trying to be supportive.

Trying not to fall apart.

And then I heard the footsteps.

Fast.

Frantic.

The door flew open—

and there she was.

Hair a mess.

Jeans half buttoned.

Eyes red and wet.

She looked straight at me—

and broke.

“I tried… I really tried…”

God.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more than I did in that moment.

I stood.

Arms open like instinct.

Like gravity.

She crashed into me.

Folded.

Her body shook in mine and I didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to fix it.

So I held her tighter.

Like maybe I could keep all the pieces from falling apart again.

“I can’t do this,” she sobbed.

And I said the only thing I could.

“Then we’ll do it together.”

But I don’t know if she believed me.

Because I didn’t say it like a promise, I said it like a prayer.

Truth is, I was scared.

More scared than I’d ever been.

Not of being a dad.

But of not being enough for her.

Of repeating the same shit her father did

leaving someone who needed him

because he didn’t know how to stay.

I’ve never stayed before.

Never had a reason to.

But when she buried her face in my chest

and whispered “please don’t fail us,”

I knew.

I’d rather drown trying to be everything she needs

than live knowing I walked away from the one thing that made me want to be more.

The door didn’t close behind her.

And neither did I.

Y/N POV:

The car ride home is almost unbearable.

The engine hums, the road stretches endless ahead of us, but inside the car, inside me, there’s this ache that won’t settle. It pulses beneath my ribs, behind my eyes, in the pit of my stomach where something now lives.

I can’t cry anymore.

I did enough of that at the clinic.

Enough to taste the salt of it in my throat for hours.

Chris keeps glancing at me. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks too long. Like he’s waiting for me to scream or break or run.

But I don’t.

I stare out the window, arms wrapped around myself, like maybe if I hold on tight enough, I won’t split open.

“You okay?” he finally asks, voice low.

I nod.

A lie.

He doesn’t press.

The worst part isn’t the silence.

It’s how loud it is.

Louder than any fight we’ve ever had.

Louder than that night I caught him kissing her.

I think he wants to say something.

Maybe everything.

But I don’t think he knows how.

And I don’t know if I can handle it if he does.

Because the truth is, I don’t even know what I want anymore.

I just know this thing inside me feels like the biggest secret I’ve ever kept.

And now it’s real.

So real, it scares me breathless.

CHRIS POV:

She hasn’t looked at me once since we left the clinic.

Not once.

Her arms are wrapped around herself like she’s afraid I’ll touch her and everything will crack again.

I keep thinking about what I almost let her do.

What I acted like I supported, because she thought it was the only choice.

But watching her walk out like that—

wild-eyed, broken, crying—

I realized I hadn’t given her strength.

I’d given her solitude.

And now I don’t know how to reach her.

“Y/N,” I say, voice gentle, pulling into the campus parking lot.

“You wanna go back to the dorm? Just… so you can rest a little?”

She doesn’t answer at first.

Then nods.

Still no eye contact.

It fucking guts me.

⸻

Back at the dorm

She sits on the edge of her bed.

Holds her stomach like she doesn’t trust it.

I hand her water, and she takes it with shaking hands.

Her eyes are puffy.

Her skin pale.

She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting across from her.

“For everything. For not being what you needed. For making you feel alone.”

Her lip trembles.

“You weren’t there, Chris,” she whispers.

“Not really. Not when it mattered.”

That hits like a bullet.

Because she’s right.

I let her carry it all alone.

While I numbed myself.

While I ran from everything.

“You deserve better,” I say.

“Then why won’t you be better?” she shoots back, voice rising.

Silence.

Tears fall again, quietly now.

Defeated.

“I didn’t want to do it,” she chokes.

“But I didn’t want to be stuck either. I didn’t want to be abandoned.”

“You’re not,” I say, moving closer.

She pulls her knees to her chest.

“I don’t even know if I want this,” she whispers.

I sit beside her, wrap an arm around her, gently.

“Then we’ll figure it out. Together. You and me, even if it’s messy. Even if I fuck it up sometimes.”

“You always do,” she mumbles.

I nod.

Because she’s not wrong.

But I tighten my grip around her and kiss her temple.

“Then let me get it right this time.”

The night ends with us wrapped in silence.

But it’s not the sharp, aching silence from the car.

This one is softer.

Hopeful, almost.

There’s still fear in her eyes.

In mine too.

But there’s something else under it.

Something fragile, blooming slow.

Maybe it’s not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But it’s a place to start.

Y/N POV: A Week Later

I’ve never seen Chris like this.

He’s in the kitchen, barefoot, shirt inside out, and squinting at his phone like the pancake recipe is written in ancient Greek.

The air smells like something is burning. Slightly.

There’s flour on his cheek, a cracked egg shell stuck to the counter, and the pan’s too hot. But he’s trying.

And that’s the thing that got me.

He’s trying.

“You’re supposed to flip it when the bubbles pop, right?” he mumbles to himself.

“Might help if the pan wasn’t on that high,” I say, voice soft as I lean against the doorway.

He turns around, startled.

Then smiles, nervous, sweet.

“I was gonna bring you breakfast in bed,” he says.

“But I think I almost set the dorm on fire.”

I smile, despite myself.

“It’s okay. I’m not really hungry anyway.”

His eyes flick to my stomach.

He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking.

We haven’t talked about it much since the clinic.

We began to sleep next to each other.

Eat together.

He’s always touching me now, soft, tentative brushes of his fingers against my hand, my back, my hair. Like he needs to remind himself I’m still here.

But neither of us has said the word yet.

Not out loud.

Pregnant.

It still feels foreign in my mouth. Heavy in my chest.

He pushes the plate toward me.

“One pancake survived. It’s probably disgusting, but…”

“It’s perfect,” I say, even though it’s definitely raw in the middle.

I eat it anyway.

Because he made it.

And because he’s here.

CHRIS POV:

There’s this thing that happens now, every time I look at her, I feel both sick and soft.

She’s quieter these days.

Tired.

I see it in the way she moves, slow and cautious like her own body is a stranger. I see it when she stares at the wall too long, zoning out like her thoughts are too big to hold.

So I try to make things easier.

I clean up without her asking.

I Google baby apps at night, even though the idea of a kid still scares the shit out of me.

I order her ginger candies when I notice she keeps throwing up after brushing her teeth.

I even sit through her favorite comfort movie three nights in a row just because she fell asleep during it the first two.

I still don’t know how to talk about the future without panicking.

But I’m learning to show up.

Because I meant it, at the clinic.

When she walked out shaking and crying and I held her even though I was shaking too.

I don’t want to be her dad.

The kind who left.

I want to be the reason she stays.

Not the reason she breaks.

Y/N POV:

Later that night, I find a stack of sticky notes on the mirror.

Messy handwriting. All Chris.

“You’re beautiful even when you think you’re not.”

