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sceletaflores · 20 days ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

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blueivyy99 · 3 months ago

Text

Calm and Serenity (Part 2)

Sylus x Non!Mc

summary: you didn't know what sylus saw in you. he said you were calm, quiet and serene and that's what he needs. you believed it. he showed it. not until little miss hunter came. she's everything you're not. news that she's in danger can make the ever so calm sylus to run and leave everything behind. it made you think, would he do that for you as well?

tags: angst, romance, hurt and comfort, confused sylus, non-mc reader (this is it for now)

note: thank you for the love in the previous chapter 🥹

Series Masterlist

It's been a month or two since the last time you've been with Sylus. It saddens you that the time you get to spend together is cut short, only seeing each other at night when he pleases to have dinner or greet you goodnight.

You asked Luke and Kieran about what's happening, but they don't know either. They just know it has something to do with Miss Hunter, about Aether Core, about something that you have very little knowledge about. You mentally noted to search about it later.

“He is very grumpy lately,” Luke said, "He was glaring at us like he wants to skin us alive whenever me and my twin are being a little louder than normal.”

"The only one safe from his anger is Miss Hunter,” Kieran added. "I don't appreciate that Boss is playing favorites in our team.”

You tried not to let out a shaky breath. Luke noticed and he had to elbow Kieran to make him shut up.

"Sorry, Y/N.”

You gave him a small smile. "It's okay. I'll try and catch Sylus one of these days. I'll talk to him.”

The twins scurry away while arguing. They think they offended you and they are passing on the blame with each other.

On normal days, it's not easy to get you offended but lately, every little thing just makes you … sensitive.

Maybe it started when you wanted that crow brooch that is neatly placed on Sylus's table …

When you asked him for it he just said, “It's for Miss Hunter,"

He took it from your hand. Albeit gently, it still weighed heavy in your heart.

You know you don't always get your way but with the little seeds of jealousy slowly growing in your heart, it's easy to feel hurt and feel neglected.

You just wanted that damn brooch and you know that he can buy another piece. Or even make you a custom-made one, one that is more inclined on your taste.

You took a deep breath.

Sylus is stressed. You know that and it's not right to add more to his burden. It's just a brooch after all.

“I-I didn't know, but when you have the time to grab one, remember me, okay?” you said.

"Next time, sweetie.” He replied and quickly went back to reading reports.

You don't know if he took your words seriously, but you have enough faith in him to trust that he did.

Or maybe the disappointment started when you wanted to go to Linkon.

There's a newly opened arcade shop that you're really itching to go.

Normally, Sylus would agree and watch you play. He's not the best when it comes to the claw machine, anyway.

So imagine your surprise when he rejected your offer. Not only that, the answer that followed chipped away at your heart little by little.

“Me and Miss Hunter already went there. It's not as fun as the other ones you've tried. You're just gonna waste your time there. Not even new plushies,” he even had the audacity to roll his eyes at that.

It seemed like he didn't think before speaking or he didn't see anything wrong with what he said.

Truthfully, there is none. The logical part of you knows he didn't say anything wrong. But for fuck's sake! Really telling your girlfriend that you went to the arcade with another woman? That's new. That's not something she expected of Sylus.

“You went with her?" you asked. You're anticipating his answer. Praying it's something logical. Something acceptable.

Please tell me it has something to do with those missions.

He looked at you, trying to see what's in your mind but you didn't show anything. Blocking any negative emotions from seeping on the cracks of your face. You tried to look as curious and as genuine as you can be.

Thankfully, he believed that.

“Yes. We went there after getting some intel around the area. She dragged me inside and she played until her heart's content. I remembered she went home with that crow plushie with a bib. She looked happy,"

You almost wanted to scoff at his face. You wanted that plushe as well, he seemed to forget about that. If it's only about the plushie maybe you can push down these negative feelings but here he is looking so endeared while saying that. As if he's not talking to his girlfriend.

Patience. Patience.

“I see. Good for her.” you said. "I also want that crow stuffed toy. Good thing to know they have them."

You tried giving him a hint. It's not like you to make anyone guess what's on your mind.

But then there's silence. And a beep on his phone. He tore his gaze away from you and your statement long forgotten.

At that point, you're holding yourself together trying not to scream and yell at him.

Maybe that's where it started. Maybe it's when you know that the distractions were not just caused by the missions but by Miss Hunter herself.

You sighed. It's evening and Sylus is still nowhere to be found. You texted him but you're met with silence. You wanted to call, but you hesitated. It feels like you don't have the right to do it.

Worry starts gnawing at you when Luke and Kieran hurriedly go out. They didn't even have the chance to say a proper goodbye.

Minutes kept ticking, and you heard it.

Explosions.

Your heart stopped and you wanted to run to where it was because something tells you that Sylus is there. He's in danger.

But before you can even step out of the base, Sylus's men stopped you.

“Boss’s orders to not let the Madame go out when the mission is in full swing. Please wait for him here."

You wanted to pull your hair out. You're trembling with worry but anywhere you go, someone will stop you. You can't even sneak out because that will surely trigger the alarms.

With a heavy heart you slumped on the couch.

“Fucking hell, Sylus what is happening when are you coming home!” you muttered to yourself.

You kept pacing and pacing every second seemed to last a lifetime.

Until the door opened.

And there he was, shirt torn, hair deshiveled and a few scratches on his body.

"Thank God you're alive!” you exclaimed and caught his heavy body before he lost consciousness.

"Sylus? Sylus!” you tried shaking him, but he won't wake up.

You settled him on the couch and grabbed the nearest first aid kit you can reach. Sylus might have the fastest regeneration in the world but it won't ease your worries about the small cuts that still remains on his body.

You tried suppressing your tears seeing him like this but you just can't. As you press the cotton on his cuts, you can't help but open your mouth and nag him about being careless.

“I know you think that this body is invincible, but please be careful! You need to come home to me. You have to come home to me. No matter how I'm annoyed at you right now, you don't have the rights to make me worry like this.”

“What's so important in that mission that you exhaust yourself like this? What's so important about Miss Hunter that you're willing to do such great lengths?"

You know that he can't hear you, but still you talked to him until you calmed down and ask his men to help you settle him in bed after changing him. You called the physician to check him up for anything. You kept yourself busy to shrugg of the nerves but those questions still linger in your head.

Sylus is a strategist even though he looks smug and arrogant. He carefully plans everything and tries to move in quiet only letting the results speak for themselves.

But this? This is not the usual.

Explosions everywhere and declaring a full on war with his enemies is not his style. You know that there's nothing really beneficial for him in this deal with Miss Hunter.

You managed to understand a bit about what their goals are. Getting that Aether core for Miss Hunter.

Tough mission, yes. But Sylus won't grab it if he won't benefit from it. And that's what you're left puzzled with. Sylus is a businessman, everything should be give and take.

So? What's in it for him?

You didn't expect the answer to voluntarily come to you. You went to his study to look for something or anything that you can help him with now that he's still unconscious when you stumbled upon a journal.

You thought it was not Sylus's. You never see him as someone who will write down his thoughts but you were dead wrong.

You opened it expecting it to be a list of things related to Onychinus, but you were greeted with phrases, sentences and some sketches about Miss Hunter.

You read each of them, it was a jumble of words. You almost thought it was a fairytale.

Past lives.

Dragon and Sorceress.

Kindred Spirits.

Energy Linkage.

Sweet Evil Trap.

All of it is too much. Too much for your poor little heart to take. And from what you understood, Miss Hunter is from his past. Someone who has a part of his soul.

Someone he waits for.

And the bitter realization although still unfounded, you concluded that maybe she's someone he still loves.

But what about you? What's your place in the grand scheme of things?

“I’m keeping you around because you’re still useful.”

Those lines ring in your ears. Sylus always say that to everyone but you. You thought that maybe you are an exception. That you're not someone disposable to him because you matter.

And as you soak up all the information that you knew, you started to doubt yourself as well.

note: aaackkk thank u for reading lemme know your thoughts! Part 3 soonest!

#sylus x non mc #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #caleb x non mc #rafayel x non mc #non mc reader

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sprenthecreator · 3 months ago

Text

D.A | NEW MAGIC WAND

Male reader x Sohyun

word count: 5.2k

tags: the wolf ears are still on, i couldn't find a decent picture of her with that outfit so there's a gif, she's lowkey upset

🔙 Previous update | 📄 NEW MAGIC WAND

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"Rory, honey, I've told you a thousand times that you can't come with me to Italy," you told your cat, who was lying inside your empty suitcase, staring at you. "You have to stay here taking care of Helios. And Sohyun will take care of both of you."

Of course, the rebellious kitten didn't listen to you. You didn't blame her. Whenever you were going to be away from home for a while, she sensed it and acted that way, as if trying to convince you to either stay or take her with you. A touch of yours under her chin made her rub her head against your hand. She was too cute to scold.

"Okay, you can stay there for a bit," you relented, standing up. "But only until I finish folding my clothes."

You were inside your walking closet, packing all the clothes you were going to take on your three-week trip to Europe. It wasn't a vacation, by any means; your plans included some IRL streams, and you'd also contacted one of your friends in Milan to buy you a computer so you could settle in comfortably and do your usual streams.

But the reason was that, for the first time, you were traveling to your hometown for business, as the new official ambassador for Prada, no less.

When the offer arrived in your email last month, you couldn't believe it. A streamer being an ambassador for an Italian haute couture brand? It sounded ridiculous. Unnatural. People in your profession didn't usually venture into that world; it was like water and oil. But when you thought about it with a cool head and looking back, it made perfect sense.

For starters, you were Italian. It might not seem like it, but it was a plus. Second, you were at the peak of your popularity and constantly on the rise (you had recently reached 10 million followers on Instagram and had close to 2 million followers on Twitch), with an audience that, while mostly casual, you knew many appreciated your tastes as much as you did. Third, your Instagram was like that of a model, since you loved fashion and your photos were perfect. And fourth, but not least, you were devoted to art. In general. You constantly talked about music, literature, films, and even painting. Besides, you already had successful collaborations in that field, such as your speaker line with Sony or your recent commercials with Sennheiser and Samsung.

So yes, you had earned that with blood, sweat, and tears. You deserved it more than anyone. Maybe your profession and the way you constantly made a fool of yourself in front of a camera didn't make much sense with that direction of your life. But the real you certainly did. The man with dreams and aspirations.

On the other hand, that trip also meant you'd see and be with the two women who ruled your world. Rina was also attending Milan Fashion Week as a Prada ambassador, and Wony was attending Paris Fashion Week as a Miu Miu ambassador. You, now a Prada ambassador, had also been appointed as a friend of the house, so you were invited to attend as well.

However, before going to Milan, you had to make a little ‘touristy’ stop in Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance. At first it wasn't in your plans, but a certain Aussie girl with the same taste as you for art and fashion had told you she wanted to go there to have a little fun and get to know the city. And in her words, who better than you to be her tour guide? You had done the same thing last year, when in a fit of extravagance, you, her, Hanni, and Minji went to Rome. The thing is, of course, those two nights had been... eventful, to say the least.

Dani was scheduled to arrive a day after you, which was perfect, as it gave you time to book a nice place for the two of you and make a little itinerary to offer her when she arrived. Your flight was in two days, and there you were, deciding what the hell to pack from all the clothes in your closet, which wasn't exactly a small amount. In fact, you had a feeling you were going to need an extra suitcase. What a pain in the ass.

The sound of a call on your phone made you shift your attention away from your clothes for a moment. When you took it out of your pocket, you saw it was Sohyun. You answered it and brought the phone to your ear.

"Hi Nup..."

"Are you home?!" Sohyun said on the other end of the line. She sounded upset.

"Uhm... are you okay?"

"Are you home or not?!" she insisted. You rarely heard her like that. It sounded like she was talking through gritted teeth.

"Y-yeah, but I'm a little..." you looked down at your folded clothes.

"I don't care! I'm on my way!"

Then she hung up on you. You stared blankly, still holding the phone to your ear, not understanding what the hell had just happened. Sohyun had a fansign today, from what you understood. Had she already left? Was she mad at you? It wouldn't be the first time; sometimes she behaved like your mother, and loved to scold you for every little thing. But no, you had the feeling it was something else. The approach wasn't the same. A theory circulated in your mind based on past experiences, but you hoped you were wrong.

While waiting for Sohyun to arrive, you continued pulling clothes out of your closet: trousers, t-shirts, coats, and just about anything else you liked. It was a selective and meticulous process, since you liked almost everything, and it was like choosing between all your children at once. In the end, you thought you'd made a good selection, but the process of starting to put things in the suitcase was interrupted by the ringing of your apartment doorbell.

Praying to all the apostles, you went outside and then to the door. As you opened it, a pair of berry balm-flavored lips crashed against yours before you could say anything. Sohyun had your face cradled in her hands and forced you back inside. You instinctively grabbed her waist, exposed that day by the outfit she was wearing. She closed the door behind her with her foot and pulled away to look you in the eyes.

"I hate that damn bitch! Ugh!" Sohyun growled, and without giving you a chance to speak, she kissed you again fiercely, using her tongue to attack yours.

The theory circulating in your mind, unfortunately, turned out to be true. ‘That damn bitch’ was Xinyu. Who knows what the hell she's done now?

Sohyun stumbled forward with you, causing your lower back to hit the edge of your kitchen island. You wrapped your arms around her waist, pressing her firmly against you. Her big tits pressed against your chest. She was breathing hard and deep, either very horny or very angry. Maybe both.

"Nupy, what the fuck is going on...?" you managed to mutter, but Sohyun didn't respond. Instead, she lowered one hand to your cock and gave it a firm squeeze through your fleece shorts before massaging it, knowing you'd get hard in no time. In response, you lowered both hands to her cute, firm ass and squeezed it. Those jeans definitely did justice to that beautiful piece of cake.

When Sohyun felt the outline of your hard cock beneath her hand, she pulled away and took your hand, pulling you with her across the apartment, toward the living room, taking brisk, swift strides.

"Sohyun-ah..." you looked at her from behind, sensing that she was about to explode with anger. No answers again. She was so angry that she didn't even take off her wolf ears. They looked so damn hot on her, though.

As you arrived in front of the main couch, Sohyun sat right in the middle and pulled you down by your hoodie. She didn't move you, but from the way she glared at you, you knew she wanted you to kneel. You did, and while you opened your knees slightly to lower yourself further, Sohyun quickly worked on her jeans, pulling them and her panties off her legs after taking off her shoes. Then she spread her legs, sat further on the edge of the couch, grabbed your hair, and pulled you straight towards her pretty, freshly shaved, and noticeably wet pussy.

"Mmgh..." Sohyun groaned as you stuck out your tongue and began to eat that silky, tender flesh, delicious to your taste buds.

It was strange that Sohyun would grab your hair like that. Her fingers were tangled and gripped in strands of your hair, at scalp level to make it tight. She wasn't going to let you catch a break. She didn't seem to care. When you looked up seconds later, you noticed her eyes closed, stifling moans against her puckered lips. Chances were she was sexually frustrated by something the Chinese princess had done. Poor thing.

But if your best friend needed relief, you were happy to give it to her. Especially when her pussy was so delicious, and her thighs so soft and creamy, and her face so stupidly sexy when she was horny. Hell, even those damn wolf ears were a gigantic plus that were turning you on just as much as she was.

Knowing that doing a good job would be rewarded, you put your subby skills to the test and let Sohyun do whatever she wanted with you while you ate her out. Did she pull you too hard? It was nothing. Pale, fleshy thighs now squishing into your head on both sides, making you question how much oxygen you really needed to live? You were thrilled by it.

Sohyun moaned louder, still with her eyes closed, constantly pulling you against her pussy. Her thighs had you deafened, both pressing hard, and her hips bucked up and down, grinding against your mouth and nose as you moved your tongue in ways you didn't even know you were capable of. Seconds later, her moans grew higher and longer. Until, suddenly, she lifted her hips and exploded into your mouth.

"Mmmgh, yes!" Sohyun whimpered, trembling. Her thighs were about to crush your head like a soft watermelon. "Fuck yesss!!"

Her pussy dripped with those delicious juices that your tongue collected, while you felt your scalp teetering on the fine line between staying in place and being ripped off. You were gripping her thighs, which were tense and trembling until the moment they released your head.

As soon as you moved away from her pussy, Sohyun grabbed the collar of your hoodie and pulled it up.

"Come here," Sohyun urged, her cheeks flushed and her mouth slightly ajar.

You stood up and sat on the couch, sinking as deep into the seat as possible. At the same time, Sohyun stood between your knees, yanking your fleece shorts and boxers off in one fell swoop. Then she straddled you, planted her feet on the couch, and grabbed your throbbing cock to slowly impale herself on it.

"Oh fuck..." Sohyun groaned, her hands on your abdomen beneath your hoodie as she took every inch of your cock inside her. "Just what I needed."

When she completely lowered herself and your shaft disappeared inside her pussy, you both moaned, you a little louder than her, perhaps. Her walls felt soft and overwhelmingly warm, hugging your cock from every direction and driving you crazy with the sensation. You placed your hands under her thighs, and Sohyun moved her hands up to clasp her ten fingers around your neck and begin moving them up and down.

"Do you like how that feels?" Sohyun asked through gritted teeth, squeezing her fingers in a way that was uncharacteristic of hers. She was usually quite dominant when you two fucked, but not like that. It didn't bother you either. "Do you like it, bitch?"

What the fuck. Never in your entire friendship had she ever called you that, not even when she was mad at you. It was almost as if she were talking to...

Jesus Christ. What did Xinyu do?

"Y-yes," you managed with a nod, even though Sohyun was squeezing hard enough that your words didn't come out so easily. "I fucking love it."

"Oh yeah? What if I go harder?" Sohyun did, making the acoustic space of the apartment fill with clapping sounds as she bounced faster on your cock. "What if I leave you with pelvic pain? Wouldn't that bother you?"

You wanted to say no in the slightest, but you couldn't speak. Sohyun had you pinned, silent, and giving you a ride that was leaving you breathless. You didn't even remember that you were supposed to be able to use your hands, and that you had them still under her thighs. So you raised them a bit and gripped those firm buttocks as they slammed into you.

"God, this cock feels so good," Sohyun groaned, dropping her head back. She let go of your neck to place her hands on your chest. "So good!!"

Sohyun gave a sudden downward thrust and ground against you the moment she came, in a series of violent tremors in her lower body that made you think she was going to disassemble like a LEGO brick. Her squeals echoed through the quiet living room, delighting your ears.

"Fuck," Sohyun moaned, and leaned forward to cup your face in her hands and kiss you. "Give me more, give me more!" she whimpered against your lips.

No visible exhaustion from her recent orgasm, Sohyun continued bouncing on your cock, somehow going even harder now and making you think that leaving you with pelvic pain wasn't even a joke. You moved your hands to her waist, moaning against her lips between deep breaths, trying not to run out of air with each slam of her ass against you.

Sohyun came again not long after, sinking her teeth into your lower lip as she bounced slowly but strongly. She held your face firmly, holding it still so she could kiss you comfortably and muffle her moans against your lips. When her orgasm passed, she straightened, got off you, and knelt beside you to take your cock in her hand and begin to stroke it rapidly.

"Cum, you little whore," Sohyun hissed, staring into your eyes with fire behind her gaze.

"S-Sohyun?" You frowned, confused, but strangely too horny to give it much thought.

"Didn't you hear me or something?" Sohyun raised an eyebrow, jerking you off furiously. "I said cum."

Like a submissive little bitch, you started to moan, clenching your buttocks and lifting your hips slightly. Sohyun wouldn't let you take your eyes off her, and you didn't even dare try to infuriate her more than she already was. So, with your eyes on hers, it took you a little less than a minute to cum all over her hand. But she kept going.

"S-Sohyun!" You writhed desperately as Sohyun overstimulated you, making your cock hurt like hell itself. "Stop! P-Please! Sohyun-ah!!"

Sohyun abruptly released your cock, and you were finally able to relax your hips and buttocks. Her hand was covered in your cum, and the rest had fallen on your lower abdomen and pubic area. A mess she took care of by bending forward to clean every wet area with her tongue, collecting your load in her mouth. You wanted her to suck your cock, but she ignored it and sat back on her heels, now licking her hand, an image that, combined with those damn wolf ears, drove you crazy.

You jumped up and pushed Sohyun back. She fell back across the couch, and you quickly got on top of her. Sohyun frowned and tried to wriggle away, but you grabbed her hands and pulled them above her head. After a little struggle, she stayed still. She was looking at you like she wanted to kill you, but still.

"Calm the fuck down, Park Sohyun," you said, looking into her eyes. Your crotches were touching, but that wasn't the point. "I'm serious."

"Don't tell me to...!" Sohyun tried to protest, but you leaned a little closer to glare at her. "Ugh!!" she growled, frustrated, and finally looked away.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong or what?" You raised an eyebrow.