“Don’t forget to take your vitamins.”

“I love you. Even if you hate me.”

“We’ve got this. Even if we’re scared.”

I press my palm against the mirror, over the last note.

And I cry.

But it’s the good kind.

PSA: You always have a choice. Whatever decision feels right for you and your life is the best one. Don’t ever let anyone else decide what you should do with YOUR body.🌷

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44@emeraldsturns @sturnslux3 @kalel2005 @sarahsturnn @teheabrams @needchrissturniolobad @julessspoetry @sturniszn @slutforchrissturniolo2 @alinagrace11 @beardedbernard @matthewswifeyy @blindedheartp @crypticallycruelwarden

[exhaslo]

Can you do like a God Miguel and devil fem reader, this is my first request so please no hate 😭 Oh yeah AND SMUTTTTT

That man is basically a God, haha. Usually I see this request the opposite way, so this is going to be so much fun!

Warning: MINORS DNI, Smut, teasing, taunting, handsy, oral sex (m receiving), riding, rough sex, dirty talk, doggy style, creampie

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

"C'mon, Big Boy. Afraid to show a lil ol' devil like me what a taste of Heaven looks like?"

This was a sight to behold. No one had ever dared to question or even go against Miguel's ruling. There was a reason why the two dimensions were split between Heaven and Hell. There were a whole list of reasons.

One of them, being devils like you.

You gave a wicked smile towards Miguel, the God of Heaven himself, the ruler of all Angels. Hell, the very man whom separated the Angels and Devils. He was one who controlled all. One who could change the course of fate itself.

"What's a Sinner like me to do in order to enter your pearly white gates of Heaven?" You cooed, getting on your knees.

"You have already made your choices in life. You must live with the consequences of your actions." Miguel spoke.

You gave a pout, pressing your lower lip out while pressing your breasts together.

"But, it wasn't all my fault! I'm here to confess my sins and do right. Please, give me a chance? Isn't that what Angels do? Give second chances?" You begged.

Miguel grunted lowly as he shooed his Angels away. They had started to whisper amongst themselves because sadly, you were right. Miguel disliked it when a devil would sway the good hearted with cruel twists of truth.

"You wish to be redeemed? How do you plan on doing so?" Miguel asked. You bit your lower lip, finding his scowl hot,

"I'll do anything."

-------

Miguel sure had you work your way into heaven. As God, he personally oversaw your progress. Every human you helped; everyone good deed you did; everything was in his sight.

Even your advances. You were sly as you did your job. Poking your ass out slightly; accidently having a tit pop out; hell even using the old lollipop trick. You were doing whatever it took to try and sway Miguel in your favor.

"Hm, excellent work. Perhaps I just might consider your arrival into heaven after a few thousand more good deeds." Miguel hummed. You felt your eye twitch,

"Thousand? Isn't there anything more..." You slid your hand down Miguel's chest, "Intense I could do?"

"Have you forgotten who I am?"

"I haven't," You whispered in his ear, slowly lowering your tank top, "I know that you rule over everything. You see everything while no one can see you. You poor stressed God."

"I'm not stressed." Miguel huffed as he glanced around the human world, "I know what you've really been after this whole time."

"Hm? You have?" You cooed, "Then why entertain me?"

"Because even a God gets bored."

In the next second, both you and Miguel were in what looked like a human hotel room. A smile curled upon your lips as you spread your legs on the bed, slowly removing your top. You gave Miguel a seductive look, motioning him over,

"So bored that you'll entertain a devil?" Miguel scoffed,

"So bored that one might say I am stressed." He tried to change the topic, but sighed, "Sometimes even I grow jealous of how easily humans find pleasure."

You raised a brow, your smile growing wider. You sat up, reaching for Miguel. Your hands stroking down his chest as you threw your top across the room.

"Allow me to give you a show then?" You whispered.

Swapping places with Miguel, you proceeded to give him a little lap dance. As you moved your ass against his crotch, you started to take your bra off. For a God like him to entertain a devil like you, oh this was going to be good.

You nibbled against his ear as you took off you pants, revealing no underwear. A chuckle escaped your lips as you glanced down towards Miguel's erection.

"Hm, does mini God wanna play?" You cooed.

"Perhaps I could show you what heaven tastes like after all." Miguel played along.

Oh, that made you wet. You hands were all over Miguel now. You just had to strip him, but slowly. You cute little devil tail twirled as you started to grind against Miguel's white robes. You stroked his face, watching his temptation grow,

"Shall I do all the work?" You whispered. Miguel just smirked,

"Weren't you the one who needed to get into heaven?"

You huffed as you removed his robes. Eyes widening at the sight of his dick. He wasn't a God for nothing. With a lick of your lips, you got on your knees and started to work your magic. You had good deeds to do after all.

"How many deeds if I make you cum?" You hummed with a lick of his tip.

"A hundred."

"Oh? Then I'll have my work cut out."

"It's a good thing stamina doesn't exist for me." Miguel said with a smirk, which made you quiver.

Ignoring that thought for now, you returned to stroking and sucking Miguel's dick. Of course God doesn't have stamina. Even devils and angels had it. Well, at least you were trying to earn his forgiveness and not the other way around.

You moaned lowly as you started to take Miguel deeper. His dick was thick and long. Just the thought of him ravishing you was making you horny. Not to mention the sounds of his grunts was delicious. If only you were a succubus, this would make a fine meal.

"Still waiting to be impressed." Miguel teased.

You felt your eye twitch as you kept sucking. What more did he want? Gasping, you felt his hands on your head as he started to thrust into your mouth. Tears started to form as you tried to breathe through you nose.

"Here's your first hundred." Miguel groaned.

You nearly gagged as Miguel cummed inside your mouth. Moving away, you swallowed what you could, but coughed up the rest. There was so much. Wiping your mouth, you glanced at his still harden erection and chuckled,

"If that's the case, then this will be easy."

--------

"Are you giving up already? What a poor little slutty devil you are." Miguel mocked as you bounced on his cock.

You were drooling as you rode Miguel. His dick fit so nicely inside you, stretching all your walls as you fucked him. His tip hit the far back of your cervix, making you really see heaven in a different light. You had only fucked him for a few minutes and you felt like giving in.

"Is this all Hell has to offer?" Miguel asked. You flinched, feeling yourself about to cum again,

"N-No...J-Just....so...ah~" You whined, jumping down once more only to cum.

"This is why you need my help."

Miguel held your waist and started to thrust up inside you, causing you to moan and squirm. His dick was too much. He was hitting you in all the right places. Gripping your hips, Miguel watched your tits bounce as he fucked you from below.

"Tsk, tsk, this poor little devil wants forgiveness right?"

"Y-Yesh~"

"I'll give it to you. One load at a time."