Sohyun's gaze blazed again, perhaps having remembered why she was there in the first place. But she wasn't looking at you like you were the scapegoat anymore.

"It's just that bitch crossed the damn line this time!" Sohyun squealed. You were supposed to take her seriously, but now those wolf ears were melting your heart. "You know how she is. One day she says she loves me, the next day she barely seems to care about me, it's so fucking confusing!"

"So...?" You urged her to continue, slowly letting go of her wrists since you knew she had calmed down.

"This morning she promised me we'd spend time together. In private. And she teased me like only she knows how all day long. All for what? So she could act distant right after the fan meeting, as if I had to beg on my knees for her damn attention!"

"And you did it, didn't you?"

"Of course I did! You know I'm weak for her."

"Aha."

"When I finally got her damn attention, we kissed," Sohyun continued, while you fixed her wolf ears on her head and smoothed down her hair. "And that bitch turned me on in less than ten seconds with her damn groping!"

"And she walked away, saying it wasn't the time and she had to do something?"

"Exactly fucking that! Ugh!"

Sohyun slammed her hand on the couch, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. A drop fell down her cheek as her pouting lips trembled.

"No, silly, please don't cry," You cupped her cheek with your hand and wiped her tears away with your thumb. "Hey, do you want me to make you something delicious to eat? Whatever you want."

"No..." Sohyun gently shook her head. "Just cuddle me, okay?"

"Aight. Shall I get you your pants? Or do you want some of my shorts?"

"Just cuddle me like this, Ezio."

Sohyun shifted onto her side, leaving you a space between her and the back of the couch you took. You slipped your right arm under her head and wrapped your other arm around her voluptuous body to snuggle her back against your chest. Her ass was pressed against your cock, which, against your will, became rock hard again within a few minutes. Rather than being annoyed, Sohyun enjoyed it and pushed her hips back to make the contact even tighter.

"Hey, I'm just supposed to cuddle you," you said softly, your face buried in the back of her neck. "What are you doing?"

"Letting you cuddle me," Sohyun replied. "But I never said you couldn't fuck me while cuddling me."

"Do you want to...?"

"We're already naked from the waist down. We have nothing to lose."

Perfect, then. There was no way you could deny your baby wolf what she wanted, especially when what she needed was your cuddles and affection. So, after grabbing your cock, you guided it between her buttocks and rubbed it against her folds a few times before taking every inch inside her, in a single smooth motion that made her moan and grip your right forearm.

Sohyun twisted her hips slightly, making sure you were as deep inside her as possible. Her warm pussy made you moan again. You moved your left hand from her waist to one of her breasts, squeezing it over her long-sleeved crop top as you began to slowly pump your hips.

"Time to take this off, huh?" you asked in her ear, referring to her top. "It's already bothering me."

"Help me then," Sohyun gasped, and propped herself up on one elbow as you lifted the long-sleeved top over her body and off her arms. Underneath, she was still wearing a tight tank top, which you also removed, leaving her in a beige bra that was the last piece to fall to the floor before revealing those soft, perfect tits.

With Sohyun now completely naked—except for her wolf ears. They were essential—you took off the scarlet hoodie you were wearing to be on equal terms with her. Then you buried your face in the side of her neck, peppering it with wet, sensual kisses complemented by equally sensual hip movements that drove every inch of your shaft in and out of her pussy.

Sohyun took your hand and brought it to her breast for you to squeeze and massage. With your right arm, you held her close to you, gradually building up to a rhythm that wasn't too strong, but fast enough to make her body jiggle with each pump. She turned her head in search of your lips, and when they met, you kissed again.

After a few seconds, you couldn't help but go faster and faster, your left hand on Sohyun's waist and your right hand across her collarbone, squeezing both of her tits. Sohyun muffled moans against your lips, holding onto your wrist and the back of your neck until she thrust her hips back and came, fucking herself against your cock as her muscles contracted and trembled. You held her close the whole time, holding her against you to feel the warmth of each other's bodies as much as possible.

"Enough cuddling, you'll do it later," Sohyun moaned into the kiss. "Fuck me from behind."

You pulled out of her and knelt as she positioned herself on her hands and knees. From behind, the view of her with those wolf ears was even better than you'd thought. Sohyun parted her knees and arched her back, stretching her arms out in front of her head to look at you over her shoulder. She bit her lip and frowned as you thrust back into her pussy.

Holding onto her waist with both hands, you continued to move your hips at a strong, steady pace. Sohyun grabbed a pillow and hugged it beneath her head, moaning against it. You squeezed both of her buttocks and moved your hands up her back to rest on the nape of her neck, leaning forward to press her head against the pillow. Inevitably, she ended up lowering her hips, remaining in a prone bone position until she came again.

As her thighs trembled and she moaned against the pillow, you lowered yourself toward her and covered her with your upper body, then grabbed her chin and made her look at you.

"Feeling better?" you asked, looking into her teary eyes.

"Not until you cum too," Sohyun replied.

"Why?"

"Because it makes me feel good that you feel good too," her expression changed. "Wait a minute, have you had dinner?"

You chuckled and kissed her forehead.

"No, I haven't had dinner, Nupy," you shook your head. "After this we can order food if you want. I don't feel like cooking right now."

"Sounds good to me," she nodded.

That matter settled, you pulled out of her and had her lie on her back to continue fucking her pussy, with her left thigh pressed against her body with your hand and her other leg resting against the back of the couch. Now you were making her tits bounce. Sohyun took the pillow from under her head and placed it over her mouth to bite it, watching you pound her. You leaned forward again, your hands on either side of her head and your body holding her thigh in position.

Sohyun came one last time, but as you too felt yourself on the verge of climax, you continued fucking her through her orgasm. Seconds later, you quickly pulled out of her, straddled her body, and grabbed the back of her head to press the tip of your cock against her tongue, masturbating until you exploded inside her mouth.

Sohyun closed her lips around your cock as you unloaded inside her, your hands on either side of her head, careful not to knock her wolf ears off. She took every drop, and you watched as her throat forced each spurt down until there was nothing left in your balls.

After your climax had passed, you pulled out of her mouth and gently grabbed her chin.

"And now?" you gasped. "Better?"

Sohyun wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned her head back onto the pillow. She crossed her hands over her chest.

"Much better," she nodded and looked up at the ceiling. "I still don't want to see her damn face, but I guess that won't go away for a while."

"I don't blame you." You reached to your left and took your phone out of your shorts pocket on the floor, then lay down next to Sohyun. She shifted onto her side to curl up against you with her arms in front of her. "What do you want to eat?"

"Hmmm," Sohyun looked at the contents of Baemin's app, where you always ordered food. "Fried chicken?"

"Aight."

You placed the order with her in less than two minutes: half-and-half fried chicken (half crispy, half with sweet and spicy sauce), garlic fries with cheese, fried rice cakes, four cans of beer, and for dessert, vanilla ice cream with honey and cornflakes. While you waited, you lay still naked on the couch playing Balatro until you received the call.

"Are you going or am I?" Sohyun asked. "Well, we both better go."

Sohyun made a move to get up, but you stopped her and shook your head.

"You stay here, silly," you said, sitting up and leaving her your phone with Balatro open. "I'll go. If you get Hanging Chad, take it without hesitation."

"And if The Wall shows up?"

"We're screwed."

You quickly dressed and went to the door to pick up what the delivery guy had brought. After thanking him, you went back inside with Sohyun, who had put on her panties and bra.

"Oh, I'll get you a sweater," you said, leaving all the bags on the coffee table for her to unpack.

Sohyun nodded and sat up, focused on your phone screen. You quickly went to your room, grabbed one of the sweaters you weren't going to bring on the trip, and handed it to her. Then, you sat down to eat while chatting about anything that came to mind. An hour later, when you'd finished everything you'd ordered, you were stuffed. The only thing left half-eaten was the ice cream, which you'd decided to save for later.

"Do you want a ride?" you asked, slumped on the couch with your hoodie up and your fingers interlaced over your stomach.

Sohyun was lying on your right, her feet up on your lap. She grimaced.

"Well, I was going to ask if I could stay here from today on," she said. "I know I was supposed to come stay in two days, but I really don't want to go to the dorm and see her."

"No, no, it's fine," you patted her calf and left your hand there. "I don't mind."

"Are you sure?"

"When have I ever said no to you?"

"I don't know, you're such a sourpuss sometimes."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure not. Anyway, I think the only problem is that I didn't bring any clothes."

"I can lend you money to buy things, if you want."

"Don't even think about it," Sohyun glared at you. "I'll have Yooyeon bring me my things."

"Whatever you want," you shrugged. "Hey, will you help me pack?"

"Yeah, but let me rest the food. I feel like I'm going to explode."

Sohyun and you rested on the couch, each doing your own things but enjoying each other's company. About ten minutes later, you went to your room and into the dressing room to pack your clothes with the help of your bestie. Between all the things you had to do, it took you about two hours to finish, and when you did, you took turns taking a shower and then going to bed.

The next day, you didn't get to spend as much time with her as you would have liked since you had to stream for about seven hours and she had a busy schedule, so you didn't see each other until 9 PM. That night, you made dinner together and watched a movie before going to sleep right away since your flight left early in the morning.

The next morning, Sohyun accompanied you to the Incheon Airport, wearing a loose-fitting outfit, a face mask, and a cap, just as a precaution. She carried the extra suitcase you'd ended up needing, and you carried your backpack, your main suitcase in one hand and your grained black leather Tom Ford briefcase, where you kept your personal belongings, in the other. It was 6am. Your flight was leaving at 9am.

"Remind me again how often your cats eat?" Sohyun asked as you were about to go to the counter to check in.

"Uhm..." You scratched your temple. "When they get unbearable and demand food until they're exhausted. I've spoiled them."

"Yeah, it shows," Sohyun extended her palm toward you. You looked at her.

"What?"

"Am I going to walk to Seoul or something? The car remote, idiot."

"Ah. Sorry, just habit."

Without realizing it, you'd put the car remote in your hoodie pocket. You took it out and placed it in her palm. It was painful to entrust your Purosangue to someone else, but if there was anyone you'd trust with it with your eyes closed and the certainty that they wouldn't crash it into some random streetlight, it was her.

"Please take care of yourself," Sohyun said, grabbing your wrist. "Don't skip meals, and please get a good night's sleep. Oh, and send me pictures."

"I will, thanks, Nupy," you pulled her towards you, into a warm hug that gave you all the strength you needed to face the day. "And you take some time and cut off contact with Xinyu. You need it."

"I'll try, but you know how she is," she replied, her chin resting on your shoulder. "Can I use your computer?"

"As long as you don't do anything stupid, yes," you said, moving away from her. "The camera lens is covered anyway."

"Aight. See you later, Leone," Sohyun handed you the suitcase.

"See you later, Nupy."

You blew her a kiss, took your suitcases in each hand, and went straight to check-in, leaving her behind. After presenting your passport, grabbing your boarding pass, and handing over your luggage, you went to security to have your backpack and briefcase checked, then went to immigration to have your passport stamped. After that, there was nothing left for you to do but go to the boarding area to wait.

A couple of hours later, you had boarded and were on your way to Florence.

#sohyun smut #triples smut #kpop smut #male reader smut #x male reader smut #x male reader #smut

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nereidprinc3ss · 8 months ago

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do you believe me now? | 9

in which we find out how the morning after went for fem!reader. you finally share with spencer after unanticipated anxieties come up. you're continually shocked by his affection for you.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ (angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (preface none of the bad stuff is done by spencer) sexual harassment, slut shaming, non consensual voyeurism of sorts, blood + pain from losing virginity, talk of rape (nothing like that actually happens), implied nonspecific age gap (someone says he looks slightly older than you) non sexual nudity, showering together, intimacy, ewww being in love is embarrassing a/n: I honestly was not gonna post this today but I decided to bc it's just Tumblr its not that deep also you can probably tell I am just creating problems bc I don't wanna let go of them...... ik this is supposed to be a smutty series btw and trust good things come to those who wait!!!but anyways idk what I'm doing and I kinda hate this!! lolol!!!

Friday morning

The air is thick when you wake up—the angle of the sun through the window is lower than usual, and the binding weight of your limbs as you struggle to stretch in place all suggest that you’ve slept in.

But you don’t check the time quite yet—for a moment, you simply lie there, studying the pattern on your ceiling, downloading the events of the previous night.

Flashes of skin on skin, lips, breaths, whispers, promises. Phantom sensations.

Was it even real?

Your apartment is deafeningly silent, you realize. And you have that sinking sense, which you can’t quite explain but know to be true—that you are alone. Spencer is gone. You can’t feel him like you’d be able to if he were simply on the couch or in the kitchen. He’s definitely not in bed with you, and the sheets have long gone cold.

The truth of it renders about as slowly as your sluggish consciousness does, and you frown, not quite sure what to do with that information. Should you be angry? Should you cry?

Mostly you’re confused.

As soon as you sit up, sore thighs and abs and a strange ache between your legs confirm that last night was not a dream nor a figment of your imagination. You’ll figure out what to do about your twinging body in a moment—for now you rub your eyes and blindly reach for the bedside table, knocking several things to the ground in your quest for your phone.

It’s not there, you realize, once you actually try to use your eyes. It’s not in bed with you either as you pat the sheets, and it doesn’t materialize as you sit on your knees and shake out the comforter.

From this venture, however, you learn two things. First, Spencer must’ve taken it upon himself to get you dressed last night, which you have no recollection of, but you doubt you sleepwalked your way into underwear and a big t-shirt; and second—you bled.

It wasn’t something you were thinking about in the moment, but now, faced with all the evidence and none of the pleasure of last night’s activities, it’s jarring. A stark, unforgiving archipelago of red on a pristine sea of white.

People say, at its best, sex brings couples closer. Spencer once told you it could facilitate feelings of deeper connection. But here you are, no longer a virgin, and what do you have to show for it? A stronger bond with your boyfriend? He’s not even here.

All you have is this glaring red stain marring perfectly good sheets. It mocks you, like something you’ve dropped and can’t pick back up. You can’t think looking at it, and you need to think, and so in a fit of frustration you’re pulling the comforter onto the floor, leaning over your mattress and yanking the fitted sheet free. You ball it up in your hands, breathing heavily—and realize you bled through to the mattress.

Wonderful.

Spencer’s just at work, you tell yourself, grabbing the first pair of shorts you see and pulling them on before gathering the ruined sheet once more and stomping on aching legs through your apartment to the hallway, not even bothering with shoes. He can’t just play hooky because his clingy girlfriend lost her virginity and needs to be comforted like some previously celibate high school cheerleader.

But you miss him so much it’s making you angry, so much your eyes are stinging and welling with tears of frustration as you shove your bed linens down the trash chute at the end of your floor’s hallway. You’re supposed to be independent. That’s how you’ve always been. Since when does it bother you to wake up alone? It’s just sex. It’s not as big a deal for him as it is for you. Or for anyone. You’re the one overreacting, you’re the one who expects too much. He works for the FBI, for god’s sake. There are people dying, and here you are—

“What’chya got there?”

The gruff voice makes you jump, and you turn around just as the bundle is disappearing down into the hole in the wall. It’s your neighbor, Jerry—the one in the unit right next to you. You’re not happy to see him, especially like this. He’s got a blue 5 o’clock shadow despite the hour, and is clad in ill-fitting gray sweats and a pair of ratty slippers. His distended belly strains at the confines of an oil-stained white shirt, tied with a dingy checkered robe. You barely meet his drooping eyes before looking longingly back at your cracked door down the hall.

“Just… garbage.” You shift your weight, hiding a wince as you try to find a comfortable position to stand in. Jerry notices this, and you wish his eyes wouldn’t linger on your bare legs like that.

“Huh. Looks like someone had a late night.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s just noon and you’re still in your PJ’s.”

Disgusting. And who the fuck is he to judge? At least your pajamas are clean.

You shrug. “Yeah.”

He scratches his bald head.

“So that boy tired you out pretty good, huh?”

Your stomach drops. Your brain freezes.

When you don’t reply, he takes the liberty of continuing on.

“Saw him sneaking out of your apartment in the middle of the night. He looked a little older ’n you. You like ’em older?” His laugh is a cruel bark. “Yeah… He’s a lucky man. You know, it’s natural for a man to like a younger girl. Fresh meat, ’n all.” You try to speak and can only swallow a gag. Jerry adjusts his stance, hands in pockets like he’s telling you a local news story. “Heard some of it. Sounded like you were putting on quite the show. And sure, a young pretty thing like you? Hell, I would if I could. But I’ll tell you right now, you don’t wanna end up like my daughter. She wasn’t as pretty as you, but still—three kids with three men by the time she was 24. She should'a kept her damn legs closed. You know, she loved to cry rape, but you gotta ask yourself, if your legs are open all the damn time, what do you expect? Back in the day we all knew girls like that—” he bats the air dismissively. “Guess you can’t call ’em sluts anymore—they get what they’re asking for one way or another. See, I think everyone still knows it and they’re just too afraid to say it. So my advice: don’t let yourself get used up, you hear me? Not by men who are gonna ride you hard and put you away wet. So to speak. Men can smell a girl like that from a mile away, and they’ll take it as an open invitation. It’s just human nature.”

When he finally stops talking, the hallway fills with a vacuous silence. It makes your ears ring. Several moments pass, but you’re frozen. Your whole body feels intolerably hot but your blood is freezing. How are you supposed to react?

“Hello?” He says, voice loud enough to hurt your ears as it echoes.

Get out of here, your more rational self says to the rest of you, and you mumble something, you don’t even know what, excusing yourself to hurry on stiff legs back down the hall to your door.

Once inside, you do up every lock on your door, and face your apartment, shoulders tensed practically to your ears and fists clenched so tight your arms are trembling. On autopilot you look around for something to do, but there’s nothing. More importantly, nobody.

I’ll call Spencer. He’ll know what to do.

No, you won’t, your higher self reminds you. You lost your phone. And besides, it’s clearly not like he wanted to stick around last night. Maybe he doesn’t even like you anymore.

So you’re stuck here. Stranded. Sharks can smell blood.

Processing that information, you walk back to your bedroom and close the door behind you—before promptly sinking to the ground and burying your face in the duvet with a deep, silent sob.

That goes on for a few minutes until you realize you’re too achy and you can’t breathe and you’re forced onto your side, curling up in your blanket on the floor like it’s a nest and not a burial plot.

You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself. A relationship can’t implode twice in 24 hours. You don’t have your phone. Maybe he’s texted you.

But is that really all you’re worth? A text sent after the fact? He couldn’t sacrifice a few hours to sleep by your side? Couldn’t even wake you up to say goodbye? You think about the sweet things he’d said afterward—the way he held you, fingers dancing down your spine. Promises he made when you were half asleep in his arms, so sure he’d be there when you woke up.

Even fucking Jerry the neighbor—who you think might have just sexually harassed you in the hallway—said Spencer should’ve stuck around.

Fuck.

No, don’t think about that. It doesn’t even matter. They were just words.

Heard some of it. Sounded like you put on quite the show.

Your skin crawls and your stomach turns as you hold yourself tighter. Something that was supposed to be private and special—and some random man not only had a front row seat to your deflowering but felt comfortable talking about it with you. It feels like a violation. Like he crashed a really important party. If you had known you had an audience last night, you never would’ve done it.

The way he looked at you, tracing your legs with his eyes like he was touching you—

You scramble up from the floor and walk heavily on your knees to the dresser, digging up a pair of pajama pants and a hoodie. You should be showering, but you don’t want to deal with your body right now. You just want to hide.

Friday evening—present

After your conversation, Spencer seems eager to make sure the car ride to his apartment is not reminiscent of the car ride to yours last night—he holds your hand, resting in your lap, bringing your knuckles to his lips at a red light. Every few moments he glances over at you, maybe to appreciate the view (though you doubt it’s especially scenic at the moment) or perhaps to gauge your mood. The further away you get from your apartment building the better you feel, and you try to focus on that. Sure—maybe you had a shit day, but Spencer’s here now, and he didn’t leave you after all. In fact, since finding your phone, you’ve seen the series of very sweet and highly concerned messages he sent over the course of a few hours. They almost make your stomach hurt. It would’ve been really nice to have those earlier.

He doesn’t ask you any more of the hard questions, but you sense an inquisition in the works and getting closer with every curious glance he gives you. It’s like he’s unwrapping you, layer by layer, using his impressive cognitive faculties to drill through your skull into your brain and deeper still into your soul.

Back in his apartment you sit awkwardly on the bed. Last time you’d been here, things hadn’t gone so well for you.

The shower starts in the adjoined bathroom, and Spencer comes out a moment later, warm light seeping into the darkened bedroom. Purple and dark blue mixing with yellow, like a bruise.