You shuddered towards his words as he released a heavy load inside you. Gasping, you felt Miguel press you against the bed, entering you from behind. His grip was still tight as he started to pound your pussy.

"Such lewd sounds you're making. Does my dick feel that good?"

"Ah~ Ah~ Y-Yes!" You cried out, gripping the bedsheets. Miguel chuckled, listening to the sound of his dick slapping into you,

"Can you feel my holy presence inside you? Is this the taste of heaven you wanted so much?"

"Ah~ Mhm~"

You couldn't think. You felt your eyes roll back as you focused on Miguel pounding you. His hot cum just begging to spill before his next load. This was truly paradise.

"So cock drunk that you can't even think. What a slutty devil you are." Miguel hummed, feeling you cum around him, "But you are doing the best deed there is."

"Mhm!" You gasped as Miguel slapped into your gummy walls faster,

"Keep coming to me for your forgiveness and I'll happily give it to your horny pussy." He groaned, cumming once more, "How does that sound?"

"Ah~ Y-Yes~ Yes~" You moaned loudly.

Miguel just chuckled in response, turning you over. You were out of breathe and fucked out. Miguel glanced at your body, watching your devil wings disappear since you had no energy. Another chuckle escaped his lips as he watched his cum leak out of you,

"Don't suppose you want to start a new race? I have unless stamina after all."

You had a long road of forgiveness ahead of you, but you weren't complaining in the slightest.

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

I CAN FEEL THE JUDGEMENT FROM ABOVE, BUT WE ALL KNOW I'M GOING DOWN! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!!

[cerastes]

I've always wondered what the normal animal names are supposed to be in Terra, are they like the equivalent of calling someone white or black? We know that the term devil is basically a racial slur for Sarkaz and so is worm for Phidians but what about terms like 'dogs'? 'snakes'? 'fox'? Is the reason why Wisadel can call Amiya little bunny is because Amiya gave her the B-word pass?

I personally believe no because you got the whole “Hot Dog” thing, “bunny”, etc, there’s all the [thing]beasts but also sometimes a hound is a hound, a bunny is a bunny, cats exist in this limbo where I personally think they kinda lost the thread of what they were going for, and Ch’en named her team with Lin “Lung wRATh” with that capitalization on the second word alluding indeed to “rat”, and Lin didn’t take issue with it as if it was a slur as much as it was just a lameass name (running gag with Ch’en).

There’s cases like with “devil” for Sarkaz but that’s a wholly different, loaded topic. So no, I don’t think so plus I think it’d be lame if it was the case.

[random-fandom1984]

MASTER LIST

Request are open!

ALLOWED:

●Fluff

●Yandere

●Angst

●Crossovers

●Character x Reader

●Character x Character

●References to other fandoms

●Comfort

●Headcanons

●Reader/Character from one dimension/universe getting sent to a different one (tfp x tfa, trollhunters x zak storm, etc)

●Suggestive (no sexual intercourse will be written, but it could be hinted: Ex: making out neck bites/marking. There will be no scenes involving the Devil's Tango, not detailing how it goes but subtly described like "glad to investing soundproof rooms" or something like that)

●others to be added

NOT ALLOWED:

●NSFW (Suggestive is okay, just not full-on smut)

●Pedophilia

●Incest

●Certain sensitive topics (rape, abuse, etc)

●Other's OC's (I don't have the confidence to do that)

I also have a master list of poems I'm making

Poems Master List

FANDOMS

Transformers

Tfa:

General:

- Predacon! Reader in TFA - Eda! Cybertronian! Reader

Optimus Prime

- Wattpad Story: Deadly Voice

- Yandere! TFP! & TFA! Optimus x Chubby! Gn Reader

Ratchet

Prowl

Bumblebee

Bulkhead

Jazz

Jettwins

Ultra Magnus

Megatron

Starscream (+clones)

Lugnut

Blitzwing

Blackarachnia/Elita-1

Grimlock

Wreck-Gar

Soundwave

Longarm Prime/Shockwave

- All I Takes Is A Potion to Show How Much I'm Obsessed with You Part 1, Part 2

Wasp/Waspinator

- Bots Will Be Bugs (Yan! Wasp x Cybertronian Reader)

Tfp:

Optimus Prime

- Yandere TFP! & TFA! Optimus x Chubby! Gn Reader

Ratchet

Arcee

Cliffjumper

Smokescreen

Bumblebee

- Bumblebee x SG! Cybertronian Reader

Bulkhead

Wheeljack

Ultra Magnus

Megatron

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Starscream

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Soundwave

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Shockwave

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Predaking

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

5t3v3(Steve)

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Knockout

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Breakdown

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Dreadwing

- Decepticons Meets Sparklings

Arachnid

Unicron

Tfe

Optimus

- Sparklings

Megatron

- Sparklings

Bumblebee

- Sparklings

Elita-1

- Sparklings

Soundwave

- Sparklings

Shockwave

- Sparklings

Tarantulas

- Sparklings

Terrans(PLATONIC ONLY)

Swindle

Starscream

Tfg1

Optimus Prime

- Calling Optimus Prime Dad

Prowl

Jazz

Bumblebee

Ratchet

Megatron

Starscream

Skywarp

Thundercracker

Reflector

Soundwave

- Soundwave x Autobot! Reader Part 1, Part 2

-Clinging to Sanity or Embrace the Fantasy (Yandere! Platonic! Soundwave + teenager! Reader)

Shockwave

Grimlock

Unicron

Other Autobots and Decepticons

Tfbw

Optimus Primal

Rattrap

Rhinox

Cheetor

-His Sea Goddess (Cheetor x Cybertronian Reader with an Octopus alt-mode)

Dinobot

Megatron

Tarantulas

Waspinator

Tfrid2015

Bumblebee

Sideswipe

Strongarm

Fix-it

Grimlock

Drift

Steeljaw

Thunderhoof

Fracture

Underbite

Saberhorn

TF1

Orion Pax/Optimus Prime

D-16/Megatron

B-127/Bumblebee

Elita-1

Starscream

Soundwave

Shockwave

Sentinel Prime

LEGO MONKIE KID

Mk

Mei

Red Son

Jin & Yin

Spider Queen

Azure Lion

Macaque

Sun Wukong

Nezha

Syntax

Huntsman

Goliath (Strong Spider)

Peng

Lady Bone Demon

Not Mayor

ZAK STORM

Zak Storm (PLATONIC ONLY)

Cece

Crogar

Clovis (PLATONIC ONLY)

Caramba (PLATONIC ONLY)

Calabrass (PLATONIC ONLY)

Golden Bones

Trollhunters/3Below/Wizards

Angor Rot

-Headcannons

Gunmar

Bular

Aaarrrgghh

Blinky (Blinkous)

Nomura

Draal

Krel Tarron & Aja Tarron (PLATONIC ONLY)