“Hey. Water’s warm.”

You hum, smoothing the material of his neatly made bed with your palm and watching the way it flattens. That had been your doing. You may have thought he was on the verge of breaking up with you last time you slept here, but you didn’t want to leave his home a mess. Didn’t want to leave any evidence of your having been here.

A moment passes. You thumb at a thread and don’t look up.

Spencer crosses the space without a word and crouches in front of you, hands coming up to cup the back of your legs, running knee to ankle and up again.

“Can you tell me what’s going on? Please?” He asks softly. His voice wrings your heart out. Now that you’re in a completely different space, and you’re not so alone anymore, you’re struggling to sort out your feelings. It should be fine. You’re with Spencer. Presumably he still loves you.

And you still feel terrible.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, just as quietly.

Spencer doesn’t say anything else. I know you don’t want to—and yet. Your lips twist to the side. He’s persistent. Even in his kindness. It’s not the kind of care that falters or buckles when you try turning it away.

“My neighbor said he c—”

You’re forced to stop, frowning by how overcome you are. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. Worse things have happened to you.

“He said he could hear us. Last night.”

Spencer’s hands stop on your legs. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid whatever you find there won’t be the right thing.

“He’s in the unit next to you?”

You nod. “We share a wall.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation and your stomach sinks. He doesn’t understand.

“What did he say?”

“Just… dumb shit,” you scoff, fiercely wiping away a stray tear. “He said he listened and it sounded like I was putting on quite the show. And then he—and then he told me not to let you… use me up, whatever that means. He called me fresh meat, and said I shouldn’t let you ride me hard and put me away wet, and bad things happen to sluts who can’t keep their legs closed.”

You finish with a sharp inhale, briefly leaning down and covering your face with your hands when you realize how upset you really are. You want to hide it.

A fraught moment passes. Spencer reaches for your hands, no doubt to try and pull them away from your face. You spare him the trouble, sitting up with a cavalier sniff before he can touch you and brushing your hair behind your ears.

His voice is uncomfortably quiet. You can’t look at him. “Baby…”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I only told you because you asked.”

It’s not his fault, but you’re mad at him anyway, and so you avoid eye-contact like it’s the plague. Maybe it’s just safe to be mad at him. Maybe he knows that.

Regardless, you’re not in the mood for coddling. It’s borderline repulsive—like trying to mix oil and water. Anything good slides right off of you because maybe you’re not designed to be able to absorb good things.

Nothing changes for a minute—and then he’s standing, offering you a moment alone as he goes to crank the shower off.

As soon as he’s gone all the air is vacuumed from your lungs and you crumple, heaving it back in silently as your head spins and your heart races. It’s like your mind is split in two—half is primal, overwhelming panic, and the other a cold observatory eye, full of disdain and scorn for what it deems a severe overreaction to a few nasty comments made hours ago. You’re so tangled up as you curl in on yourself on your side that you can’t even cry. You’re just trying to remember how to breathe, ignoring the crawling feeling up your spine and the tingling heat at the back of your neck. The shower stops on the downbeat of your staggered breath, and then it’s silent. He’ll come back at any minute and see what a mess you’ve become.

You’ve ruined everything. If only you could’ve kept it to yourself.

When Spencer reappears in the doorway, and sees you collapsed and curling like paper burnt at the edges, he’s quick to return to you.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, trying and failing to brush away hair from your cheek, which is wet—so you were crying—and Spencer shushes you, pushing it away for you as he kneels.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m being dramatic, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Of course, at the end of that declaration, a sob wrenches its way from the depths of you, so bright and cleaving you half expect the smell of ozone to follow. You follow it with a blisteringly self-deprecating laugh.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t minimize it.”

His hand is warm where it rests over your cheek, affectionate, but he sounds frustrated. You frown and sniffle.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell me his name.”

It’s a quiet request, made as gently as his hand cards through the hair at your temple like it’s woven with fragile threads of gold.

“No, Spencer,” you beg, anxiety pooling in your gut and rising in your throat, “please, I don’t want to make it a thing, I don’t want you to talk to him. You’ll just make it worse, it’s fine.”

You look at him imploringly, eyes wide and still welling, hoping to god the gravity of your plead will sink in. His are a bed of coals—somewhere between furious and sympathetic, and you try to appeal to the sympathy.

“It is not fine. Saying sluts get what’s coming to them is not fine, that is a threat, and I’m not going to talk to him. I’m going to have him fucking arrested.”

You scoff.

“For talking to me? Yeah, good luck with that. Cops are really known for being helpful when it comes to sexual harassment.”

“Baby. Men who are comfortable violating your boundaries like that are exponentially more likely to commit an actual violent crime. That is not a safe person for you to be around.”

“He’s not gonna rape me, Spencer! He’s just a gross old man! This is why I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you’d make it a bigger deal than it is! You did it last night and you’re doing it now—you think everyone is out to get me!”

To his credit, he doesn’t so much as raise his voice.

“Of course it’s a big deal. You’re upset.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my own fault.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say. Spencer goes silent for a moment.

“It’s your fault?”

“Yes. It’s my fault because… because now everyone knows that I’m…”

His voice goes impossibly soft again. “Knows that you’re what?”

“I mean, what did I expect?” You sniffle. “It’s an apartment. If I didn’t want to deal with the consequences, I shouldn’t’ve done it.”

He says your name like it’s a ring he twists around his finger as he tries to think—to gather the right words.

“The consequences for having sex do not involve punishment or sexual harassment.”

“It’s the result of my actions, so—”

“No, it’s the result of your neighbor being disgusting. I don’t care what he heard, he doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

“He—”

“If you heard something you weren’t supposed to hear would you bring it up to the person the next day?”

“Stop interrupting me,” you plead. Spencer looks like he has something to say to that, too, but he swallows it. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I… understand that he shouldn’t have said those things to me. But that doesn’t change the fact that he did, and it was really, really uncomfortable and I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna go back now. Maybe that’s dramatic, but…”

You trail off, studying the ceiling as a fresh wash of tears dampen your cheeks. Spencer’s hand slides down your waist as you wipe your face. “I don’t regret the fact that we slept together. I just regret everything that’s happened since, and if I didn’t do it last night, none of this would’ve happened. I feel like he ruined everything.”

The words end on another cry and you put your hand over your eyes like you could stop it all from coming out. You sniffle. Spencer is quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually whispers, his own voice threaded with emotion. “I…”

He sighs. You push your hair back and look at him.

“What?”

He studies you, chewing on his lip like a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. You sit up again, feet balanced on the edge of the bed frame. Spencer’s eyes remain stuck on you. Again, you ask, “What?”

“I didn’t think about it until you brought it up earlier, but—I did see someone. Him, I think, when I went out to my car to get my bag. He was smoking when I came out, and when I got back into the lobby he was waiting for the elevator. We took it up together, he—he said something to me, so I know he saw me going back to you. I don’t know why he made it sound like I left.”

You frown. “What did he say?”

Spencer hesitates.

“He asked if I had a long night. He was obviously commenting on the fact that I was basically half-dressed and getting an overnight bag from my car at one in the morning, so he could probably gather from context what was going on, but… my point is, he knew I came back and it seems like he was almost trying to make you think I didn’t. So for whatever reason, maybe he was lying about being able to hear you, too. Maybe he just wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s a long shot, Spencer.”

“I know, but… it’s not that long. He obviously gets off on it—and besides, he said you were putting on a show, but you weren’t… you weren’t loud, last night.”

Heats blossoms in your cheeks and you look down at your lap. “Thin walls.”

“Have you ever heard your neighbors before?”

You have to seriously think about it.

“I’ve heard them yelling…”

“Nothing else?”

Again, you consider it. The answer comes as a surprise.

“No.”

“Okay, so… does that maybe help a little bit? I really, really don’t want you to feel like last night was a mistake in any way, or let anyone ruin it for you.”

You breathe deeply. “I know. It… it kinda helps, yeah.”

His hands come to the top of your legs. There’s so much genuine care and concern in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Only when you nod does he relax some. His hands skim your thighs, and you set yours on top of his own. For a few breaths, it’s quiet. And then you laugh.

“What?” Spencer asks, a tentative smile curling his own lips like he doesn’t know if he should be concerned or participate in your mirth.

“I—I don’t know how to say it without being cheesy,” you admit, sniffling the last of your tears away and smiling softly down at him.

“I think you should say it.”

You link your fingers with his on your lap, watching the way they twine like it’s what they were meant to do.

“I was just thinking about how I had, like, the worst day ever. And how much worse it would’ve gotten if you didn’t show up when you did—I would’ve completely spiraled. But you did show up. And how easy it is to kind of compartmentalize, because I have you, and when I’m with you… nothing feels as hard. You make the bad things feel smaller, I guess.”

By the end, it got a lot more real than you’d intended, and your face feels warm, and your stomach is sort of floaty—but you don’t look away from Spencer. You hold his gaze, though it makes you a little nervous, because you want him to know you mean it.

He inhales, like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t—only looks at you, like you’re beautiful and impossible and a defiance of everything he thought he knew, which was almost everything. To him, you’re expansive. A gorgeous anomaly.

And then he stands, holding his hands out for you. Without question you take them, and he pulls you to your feet, absorbing the momentum that threatens to topple you, and he wraps his arms around you tightly. So tight you have to laugh.

“I love you,” he says against your shoulder, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head.

Your humor softens, but doesn’t become inflexible—still tinges your words with the perfect amount of euphoria and relief. “I love you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and your laughter flares again.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“But I’m grateful. I… I feel lucky.”

Always so earnest, so vulnerable, when you’re least expecting it—which should be always, you’re learning. You pull back to look up at him. You don’t want that concession to go unrewarded.

“Me too,” you say softly. He’s doing that fond thing with his eyes, where they’re all soft and it’s like he’s trying to take in every millimeter of your face. This time when he goes to touch your hair, you have the wherewithal to dodge it.

“You’re really brave for trying to touch my hair right now.”

“Why?” He asks, utterly bewildered, and the softness of the moment falls away easily, but not without leaving everything smudged and fuzzy around the edges. Everything is still okay. It’s still good.

“Because it’s dirty,” you laugh, dodging him again and eventually ducking from the circle of his arms entirely.

“Oh, your hair is dirty? Should we breakup?”

“Hm. I don’t really like when you take on that tone with me.” You’re still half-laughing, dipping and weaving past him toward the bathroom as he tries to get you in his arms again. And then you stop, toes just short of the tile.

“What is it?” He asks after another moment. You blink, looking at the shower head as it drips.

“Um—would it be okay if I had a five minute headstart in the shower?”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. I just… I need a minute.”

His hand skims your waist as he passes by you through the open door. “Okay. Why don’t you grab your stuff and I’ll get the water going again?”

Soon enough, you’re remembering how much better his water pressure is than yours as you stand under the torrent, eyes closed as if in prayer. You definitely could’ve stood to shower earlier in the day. But you had other concerns, earlier, and besides—you were afraid of what you might find.

And you were right to be. The sex was nice. The aftermath isn’t quite as pretty.

When Spencer taps on the bathroom door, you’re nervous.

“You can come in,” you call.

“You sure? If you want it all to yourself, that’s okay too.”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

The door creaks open, and gently clicks into place again, and fabric rustles as he undresses, and soon the shower curtain is sliding aside and he’s stepping in. Unsurprisingly, the space feels smaller with him in it—but not small in a bad way. It feels warmer. Again you’re awash in that safe feeling, which you didn’t realize you’d been missing so much today.

“Hi,” he smiles, a teasing sliver of what you know to be the most brilliant light in the world, and stunning like the rest of him as you watch the water begin to darken his hair.

“Hello.”

His smile flickers briefly wider like you’re his favorite thing and he just can’t contain his joy, and then it’s easing again, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

“Is it okay if I touch you?”

In this alien context the idea has your heart pounding—you don’t really understand the concept of casual nudity yet, but you know he’ll respect your earlier wishes to keep it chaste and so you nod.

Spencer doesn’t take you immediately in his arms like you’d expected—instead his hands find a rest at your collarbones and carefully push your wet hair back over your shoulders—but his eyes aren’t cast quite low enough to be indecent. They connect dots over your chest and neck, and he thumbs at one just over your pulse point.

“Oh, man,” he laughs, and you think you detect a hint of self-deprecation. “That’s… wow, I didn’t realize I… sorry. They don’t hurt, do they?”

It’s your turn to smile as he’s suddenly over-concerned.

“No, they don’t hurt.”

“Good.” He looks relieved, but it doesn’t last as his eyes trace lower—though you don’t sense any hunger in it. He’s just taking you in. “How about everywhere else?”

“Um… it’s not bad. Kind of, like… I don’t know. Sore. But it’s not bad.”

“Still?” He frowns, clearly unfazed by your evident embarrassment on the subject. You shrug and avert your eyes.

“It’s fine. it was worse earlier, so.”

That does not have the calming effect you’d intended.

“Worse? 1-10, how—”

“Spencer, it’s fine, I promise. It’s only when I—when I move certain ways, I notice. Honestly the… blood… was way more disconcerting to me.”

“Yeah, I saw your bed… sorry for ruining your sheets. I’ll buy you new ones.”

You shrug, watching the water run in rivulets down your arm and branch off into tributaries and waterfalls from your fingers. “You don’t have to do that. It was a collaborative effort.”

Normally this conversation would have you melting into an embarrassed puddle, but something about the tile cocoon of the shower, the humid fog, the proximity, feels safe. The white noise of water on porcelain, the warmth. You go to him at the same time as he comes to you—his arms around your waist, yours slung over his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. Falling asleep standing up has never seemed so plausible until now.

He presses a kiss to your head. You sigh.

“Ugh. I don’t want to deal with washing my hair.”

“I can do it,” Spencer immediately offers. You frown.

“I was—you don’t have to. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was asking.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“It’s a process.”

“I understand.”

“You would have to do it exactly how I say.”

“I am willing to learn. I like taking care of you.”

You’re glad for the hot water, then, and as he washes your hair. You’re not sure if you’re crying at the tenderness of his touch, or the way he loves you like you’re easy to love. You’re too tired to explain it.

He doesn’t push you, because he never pushes you.

He just washes your hair.

part ten

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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rowarn · 2 years ago

Text

ENAMORED (m.)

soap mactavish / reader !

tags: established relationship, BIG dicked!soap, afab!gn!reader, virgin!soap, sub!reader

cw: loss of virginity, squirting, size difference, teasing, pet names, praise, wet&messy, missionary, mating press, cunnilingus, fingering, pussyjob, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie

note: this is the fic from the pwp royale i posted recently! loss of virginity won so here's the result!!! MDNI.

; with a too-big-cock, he hasn't managed to lose his virginity yet. until he shares a sweet little moment with you, the love of his life ♡

5.7k words

Soap had been thinking about this for ages. He had been in positions like this before, without a doubt, with previous partners.

But there was something deep inside him that was breathless over the fact that it was you situated so cute in his lap, dressed all cozy in some clothes you had left over at his place from a previous night you had spent with him. You two had been dating for some time now but he had done his best to avoid being in this predicament because he was worried it would end the same as it had with everyone else.

Even though Soap was 28, charming and had a lot of luck scoring dates, he was still a virgin. It was the most embarrassing little fact about him. It wasn’t for lack of trying, of course. In fact, all his teammates in 141 were positive he’d gotten laid more times than he could count. But bringing a pretty thing home from a bar always ended the same for him – with them scurrying out of his door with their clothes bundled in their arms the second he pulled his dick out.

So to say Soap was nervous right about now was in understatement.

You were so warm against him, smelled so lovely that it made his heart flutter in his chest. Everything about you was so intoxicating that he was terrified this was going to end the same way it always had with other partners – with you becoming intimidated and fleeing with your tail tucked between your legs.

He was so enamored by you that he didn’t think he would be able to cope if you walked out on him like everyone else.

You pulled him out of his head when you cupped his stubbly cheeks, pulling him in for a deep kiss. His hands flexed against your hips, tugging you even closer on his lap. He was growing harder and harder underneath you and he silently prayed that you didn’t feel it.

Your hands trailed down to his chest, pressing your palms flat against the firmness there as you deepened the kiss. You sighed sweetly into his mouth, dipping your tongue in to taste him as he eagerly kissed you back. His hands weren’t idle either, going from squeezing your hips to kneading your thighs, bared from your shorts.

Suddenly, he pulled back, eyeing the string of spit that connected your lips before smiling at the way you were panting from a kiss.

“Can we do…more, Johnny?” you ask softly, rolling your thumb over the scar on his chin.

“Are you sure you want to?” he fires back, meeting your gaze under his lashes.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you smile, adjusting yourself in his lap and he has to fight to hold back the groan from how good the pressure feels even though he’s still confined to his jeans, “I love you. You love me. Of course I want you.”

The way you say it so simply and sweetly makes him smile. He suddenly takes hold of your chin and tugs you close so your forehead rests against his, “I’m not goin’ to lie, sweetheart. I…” he nervously cleared his throat, “I’m a big guy.”

You blink owlishly at him for a moment, “You mean like…”

Your hand slips further down his chest and he quickly intercepts it, taking your hand in his with a nod of his head. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth and he can see the way your pupils dilate.

“Okay…” you whisper, “You can just…work me open, yeah?”

His lashes flutter at those words, a groan getting caught in his chest. His hands find purchase on your waist, easily hoisting you up and tossing you onto the other end of the couch before crawling over you. He immediately begins kissing your neck and you eagerly let your head fall back so he can have more access. His chest is pressed against yours, pinning you down with his weight alone as his hands continue to caress your thighs which are splayed open around his hips.

His cock is painfully hard in his jeans, throbbing with need when he realizes you've started trembling under such simple touches. You lay there so sweetly underneath him, arms splayed on either side of your head letting him touch you and see you however he wants. Pliant.

“So sweet…” he coos, muffled with his lips pressed against your pulse point.

You sigh contentedly, heart hammering in your chest when his hands finally move north and start pushing your shirt up. Slowly, over your belly button, over your ribs, catching on the swell of your breasts before you lift your head and let him strip the material off. He tosses it somewhere in the living room but neither of you care where it lands.

“Shite…” he groans when he leans back on his heels, eyes landing on your bare breasts, “You’re somethin’ special.”

Before you have the chance to offer anything in reply, he's got his lips wrapped around one of your nipples. One hand supports his weight beside your body on the couch and the other carefully slips under the fabric of your panties. You eagerly spread your legs even more, anticipating his touch where you need him most but he doesn’t make any further movements.

His hand falls completely still, fingertips resting just above your clit, just the slightest twitch down and he would be touching the little bud.

His tongue eagerly swipes over the pebbled bud of your nipple that’s trapped in his hot mouth. You let out low sighs of pleasure, mindlessly arching your hips up in hopes to get him to move that damned hand lower — but he refuses, intent on teasing you with its presence so close to where you needed him.

He's got you wound taut, tense and aching for him. He dips down and you think he's going to give you what you want, but instead he uses two fingers to peel your folds apart. You feel like the air gets punched out of your lungs, thighs threatening to twitch closed but are blocked by his hulking form in between them. You can hear the sound of your folds parting, wet and sticky and it makes his cock fucking throb.

“You’re so wet, you hear that?” he teases, popping off your nipple with a crooked grin.

“Shut up,” you intend for it to come out biting but it comes out weak and soft, which only makes his grin broaden.

Your hole clenches pathetically around nothing, drooling and leaking into your panties. You feel like you could cum if so much as a breeze brushed over your clit. You've never been pushed so close to the edge from someone teasing you like this.

One of your hands finds purchase in his mohawk, tugging the short strands so he is forced to meet you in a heady kiss. You whimper into his mouth and his free hand cups and gropes your tits in his large hand, massaging the soft flesh as he eagerly kisses you back. As you kiss, you attempt to rut your hips up in hopes of getting him to slip between your folds and make you feel good, but it doesn’t work and he chuckles. It’s cute you think you can distract him like that.

The kiss is messy and sloppy, strings of spit connecting your lips when you finally part to take a breath. You look up at him with a dazed, heady look to your eyes that has him pecking your lips once again before descending back to your breasts. You cry out in surprise when you feel the nip of his teeth against the bud. As he tortures you with his mouth, he takes the chance to tug your shorts down your legs. You eagerly lift your hips to help him rid your body of the offending clothing, tossing them to get lost somewhere alongside your shirt.

Once you’re bare, you let your legs butterfly open, giving him a full view of your completely bare body.

You’re practically panting when his hand slinks down your body once again, parting your folds with that sticky sound that has heat flushing to your cheeks, much louder now that there’s no clothing blocking it. Soap’s eyes drop to your pussy, index and middle finger holding your labia apart so he can see how your clit throbs and your hole clenches pathetically around nothing, drooling down to the couch.

“So pretty,” he coos, wishing he could roll his thumb over that pretty little clit just to watch your body twitch from the pleasure but he’s on a miss.