Varvatos

Tronos Madu

Zadra

Zeron Alpha

Nari

Skrael

Bellroc

Cookie Run Kingdom

Gingerbrave (PLATONIC ONLY)

Wizard Cookie (PLATONIC ONLY)

Strawberry Cookie (PLATONIC ONLY)

Custard Cookie Ⅲ (PLATONIC ONLY)

Chili Pepper Cookie

Licorice Cookie

Poison Mushroom Cookie (PLATONIC ONLY)

Dark Choco Cookie

Red Velvet Cookie

Pomegranate Cookie

Dark Enchantress Cookie

Pure Vanilla Cookie

White Lily Cookie

Hollyberry Cookie

Golden Cheese Cookie

Dark Cacao Cookie

Princess Cookie (PLATONIC ONLY)

Knight Cookie (PLANTONIC ONLY)

Caramel Arrow Cookie

Crunchy Chip Cookie

Affogato Cookie

Captain Caviar Cookie

Black Pearl Cookie/White Pearl Cookie

Shadow Milk Cookie

Mystic Flour Cookie

Others to be added

Adventure Time: Fionna & Cake

Fionna

Cake (PLATONIC ONLY)

Gary

Marshall Lee

Scarab

Prismo

Simon (PLATONIC ONLY)

Marceline (Vampireworld version)

Bonnibell Bubblegum (Vampireworld version)

WHEN REQUESTING (More rules will be added later):

●Include the fact whether or not your request is platonic or romantic; If romantic, is Y/n or character in a relationship, and if not, who is the romantic interest(s)?

●Give me some of the plot of what you're thinking for your request. If you don't, and I don't know what you want it to be about, or I can't think of what to make up- Example:

Optimus x Reader. Angst. Reader is male.

I don't know what the plot should be, or what it should involve. Like, if it's good enough that I can think of what it could be, then yeah, sure, but that will be a rare chance with me. But if it's like this- Example:

Aaarrrgghh x Reader. Comfort. Basically, the reader has had a bad day at work/school, and the two of them just cuddle and enjoy the silence in each other's arms, slowly falling asleep.

Then I will be able to think of how it can go because you gave me what you want to include in your request, but now how, I will be able to get behind that.

● I can make the reader be based off of another character, like- Examples:

-Vox! Reader in Trollhunters

-Reader as Ratchet's little sister in Transformers: Generation 1

Anything! Whatever you want as long as it's allowed.

●If your request involves something that isn't allowed, then it will be ignored.

That's everything for now! Request away!

[witchynyx]

Bad Witchy Authors: Shawn Robbins & Leanna Greenaway

Ok, so I see a lot of posts discussing bad witchy authors and I have never seen these two mentioned, which, just... boggles the mind.

So I guess I'm sharing some of my notes!

Their books are super-popular, but Ima reference some of my 24 pages of notes on Wiccapedia (2011)

This book is gorgeous, suuuper-accessible (almost any bookstore or library with any witchy books has this book), and it's the first book a lot of witch-curious folks pick up.

I don't have the brain-power to organise thoughts into topics, so I'm just gonna drop some of my 'favourite' quotes in the order they appear, for folks to make their own judgements...

Preface: Using Practical Magick . . . in Everyday Life

“Although there are modern Wiccans who still worship the traditional gods and goddesses, many witches... prefer a newer branch of witchcraft based on angel energy, known as Angelic Wicca”

“From the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries, for complex reasons that scholars are still studying, waves of paranoia, hysteria, and suspicion set off witch hunts throughout the Western world, where those accused of witchcraft and trafficking with the devil were tried in both ecclesiastical and secular courts”

“Lesser mortals, and some religious faiths, blame an evil entity such as the devil for the negativity that mankind creates.... ”

“.. the foundation of our faith is much the same as it was hundreds of years ago”

Introduction: A Witch’s Tool Kit

The Pentacle:

“In pagan times the symbol was often worn as an amulet for spiritual protection and to ensure a safe, happy homecoming”

“..because most witches want to practice purely white magick and not associate themselves with anything negative”

“The sweep, or brush [of a besom], corresponds to the female genitalia, and the staff is associated with the male phallus— therefore it is a symbol of the male and the female combined”

Chapter 1: Witches Never Die, They Just Get Recycled

“We are all reincarnating at different rates. This is why some people are truly wonderful and some are, well, not”

“When you meet lovely, kind, and caring people, it is probable that they have reincarnated many times. Their endless incarnations have raised their spirits’ vibration, so they automatically show patience and strive to do everything right in their lives. People who are mean, selfish, and egotistic probably haven’t reincarnated as much. That isn’t to say that these people are wicked; they simply haven’t learned all their lessons yet. Think of them as bratty adolescents and the sympathetic ones as the grandparents of the reincarnation process—regardless of their age!”

Dealing with the Dark Side: [Paraphrased]: “Sometimes people are repeatedly evil and abusive, so they’re reincarnated as victims of these things to learn their lesson”

“You find many battered wives opening shelters for those who are going through violent relationships....”

“Guides, or “white lighters,” as they are often called today”

Chapter 2: Angels

“These beautiful beings have always had their place in the craft, but they used to play a secondary role to the more traditional Wiccan gods and goddesses... Today, you won’t find many British witches connecting with the gods and goddesses”

Chapter 4: Magickal Moon

“The moon was worshipped in many early religions as a goddess, and it has always been seen as a feminine symbol”

The Dark Moon:

“Sadly, many people who practice black magick do so at this time”

“You might think that someone working on the darker side of the occult could not influence any spells or rituals that you might be performing, but the collective power mustered by these individuals can cause cosmic havoc: our spells may become confused or simply not work at all. It is a shame, because the brilliance and power of this phase really is incredible, and without the negative manipulation I am sure we witches could do a great deal of good in it.”

Chapter 5: Spells and Candle Magick

Mostly this was a mix of ok info, and subjective info presented as objective fact, but that latter part is the theme of the book.

Chapter 6: Cell Phone Sorcery and Microwave Magick

“I can’t take all the credit for this new way of [cell phone] spell-making. My trusted friend and coauthor, Shawn, helped me”

“I’ll let you in on another little secret: we witches don’t really bother with our cauldrons much these days. We have evolved with the times and we use our microwaves and convection ovens... Any spell that entails mixing or brewing concoctions can easily be done in a microwave. It takes less time and the end results are actually enhanced, mainly because of the powerful electrical energies that the microwave transmits”

Chapter 8: Crystal

“You should wash your crystals once a week or so. Crystals can absorb energies around them, so just as we need to wash to stay clean, you need to wash your crystals. You can put them in the bath with you (to be cleansed of external energies and infused with yours) or simply soak them in a bowl of water” (Nb: A lot of crystals are damaged (or even super-unsafe) in water, which, obviously, is not mentioned at any point)

“If you are feeling on edge, go outside on a dry day with a cup of table salt to a place where you will not be disturbed. Scatter the salt in a large circle around you and place the rose quartz in the center” (Nb: DO NOT put salt on the ground outside!)

Chapter 9: A Witch's Menagerie

This is mostly a bunch of super-subjective collection of things that "witches (objectively/universally) do/believe" that I've mostly never heard of - obviously there are a lot of things I've never heard of, but in a decade, you'd think if every single witch believes/does something, I'd have stumbled across it at some point?

“Okay, so maybe you are not as animal-mad as I am, but a true witch will endeavor to have at least one critter as a companion in their lifetime”

"I may love all animals, and these insects may look very similar to bees, but I have to admit that hornets and wasps are annoying pests”

Chapter 10: Love Wisdom

“For modern witches, effigies have always been considered to be a little primitive, a little on the dark side”

“Every relationship that we enter into is spiritually planned (even the bad ones). It’s decided before we reincarnate who we are meant to share part, or all, of our lives with. This is because every time we venture into a relationship, we learn something from it. If it wasn’t our fate to be with our partners, we would never have been at that particular place at that particular time when we had our first meeting. We wouldn’t have been attracted to them, for starters, so something must have happened to ignite that spark. No matter how difficult some relationships are, it was fate that brought you together”

Chapter 11: Handfastings

So aside from a bunch of vague and mostly fictional/confused history, apparently every wedding/handfasting is different, but that doesn't stop them from laying out every specific 'universal' detail, including the attire, the catering, the gifts, etc, etc, etc...

“In pagan times, rice throwing was believed to transfer the spirit of the fertile grain to the bride and groom, ensuring that they would have a prosperous harvest and a fertile union”

Chapter 13: Gaze into the Future

Just... full of the G-slur, fetishisation and demonisation of Romani stereotypes, make-up history, and 'people in the past were unevolved and unintelligent and luckily we're now so much better in every way' (also a repeated theme)

[Psychic skills and divination aren't my area, so I skipped the rest of the chapters on those topics]

19 Dos and Don’ts about Witchcraft

“These words the Wiccan Rede fulfill: “An ye harm none, do what ye will.” —from “The Wiccan Rede,” anonymous” (ie 'We're Wicca experts but either don't know Doreen Valiente wrote this, or don't want to credit her')

“Most religions follow rules and guidelines, and although Wicca is considered to be a relaxed faith, we also have strict laws that we follow to the letter”

“Just because we can make magickal things appear out of thin air, it doesn’t mean that it’s always the right thing to do”

“There are people the world over who perform black magick because they have been treated badly or are seeking revenge for a wrong. Some are warped with jealousy and wish a bad fate on those more fortunate than themselves, and although it does sound bizarre that in the twenty-first century people are still putting curses on others, it’s really not that uncommon”

“On the other hand, people who use these skills to do harm are just self-interested souls who use magick as a way of gaining control and power over others, using it purely for their own gratification”

“The craft is all about sending out positive intentions”

“On the other hand, your spells could be failing because you are tired or sick. Your aura has to be in tip-top condition if your spell is to succeed” (Sorry, if you're chronically-ill you can't do magic)

The Ten Commandments of Witchcraft:

ALWAYS ENSURE THAT NO OTHER PERSON WILL BE HARMED AS A RESULT OF YOUR MAGICK. To call yourself a witch means that you will always endeavor to do the right thing and send out only love and kindness to others.

KEEP YOUR THOUGHTS FREE OF NEGATIVITY— REMEMBER THE REBOUND EFFECT. Keep in mind that every thought you send out can just as easily bounce off the receiver and be hurled back at you at the speed of light. You created the negative fog, so it belongs to you!

NEVER CAST A SPELL WHEN YOU ARE UPSET OR UNHEALTHY. Funny as it may seem, our thought projections can go haywire if we are cross, unhappy, or sick. Spells may fail to work, or the results may be confusing. Therefore it’s imperative that we be in the right frame of mind and physically healthy before we begin any magick

THINK POSITIVELY. If you smile, then you are more likely to be happy. Every time a miserable thought pops into your head, shake it away and try to think about something nice. Your aura is a magnetic energy field, and if it’s drab or gloomy, you will attract disruptive and depressing situations

CREATE A PEACEFUL, CALM ENVIRONMENT FOR YOUR SPELL CASTING

CALL UPON YOUR ANGELS TO ASSIST YOU

RESPECT EVERYTHING... try as hard as you can to eat all the right foods... Eat badly and you'll feel bad.

WISH FOR MONEY BUT BE CAREFUL OF GREED. If you need to cast spells for material gain…

NEVER INFLUENCE A PERSON’S MIND WITH MAGICK... You could indirectly take that person off the path they are destined to travel and deprive them of lessons they need to learn.... If you’ve reeled them back in, you have interfered with their karma, and you could get your karmic wrist slapped when you eventually pass over into spirit

BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. No amount of magick will work unless you have faith in yourself

Chapter 20: Destiny Is Calling You

“Make a talisman, which is a stronger protector than an amulet”

“Smudge your space and your aura every now and then”

I made a 'Bad Witch Book Bingo', and was genuinely surprised this book only got bingo 3 times 😅

[risuola]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈 ⋯ heaven lost its most beautful angel.

contents ✤ archangel!satoru x demon!reader, smut (nipple play, oral, maybe a tad bit borderline dubcon-ish?, corruption, some dirty talk), a lot of religious topics mentioned (not always in the best light), wc. 4639 ⋯ reader discretion is advised series masterlist

Born from pure nothing, Satoru has only got to know happiness. An illusion of it, a sort of safety that comes with stability in life. And it is good. He is, after all, the honored one, an archangel, the highest prince of Heaven, standing by the side of the king — God, a father of every creation, his father. Blessed by His favor, throughout centuries of existence, Satoru has only ever experienced bliss. Despite him being the last one created, the youngest of a bunch of archangels, he is the most perfect display of what God is capable of. A favorite, the purest and most innocent, a pristine mirror of excellence that could have only been made by a hand of his beloved father.

It’s beautiful, it really is. People worship divinities, the faith is blind and the angel has never had to do much to enforce the proper beliefs whenever there was a doubt born. With his role to serve God’s purpose and fulfill His will, Satoru traveled and shown up in many places in the world, making sure the evolvement of humanity goes along the lines of the greater plan. Of something a simple human isn’t capable of comprehending. But it’s endearing, he thinks.

He watches it from above, his eyes able to engulf all of the crowd — he has always had good eyes. Throughout the hundreds of years since his creation, he’s got to witness the ups and downs of people’s development and with ease on his mind he just knows that no matter what times bring and take, the faith will stay rooted into the simple mortal minds. Or so he thought before the balance of the world shifted again.