He surges forward again to kiss you, soaking in your happy sigh at the little affection, but it doesn't last long before he's mouthing his way down your body — nipping and suckling at your skin as he makes his way further and further down.

His large, callused hands grip under your knees and pin you embarrassingly wide open with your knees to the couch. He kisses up your inner thigh and over your pelvis, stopping to press his lips against your hip bones before his tongue dips down and swipes over one of your labia.

Your taste lingers on his taste buds and he practically moans at the feeling. You gasp, hands flying to his mohawk when he gives the other side the same treatment, cleaning up your mess with his tongue.

You desperately attempt to rut your hips up, whining with your need to feel his touch properly where you need him but he backs off and waits for you to sink back into the cushions in defeat before pressing a kiss above your clit. His pretty, blue eyes watch every pout and furrow of your brows that crosses your face from his teasing.

He can tell you’re getting frustrated and needy – just the way he wants you. The fact you’re so pliant and at the mercy of whatever he’s willing to give you is intoxicating. You’re so sweet for him.

It feels like hours that he torments you, kissing around your thighs and lapping over your folds but never giving you what you actually need. He continues to clean up any mess without actually touching where you desire him most, simply savoring your juices on his tongue.

Your clit aches, twitching with need as it begs for just the slightest touch from him — something to put you out of your misery.

“Johnny…” you pathetically whimper, fisting his t-shirt, tugging him closer in hopes of getting him to give you what you want.

His long lashes flutter as he looks at you, “What is it, sweet one? Something you want?”

“Need,” you correct hastily with a tearful glare. He thinks it’s supposed to be intimidating but he only seems to find the display cute.

He laughs softly, a charming smile crossing his face as he looks completely endeared by you, “Need, huh? Are you always this needy?”

“Only for you, Johnny!” you whimper, moving your grip on his shirt to his hair again, hoping it’ll give you more leverage but he doesn’t budge.

He laughs softly, “That’s right, little one. Just for me.”

You feel so on edge, like he’s worked you up to an orgasm without ever actually touching you properly. He thumbs your folds apart, leaving the needy little bud open and exposed to his greedy gaze. You wish so badly he would just breathe against you so you could experience something more than this mind-numbing teasing your boyfriend has subjected you to. It’s pathetic, you realize, wishing for so much as a breath against your bud. But there’s just something about Johnny that always has you hanging on everything he does. You’re enamored, in love.

That thought has you whimpering, sinking back into the cushions of the couch.

“So sweet,” he coos dismissively, smile only widening as you tearfully glare at him.

His gaze darkens at the sound of a sob tearing through your chest and he bites his lower lip when his cock fucking throbs. He didn’t really think he’d be the type to enjoy seeing his partner cry and he’s not even sure he would be into it if it was anyone but you, but here he was.

Soap thinks you look so precious like this, defeated and waiting for his next move.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands suddenly, chastely kissing your navel when you finally meet his gaze, unfocused and tearful, “There you go, good. Don’t look away now, okay?”

You nod your head, finding yourself getting lost in his unwavering eye contact. His pretty blue eyes and long, soft eyelashes that you could simply marvel at for hours. He was so handsome and all yours and that alone made you even wetter. Your boyfriend was on top of you, giving his all in making you feel good.

As you're lost in thought and his eyes, his fingers finally dip down to where you need him most, pressing the pads of his digits against your clit. The little bud is so hard and sensitive that the small amount of stimulation has you toppling over the edge immediately.

Your eyes remain open and locked with Soaps as you cum with a weak cry of his name. His fingers gently circle your clit, sticky, wet circles over the bud to ease you through the high.

When you finally slump against the couch, thighs twitching against his sides through the aftershocks, he pulls back. Your eyes flutter closed, panting from the exertion of your orgasm. You’re practically boneless as Soap suddenly moves you trembling legs over his shoulders.

His gaze falls to your swollen, pulsing cunt. Your folds are covered in a slick film and he can still see the way your clit and hole throbs, drooling your cum messily with every clench. Your eyes flutter open, cheeks heating when you see how intently he’s staring at your pussy.

“Don’t stare…” you whine bashfully, voice dragging his gaze back to your face.

“Can’t help it,” he gives you a crooked grin, “You’re so pretty here.”

You whine at his response, kicking your foot against his back in retaliation.

Suddenly it's like all rational thought flies out of his head and he's pinning your knees to your chest.

You gasp at the change in position, “Johnny!”

He chuckles at the way you sound shy, as if he didn't just have you cumming underneath him a minute ago.

The feeling of his breath against your sensitive folds is enough to make your thighs twitch in his grasp. He makes a show, when he finds you looking down at him through your lashes with your chest rising and falling from how hard you're breathing, of letting his tongue fall from his mouth.

Slowly, he descends, sliding his tongue between your slick folds. You practically wail, your back bowing against the couch when his tongue swirls around your clit, suckling it into his mouth. Your head slams against the couch cushion as your eyes roll back in your head, your hands gripping at his mohawk as you wail his name.

“Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” you squeal, legs kicking and flailing at the feeling of him eagerly slurping at your clit.

He backs off for a moment, releasing your bud with a lewd pop. You're panting and trembling, your knees still pressed against your chest, open and vulnerable for him. Your precious cunt is now coating in a slick film of your own cum and his spit.

“Keep yourself open for me,” he commends with a sharp look that makes you immediately do as you’re told. Your trembling fingers grip under your knees, hugging them to your chest.

He spreads your folds apart with his thumb before his mouth finds its place there again, eagerly slurping up your cunt with a moan. He desperately eats you, swirling his tongue over your clit and dipping it into your clenching cunt to taste your juices. He's messy and sloppy, drool and your cum dripping down his chin and neck.

You cry and tremble beneath the onslaught of his tongue, he introduces two fingers, swiping them against your drippy entrance. You barely even seem to notice, too distracted humping your clit against the flat of his tongue when he lays it flat out for you.

“Oh, Johnny!” you cry out, toes curling in your fuzzy socks the closer you get to your second orgasm, “Don't stop! Please, don't stop, Johnny!”

He moans against you, the sound and feeling of it sending you over the edge. When he feels your clit throb on his tongue, he finally slips those two fingers inside you. The feeling of suddenly being stretched and filled sends you flying even higher. Soap has to use his body to hold you down as you kick and squirm from the overstimulating pleasure of having his thick fingers crooking inside you, grinding against that gooey little spot.

“Johnny-!” you cut yourself off with a deep, long moan as you messily squirt all over the front of his shirt.

Johnny continues to grind the tips of his fingers into that tender little spot inside you until you simply can’t take it anymore and shove him off with a weak cry. Soap pops the cum covered fingers immediately into his mouth as he watches you twitch and tremble against the couch, tearfully staring up at him.

“Too much, sweetheart?” he asks, once he’s cleaned his fingers off.

You nod, taking a deep breath, “I-I’ve never…” you trail off and he quirks a brow.

“Never squirted?” he finishes and you nod, “Well, I’m honored then. I guess we’re even.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, finally uncurling yourself from your position with a weak grunt, opening your arms to pull him close to you, finding yourself needing his touch.

His cheeks heat up, realizing it’s time to finally tell you his little secret, “Well…it’s my first time.”

“Making someone squirt?” you offer him a soft smile but it quickly fades when he shakes his head.

“No, I mean…” he clears his throat, “I mean havin’ sex.”

Your eyes go wide, “Really? But you’re like…really good with your tongue.”

He chuckles softly, forehead falling against your chest, shaking his head, “No I’ve got a lot of experience in foreplay. It’s after that I’ve never gotten to.”

You sit up at that, shock apparent on your face, “You’re a virgin, Johnny?”

“Aye,” he solemnly nods, trying to hide the embarrassment that bubbles under the surface.

“But how?” you question, “You’ve dated a lot. You’re good looking and kind.”

He grins at your praise, “I told you, little one,” he sighs, figuring now would be a good time to properly warn you about what you’re getting into, “I’m a big guy. Most people get scared off.”

Your brows come together in confusion, “Really?”

He nods slowly, carefully watching your face for any signs of apprehension. But you only continue to look confused.

“Will you show me?” you finally ask.

“You want to see…?” he finds himself stumbling over your question, heart hammering in his chest when you eagerly nod your head.

Wordlessly he sits up on his knees, fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. You can see the outline of his cock pressing against the material and he does look big but you want to see him completely.

He unzips his jeans and reaches inside, hissing at the feeling of his hand wrapped around his neglected length. He finally pulls his cock free, twitching at the feeling of the cool air against him. He’s been leaking precum profusely, incredibly turned on from making you cum twice.

“Johnny…” you whisper breathlessly, eyes wide as you stare at his length wrapped in his fist, “Holy shit.”

“I told you,” he smiles crookedly but deep down he’s nervous.

This is the moment that will make or break you. Either he finally gets to be with you, the person he wants to share his love with the most, or you give him that terrified look and go scampering away.

You reach out and knock his hand away, replacing his grip with your own. His breathing stutters when you give him a few, slow strokes. Your hand is so much smaller than his, unable to touch your fingers around the girth of him. The sight has him biting back a moan because fuck you’re so much smaller than him.

“You’re going to have to really prepare me, Johnny,” you playfully glare at him from under your lashes.

His brows shoot up in surprise, “You mean you…”

“I love you, Johnny,” you smile softly at him, “I want this with you. Just…take your time, okay?”

“Of course,” he swallows thickly, quickly batting your hand away and urging you to lay back once again.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss, “Let's go to the bedroom.”

“Yeah, yeah we-we can do that,” he stumbles over his words foolishly, making his ears burn red in a way he hopes you don’t actually notice.

After some stumbling and giggling, the two of you quickly find your way to his bedroom. After shutting the door, you crawl onto the bed, relaxing into the pillow, looking like his own little piece of heaven all naked on his sheets just for him.

He strips himself where he stands at the foot of the bed, tossing his shirt into the hamper in the corner before letting his jeans and boxers pool at his feet.

He’s on top of you before you know it, bringing you in for a kiss. As you eagerly spread your legs to accommodate his big frame, he reaches between your bodies and grips his cock again. Your entire body tenses up when you feel him pressing the tip against your folds.

“Johnny, no,” you whine, pressing against his chest, “Y-You’ll tear me open if you try to–”

“Not tryin’ to get it in, pretty baby,” he coos, “Jus’ trust me, yeah?”