Demons and devils have never been a foreign topic in the spectrum of religion — they’re a part of what makes the good feel good, they’re what’s bad and ugly. Popping here and there from time to time they usually made for a short entertainment for Mikael’s army and Satoru remembers just few of severe conflicts that took place on earth and one that happened at the gates of Heaven. Great losses were suffered at the times, his brothers and sisters that had lost the fights will always stay in his memory, but with the progression of time, the rate of haunts and possessions didn’t go much higher. Satoru actively makes sure to eradicate every doubt that blooms in poor little hearts of the gullible and vulnerable.

“Filthy creatures,” Azrael grumbles, his voice dry and harsh as he watches alongside Satoru yet another crowd of humans that carelessly stray from the right path and into the world of sin. “Their pathetic souls are yet to cry at the gates and plead for mercy when it’s their own choices that bring them down to hells. It should be easier for them to resist such primitive urges.”

“Father has made them the way they are for a reason, brother,” the white-haired one lightens up but the angel of death beside shows no change of attitude. “Faith is a choice and not a given but even if it’s only in the face of demise, every soul that has found God at some point deserves to be blessed.”

“Sometimes it seems as if watching them for so many centuries has rubbed their naivety across your feathers, Satoru,” Azrael lets out a sigh and spreads out his wings. Large and rich in dark feathers cast a shadow looming over his brother’s stature but the younger one only smiles at the sight. There’s an exchange of appreciative nods and their ways part.

Satoru isn’t naïve. He has always been more than capable of cold-thinking and calculating his actions, despite being known for a tender heart and gentle soul. The ways in which he acts are contained in the frames of necessity, he doesn’t go for the flashy displays of power and divinity. He likes to gently encourage people, hint the right paths so that they can realize where to go and how to live the rest of the time they’re given. Most of them find what’s there to discover, an enlightenment. Lord is merciful, benevolent. There are no ends to His love.

Then why people toss it away? Silly, silly creatures.

But then, times change again and as the world evolves and church begins to lose its influence, Satoru looks around with troubled mind. It seems as if people have lost direction again, finding themselves at the crossroads with unknown ends. Wrong people are taking highest spots in the hierarchy, preaching wrong words to the wrong crowds. And it crumbles, falls like a house of cards, trapping some inside and pushing away others. It’s terrible, he thinks, as his bright blue eyes meet the cloudy surface of doubt and uncertainty. And demons, them again, thrive like they never did before.

Now more than ever, little devils crawl out of the gates of Hell and poison humanity with their heinous games. Some morph themselves into forms akin to humans, blend in and start cults in the name of Lucifer and some stay true to themselves, haunting people here and there, testing their resolves, putting their faith to trials. More and more people are leaving God’s side. It’s bad, it’s unacceptable. Those demons—

“An angel?” —demons like you; devil with a face of an angel. “Even better,” you smile, but there’s nothing but malice in the gesture, “an archangel,” you inhale the divine scent that surrounds a man in front. That’s what brought you here, to a house that seemed to be stained in his divine energy. You tend to haunt the biggest believers, it’s fun to see them crumble, but you didn’t expect an actual saint. “It must be my lucky day,” you purr. Lovely.

Satoru has been warned about you before he moved onto his quest to rid the world of the dark powers that spread its tendrils among humans and it only took a short glimpse before he knew that it’s you who his brothers have been telling him about. It’s you who is told to bring angels down to Hell, to cause their banishment from Heaven. He’s lost one of his siblings because of your wrongdoings. You’re nothing but bad news, a demon so beautiful you’d easily convert even the most devoted believer into a sinner. You’ve been spreading nothing but doubt and fear, savoring the fruit of your doings with pleasure. You’re having fun on earth, it’s much more entertaining than all hells combined. You love to hear how people blame gods for every inconvenience when you can clearly see what led them down the path of bad luck. You whisper little hints into their non-expecting ears, encourage them and watch the dread wash over their faces. It's a cruel game you play but it's rooted deeply into your nature.

“It’s an odd excitement in your voice, demon,” Satoru retorts firmly and his eyes follow you as you circle him. It’s predatory, he feels like a pray underneath your curious, taunting gaze and he nags himself for it — he’s above you, you’re just a demon. There’s nothing you can do to break his spirit, he’s above all your tricks.

“Oh, forgive me,” you lower your head, but nothing in the gesture spells disrespect more than a smirk that dances on your mouth. Slowly you make your way back in front of him and then, you plop onto the bed to your right. You bounce few times on the soft mattress and dart your head up, looking at him, challenging him. He refuses.

“You’re in no search of forgiveness.”

“What gave it away?” You’re cocky, huffing an air out of your lungs in a voiceless chuckle and tilting your head more to the side. There’s a danger to your silhouette, you’re confident. You are a sin.

Satoru lets out a sigh and his eyes narrow. “What could have not given it away?” He questions and yet another laugh cuts through the otherwise silent atmosphere of the room. It’s melodic, it’s… pretty?

“Smart boy… Your name?”

“Satoru.”

“Not truly a name I expected,” you bare your teeth in a smile and Satoru notices the sharpness of your fangs. They are not quite animalistic but much sharper than his own. It fits.

“I travel through people a lot, I have taken a name akin to their own,” he explains, keeping his tone somewhat dry as he studies you. You’re not demonic per se. In fact, you’re barely even scary if he compares you to the thousands of demons he’s encountered in his existence. They are usually tainted with darkness, often bearing features of animals or mystical creatures. Scales and horns seemed to be usual on their bodies and eyes that shown nothing but abyss, but you — you’re nothing of it. You seem too inviting. There’s attractiveness to the way you look; your eyes are a little lidded and engulfed by rows of eyelashes, your lips seem as if they were created specifically to tempt, to kiss. Your frame doesn’t stray from what Satoru would see among humans and your skin doesn’t bear any signs of disfigure or scales. If not for the aura that surrounds you and the way mischief glints in your eyes, one could easily mistake you with an actual angel. No wonder why it is so easy for you to spread doubt.

“That’s fair,” you shrug and push yourself up. As you pass Satoru, a chill runs down his back as the darkness stretches behind you. He watches as you look around the place, running your fingertips across the surface of the desk and few shelves. You touch the spines of books that decorate them, tenderly rub the top of the ceramic figure in a shape of a little cherub. There’s something cat-like in a way you curiously explore the area, seemingly oblivious to the watchful gaze that follows you.

“If turning into nothing isn’t on your list of wishes, I’d advise you to go back where you came from,” the angel speaks after a little while, taking a step into your direction and you chuckle, sparing him a short glance from the corner of your eye. It’s brief, but it makes him stop.

“Good advice,” you muse, taunting him with the intonation of the syllables and he hates how easily you throw him off balance. “I’m not the best in following instructions though.”

“You seem to struggle with more than just that.” It’s a jab and you raise your eyebrow before you fully turn towards him. It’s only an accident that you knock the little figurine off the shelf and it breaks against the hardwood floor. “Your playtime on earth is over, demon.”

“Oh, my playtime on earth has just begun, angel.”

“If you refuse to comply, I’ll be forced to take you to Heaven where you’ll be trialed and punished for every deplorable crime you have committed against the greater plan of God.”

“There’s no need for me to go up to Heaven when I see Heaven came down to me,” you chuckle, resting your eyes on his face for few seconds before you allow them to run down his figure and you admire. He is a sight to behold, a stature of toned flesh and muscles balanced into something truly divine. “I need to admit, you’re very nice on the eyes. Such a beautiful angel.”

Oh, you’re dangerous. Your voice just like honey warms Satoru from the inside out. He feels his heart rate increasing and his breathing becoming shallower as you admire him so openly. He should be used to it, he is used to being worshipped by mortals, but not by a creature of your kind. He watches you approach him, your steps confident between the ceramic pieces of a broken cherub and he feels his resolve begin to falter as you playfully prod his chest with your long, pointy nail. Then you drag it down his pectoral, run it across his stomach and he grabs your wrist before you reach his waistline.

“I will not play your games, demon,” he states, looking you in the eyes with forced calm and firm voice.

“No? You seem to be a little… troubled.”

“Do not mistake my confusion for submission. I am an archangel, I will not allow myself to be corrupted by your alluring presence,” he states a little too harshly and he hates it. There’s something so utterly irresistible about you that makes him think of giving in. It makes him want to taste the temptation and deep down he knows that he had already lost. His thoughts are consumed by the pictures of you, it’s against everything he knows, it’s against everything he is.

And it’s all that you are. A play of taunt and seduction. A wild, untamed soul entangled in dark shades of evil, a temptress with one objective rooted deeply into your core. Chaos.

“I am sure you can resist me,” you tease, getting even closer and you lean in, running the tip of your nose along the side of his neck. “Oh, you smell so good. So pure and innocent.”

“Enough.” He groans and it’s final. You laugh, but he doesn’t find it funny. Your hot breath lingers on his skin long after you distance yourself from him. Your hands raise in a mock surrender but it’s only a moment before you resume your game.

“You know what I find interesting?” A question leaves your mouth as you twirl in the dim light of the nightstand lamp and sit on top of the window edge. The night wind gently messes your hair and your eyes twinkle with the spark of playful evil. “You, angels, are always so strict and set that you don’t need any pleasure and all… why would it be?” Your tone is a derision of curiosity, you carefully pick and choose your words to form sentences obscure, unclear.

“My body has been crafted with a purpose much greater than to experience carnal needs and craves,” he says, firm on his beliefs despite the warmth coursing through his veins. “Human pleasures stand below my existence; the essence of an archangel is much more monumental. I was designed, both in mind and body, to focus solely on my duties and responsibilities, leaving no room for personal desires.” The answer is practiced, it flows in a way he’s used to tell it, however this time he knows that he’s lying to himself and everyone else. He’s lying in front of a demon, and oh, you know so well that he does. It’s amusing. It’s delicious. You want more. You want to break him.

“If that would be the case, why did your beloved god create you with a dick, huh?” You’re blunt, too blunt for Satoru’s liking but he has to let that slide, otherwise he’d flush bright red.

“My creator did not intend me to experience sexual pleasure. Instead, He believes I should focus solely on my sacred duties without being distracted by carnal desires.” He tries again, internally feeling all of his defenses crumbling and you laugh, as if you can tell the words mean nothing.

“I bet I could make you cum by as much as flicking my tongue over your nipple.”

There goes the blush. Satoru feels it creep up his chest and neck, his face and to the tips of his ears. The deep shade of crimson contrasts starkly against his pale complexion and pristine white hair and he closes his eyes, tries to compose himself but your giggles make it so difficult. You’re content, he knows it, you’re a demon, for god’s sake. It’s your tactic to break humans, a form of pulling at the most primal strings, but he’s not a human, he’s above all of them, he shouldn’t break just like that. It’s a turmoil. Satoru hates the feeling, he hates the way his body, the perfect creation designed by his father, reacts to the picture you planted into his mind. It shouldn’t be happening, why is this happening?

“Breathe, angel,” your voice is a whisper, it’s right against Satoru’s mouth. He feels your breath on his skin, the tip of your nose running down his cheek, your tongue tracing his jawline. His heart struggles to keep up, it’s too much, it’s too close, you’re too much. Inhale. Exhale. He forces himself to breathe, a little too shallow, a little too fast. His body is tense, you’re too close.

He won’t do this.

All defense mechanisms flare up in Satoru’s body, he stills, his eyes stay squeezed shut. Your hands dance atop of his shoulders, trace the shapes of his form and he feels you. You toy with him, your claws run down his chest, your fingertips tease the edges of his neckline, the white collar of his shirt. Calm down. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, he shouldn’t feel it. Why does it feel right? It’s not right. It’s not angelic, you’re a demon, you want to corrupt him, to destroy him.

He cannot do this.

His fists clench up to his sides and you hum the softest melodies under your breath, as you lean in more and more. You exhale, but it’s different than his ragged breaths. You’re relaxed, he doesn’t have to see you to know you’re smiling. You take a step and he takes one back. It’s paralyzing. Satoru’s thoughts are overtaken by pictures of you, by pictures he has never allowed himself to project. It’s one of your tricks, isn’t it?

He can’t—

It feels warm. His whole body feels warm and it coils, somewhere below his bellybutton, a knot of tension he has yet to experience. It puts a haze to his thoughts, blurs the persistent image of your sinful tongue and he doesn’t understand it fully. A sequence of twitches and trembles send his mind into panic and he falls. His knees buckle, the edge of the mattress causes them to bend and he grabs onto the closest thing, onto you, when his body drops onto the mattress. The soft bounce ripples through him and he feels you above him. You giggle, it’s quiet and playful and it vibrates through the skin over his collarbone the moment you press your lips there.

“S-stop,” he mutters. It’s a weak plea concurring with a feeble squeeze on your hips. His eyes flare open, he feels feverish. You’re right on top of him but not quite touching him enough. Your hips are in the air, you’re taking it slow, you like to play with your prey.

“Yeah? You want me to stop?” You coo. Patronizing tone of your voice envelop him in a veil of mockery and he heats up again. Your dainty, swift fingers deal with the buttons before he has a chance to notice, his fogged-up mind struggling to keep up. “You’re gonna have to be more convincing than this, angel.”

He—

Your tongue circle around his nipple and Satoru moans. It’s a cry, a sound of an angel falling into a trap of a demon. An angel losing itself in something unholy, tasting the fruit that’s forbidden. And you smile against his skin, teasing the hardening bud with your teeth. They’re sharp against his sensitive skin and he hisses shortly before you soothe the ache with the warmth of your muscle. It’s wet and hot against his skin and Satoru’s brain short-circuit.

Your hand explores his stomach, tracing the stretched-out muscles that twitch every time you touch them. He arches off the bed, his body leaning into the sin while his mind tries to fight it — a losing battle of everything that’s divine in him against the carnal desires that weren’t supposed to be there.

Lust is a foreign concept to Satoru. He’s seen it in humans, he’s seen souls losing their purity to the wicked pleasures. He’s seen those shameless people giving into lascivious lifestyles, searching for stimulus so depraved and vulgar that each time he witnessed them, he wondered how could one’s faith loose to something so salacious. How could God create such weakness, but he believed that even the souls that lost their path in the indecency could find a way back into the Father’s grace. Would he be able to get back?

“P—haah—please,” he whimpers, pathetic against all of his instincts and his hand finds the back of your head. Your hair feels soft against his palm, like silk and honey and he shivers at the contact. You’re unbothered by his attempts, licking and sucking his delicate skin as if he’s one of those desserts people like so much.

Satoru’s nipples are swollen, the skin around them red from your frisky abuse. More and more sounds escape his mouth, it’s pathetic, how he whines underneath you, how you rendered him completely helpless. And he panics again. It feels odd, his body tenses and he doesn’t know why. Hot blood floods down his body, it feels torturously tight in his pants. He twitches, his fingers curl against your head, tugging at the beautiful threads of your hair and his eyes flutter shut.

Suddenly, it’s too hot. It’s wet, it feels sticky against his sensitive skin. A wave of relief washes over him, it tickles something inside his brain just the right way. It’s feels gratifying, addicting. Is that what pleasure feels like? Are those stars dancing in front of his eyes a sign of fulfillment? Satoru’s mind is hazy, everything feels blurry, but he relaxes into the feeling. His thigh still trembles, the lower parts of his stomach muscles contract a little less now, a little slower and he feels it in his pants. It’s satisfying, it’s foreign. It’s a bliss.

“Did my beautiful, beautiful angel made a mess?” You coo once more and it sounds a little less mocking than all of your previous sentences. Or maybe it’s Satoru’s mind playing tricks on him.

“Y-yeah… I think I did,” he pants out. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, on the heavens above and he wonders if He saw that? Father sees everything. Have Satoru’s brothers also witnessed that? Were they enjoying the front row seats to his demise?

You’re already on your way down, pressing sinful kisses to his sacred body as your fingers undo the button of his pants and pull down the zipper. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll clean you up,” you purr, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him. You pull the fabric down. His boxers are wet as you peel them off his body. Hot strings of cum stretch between his skin and underwear, it coats his cock and the flesh around it, trickling down to his balls.

You gasp at the sight, it’s truly a vision of pure angelic glory. He’s hard, still, the veins pulsate ever so slightly around the thick girth, leading your eyes to the pink, glistening tip. “You surely are his favorite,” you muse before your tongue darts out, eager to taste him.

Satoru’s breath hitches in his chest and he hesitates to look down. Maybe if he doesn’t see it, it won’t be as bad of a sin, maybe it’s not his end. But it sure does feel good. Is he allowed to feel good? He moves his head, eyes dropping lower until they meet the sight of you. You shot him a smile, a grin worthy of a devil as you lap at the white seed sticking to his flesh. It’s lewd, the way your tongue works around his curves and edges. He hears your soft purr; he feels it every time your lips close around the sensitive tip of his cock. It’s messy, your chin is slick from his spent, there’s some on the tip of your nose, it coats your reddened mouth and greedy fingers. “You taste divine,” you murmur, tracing the underside of his member with the flat of your tongue and then, your hand wraps around him. The gentle pressure squeezes a moan out of Satoru’s mouth. He can’t look away. Not when your eyes are fixed on him. He sees the glint of mischief in the color of your eyes, it’s almost reddish as it glows in the dim lights.

You play with him, eliciting moan after moan from his troubled body, feeding of the internal turmoil that seeps through his skin making him that much more delectable. Your mouth works in tandem with the steady pumps of your hand and you feel him twitching already. He’s so innocent, so inexperienced that you just know he’s gonna come too soon, but it excites you. You want more from him, he’s sweet on your tongue, addicting. And oh, isn’t he beautiful? With his face contorting in pleasure, his cheeks flushed in an adorable shade of deep red and eyebrows drawn together. His lips red and bitten, parted just slightly to let all those sweet whimpers escape. His eyes are blissfully glazed, the blue oceans wet with tears and shaky. What a sight.

And then he moans again, those cerulean orbs disappear from your vision as his lids drop down. His back lifts off the bedsheets, hands clenching against the soft cotton and you see his head tilting back as orgasm overwhelms him. His hips buck upwards, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat as he sprouts his seed, painting the inside of your mouth white. You pump him through it, prolonging the pleasure.

“What a sight,” you purr, licking away any traces of sin from his skin. “All clean. It’s as if nothing happened,” and here is your usual taunt. “Well, I guess your boxers do give it away, aren’t they?”

He doesn’t respond. Heart trashes in Satoru’s chest as he slowly comes down from the intense high he’s experienced, he gasps on air desperately and releases all the tensed muscles. A smile stretches his lips, he huffs at first, and then laughs helplessly, as tears run down his cheekbones.

“You’re gonna leave me here, broken and useless,” he says, as you climb upwards and lean to kiss the salty drops off his face. “Are you happy? I bet you are, demon.”

His tone is odd, it’s both colder than before and softer at the same time. It’s accusing, it’s hopeless. “I can’t say I’m not satisfied,” you tell him and he scoffs, turning his head towards you and you drop onto the bed next to his defeated body. There’s a sin now engraved down to the very morrow of his bones, his chastity stained irrevocably and his soul threatening to shatter. “But I don’t wish to leave you here to your demise.”

“Oh no? What do you wish for then?”

“Besides the obvious desire to fuck you, I’d be content if you stayed with me here, on earth.”

“So vulgar,” he exhales, his body both cringing at the sound and getting excited all over again. “I was not created to fuck.”

“I think I proved my point that you’re perfectly capable of those primitive carnal desires you declined so much.”

Satoru closes his eyes. How did that happen, how could that happen? It must’ve been a cruel joke. He’s an archangel, God’s favorite, he’s the honored one. He was supposed to be above all demonic tricks and seductions, those devilish powers have never reached him for hundreds of years. And now, what is he supposed to do?

“I suppose heaven won’t take me back now,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. Maybe if he seeks penance, maybe if he atones for his sins.

“What a shame,” you muse, cupping his cheek in your palm. Your finger trace idle circles into the skin over his cheekbone; it’s a delicate touch and you feel how hot his face is, damp from the tears and flushed. “Heaven lost its most beautiful angel.”

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