You watch as he swipes the head through your folds, sliding the length between them, rutting his hips. You gasp as he grinds over your clit, making your whole body twitch from the stimulation. You’re still sensitive from the previous orgasms he had milked out of you.

Before long, he pauses.

“Look at that,” he grins, “That’s how deep I’ll be.”

You feel your cunt clench pathetically at the sight of his length resting over your pelvis. You know that when you take him all the way, he’s going to be prodding painfully at your cervix. But you know you’re going to love every second of it.

Not only is he long, his girth is amazing. You know it’s going to stretch you wide, you can practically feel the phantom burning feeling you know will accompany it. His cock is uncut, messily drooling all over your skin. The prettiest fucking cock you’ve ever seen and it makes your mouth water.

“Think you can take it?” he teases, playfully tapping the heavy length against your clit.

You whine and nod, “W-Want you to make me take it, Johnny.”

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” he chuckles softly, “Aye, we’ll make it fit, little one.”

Soap’s hand finds its way between your thighs again, two fingers prodding at your entrance as his other hand cups one of your breasts. You lay back in his pillows, staring up at him like he hung the moon and the stars as he stretches you open on those two digits.

You’re pillowy soft and wet inside, pretty cunt making sticky clicking sounds as he fucks you with them. Your cum coats his skin and a creamy mess begins to form at the last knuckle when he works that tender little spot up top.

Before long, he’s introducing a third finger. He slowly presses it in alongside the other two, stretching you open carefully and methodically until all three digits are pressed inside the tight clutch of your cunt.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he encourages, “Open up for me so I can give you my cock.”

You whine at that, “Want your cock, Johnny.”

He groans, pressing a kiss against your knee, “I know you do, sweet thing. Jus’ let me stretch you open for it, yeah?”

You nod and toss your head back, working your hips down against his fingers. He carefully fucks you with them, spreading them inside so you get used to the feeling of being stretched and filled for when the real thing is finally pressing inside.

Fuck, the thought makes his cock ache.

His thumb sneaks up and presses against your clit. The extra stimulation makes you clench around them like a vice and you moan so sweetly for him. He can’t wait to feel that around his heavy cock.

“Johnny, please!” you cry, “I want you already.”

“Fuck, alright, sweetheart,” he grunts, pulling his fingers from inside you with a wet sound.

He wraps those slick fingers around his length, smearing the mess across the soft skin. It’s embarrassingly desperate, the way he grips your hips and yanks you closer to him. You gasp at the forceful handling but quickly relax into the sheets when he leans down and kisses you again.

As you’re occupied with his lips and tongue, he grips the base of his length and carefully begins to prod at your entrance. You whimper into his mouth when he starts to press inside.

Just the tip of him is a lot to take and you can't help but wince when that fat head finally pops inside. Soap feels the way you jump and quickly pulls out, biting back a groan when he sees wet, sticky strings of your cum and his pre connecting his cock to your cunt.

He uses the head to circle your clit, making you sigh in pleasure before he’s pressing back inside. This time he, when the head pops inside, begins rolling your clit under his thumb to soothe the ache.

“Just relax,” he coos, slowly circling the bud as he sinks more and more of his length inside.

The stretch stings and he fills you up more than you’ve ever experienced before. He feels so heavy and hard inside you and his finger on your clit makes you reflexively clench and spasm around him. He moans at the feeling, pretty blue eyes rolling back as he feels half his cock being hugged.

Before long, he’s balls deep, deeper inside a cunt than he’s ever been in his life. Its euphoric for him. A painful ache settles in your stomach from how he’s prodding against your cervix. He stills, watching your furrowed brows as you get used to being stuffed full of his cock for the first time.

It dawns on him suddenly that he’s lost his virginity. To you. He’s got his fat cock buried in the one person he adores more than anything on this Earth.

He’s overcome with affection, surging forward to press his lips against yours. You whine when the angle change makes him press even deeper inside you but you kiss him back anyway.

He pulls back slowly, “Just relax,” he assures you again, “That was a lot, huh? You took me so well, pretty.”

After a few moments under his careful caresses and kisses, you relax into the bed. Blinking blearily up at him, you flex your hips and stir his cock inside. You whimper at the feeling and he slowly pulls back so only half his length is left inside.

“Pretty,” he mutters, “P-Pretty and fuckin’ wet.”

“Johnny…” you sigh sweetly, clutching at his sheets as he begins to fuck you in earnest.

Your tits bounce in time to his thrusts and he can’t take his eyes off them. He’s still a little shell-shocked from having you speared on his heavy, aching cock. He can’t believe he’s got the sweetest thing creaming around him, crying his name.

“Johnny!” you cry sharply, hands flying to cup your own tits.

Your eyes are wide, almost like you’re shocked, “What is it, pretty?” he asks, panting.

He watches in wonder as you toss your head back, squealing and trembling. You’re cumming, he realizes. Squeezing and clenching around his cock like a vice.

“Shite,” he moans, hands trembling as he grips your hips, helping you rut against him as you cum, “‘S it, ride it out for me. Cummin’ nice and hard, hm? Barely even did anything and you’re creamin’ all over me.”

You whimper, eyes rolling at his filthy words. You slowly sink back into the bed with a heavy sigh, heart racing as you stare up at him. Soap loves seeing you like this, covered in sweat and twitchy from how hard you came from nothing but his cock stuffed inside you.

“More, please, Johnny,” you whine, locking your ankles around his back, locking him against you, “I want more. Please make me cum again.”

He scoffs in disbelief, pressing his hands on either side of your head on the bed, “You just came and you want more?”

“Yes, please?” you ask softly, batting your lashes at him.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, slowly grinding his hips against you, making sure his pelvis grinds against your clit, “I’ll give you whatever you want. This cock’s all yours now, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, “All mine, Johnny. ‘S all mine. You’re all mine. L-Love you so much.”

“Fuck!” he growls, fisting his sheets as he works his hips faster and faster against you, “Love you too. Love you, love you, love you.”

He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed at his babbling. All he can do is work his hips against yours, listening to your pretty moans and the slick sounds of your pretty pussy being fucked.

Your back arches and you reach between your bodies to circle your clit with trembling fingers. His jaw drops at the sight. He never thought he would have the chance to see a sweet little thing like you working themself to orgasm on his cock like this before.

“Sweet baby,” he whines, sounding broken and completely broken, burying his face in your neck, “You’re so wet. You’re makin’ such a mess around me. Pretty cunt’s so wet.”

You sob at that, eyes rolling as you toss your head back. You can feel another orgasm brewing, heating your skin and making you tremble underneath your boyfriend's massive body.

“Johnny, please!” you wail, feet kicking against his back.

“What? What do you need?” he pants, drooling against your skin from where his face is still buried.

“Please!” you cry again, pressing against his shoulders to push him back.

He looks dazed, completely fucked out and stupid from having his cock fucked for the first time. You grab his hand and shove it between your thighs. He quickly picks up what you need and starts rubbing your clit.

“This what you needed?” he pants, “Needed me to play with this pretty clit so you can cum nice and hard again?”

You squeal, jaw falling open as you back bows off the bed. He moans at the feeling of you soaking him, gushing and squirting against his bare chest and all over his hand. His mouth practically waters at the thought of getting to taste you as you cum again.

“Already?” he gasps, “So fuckin’ sensitive, cummin’ so easily for me. Fuck, so good for me. I’m gonna cum, baby.”

You nod your head, still shaking from your orgasm, “F-Fill me up, Johnny. Please. Want you to cum inside!”

“Fuck, are you sure?” he gasps, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

You nod your head, “Yes, need it, Johnny.”

He fists the sheets on either side of your head as his entire body begins to tremble. His hips lose their rhythm and with a few more, weak rabbiting thrusts, he’s cumming. He cries your name, rutting his hips against yours. The movement causes him to grind against your sensitive clit, making you whimper and twitch beneath him. He grinds painfully against your cervix from how deep he is but it’s worth it to see the pretty way he cums inside you. It's a hot, thick load that fills you up and oozes out the sides of his cock and drips down to the bed.

Afterwards, there’s a stillness that falls over the two of you. The only sound you can hear is the faint hum of the TV in the living room and the heavy panting between the two of you.

Soap can’t think of anything to say, all he can think is to lean down and press his lips against yours. He wraps his arms around your body, holding you close to him as you cling onto him, still trembling.

“Love you so much,” he whispers, muffled against your lips because he’s not willing to pull away.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “I love you.”

He smiles crookedly, pecking your nose and forehead over and over again before you’re giggling and pushing him away.

With his cock softened, he slowly and carefully pulls out of you, both of you wincing from how sensitive you are. Your thighs are still open and he watches as his cum oozes from your thoroughly abused cunt. His hand slides up your thigh, nearing your folds but you quickly slam your thighs shut, trapping his hand between them.

He looks up to find you glaring at him, “Don’t even think about it.”

He grins crookedly, shrugging his shoulders, “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t fancy a go again?”

“After that?” you cry, throwing your head back to laugh, “I’ve never cum so much in my life, Johnny!”

“Ah, you really know how to boost a man’s ego,” he chuckles, flopping onto the bed beside you.

He pulls you close, tucking you against his side, “Hard to believe that was your first time.”

“Aye,” he hums, kissing your temple, stroking your back slowly, “I’m glad it was you.”

“I am too, Johnny,” you snuggle close to him, kissing his bare chest.

There’s a quiet that falls over the two of you. Your breathing slowly begins to even out and he quickly realizes that you’ve fallen asleep. He hugs you closer, protective instincts urging him to keep you safe while you’re well-fucked and vulnerable like this in his arms.

His heart skips a beat when his gaze lands on his night table, remembering the ring he’s got hidden away within. He wonders when he’s going to grow the nerve to finally ask you to wear it.

DO NOT REDISTRBUTE, TRANSLATE, OR MODIFY. DO NOT RECOMMEND ON TIKTOK.

#john soap mactavish smut #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish x reader #soap smut #soap x reader #cod smut #cod x reader

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jungkoode · 1 month ago

Text

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 04

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 24, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: female rivalry/competition, eating disorders(eating cotton pads), ballet classes, self-demands, perfectionism, ribbon discarding (or not), convenience store reencounters and small discoveries.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,2k

➔ A/N: Okay. Okay. Everyone breathe. Especially me. (I’m the one hyperventilating into a protein bar wrapper at 3AM because I cannot believe this chapter EXISTS.) Welcome back to Altars in Shallow Waters, where we do not chase plot—we let it simmer on low heat while the characters emotionally spiral into the void like aesthetically pleasing depressive ballerinas and bleach-stained ghosts of men!!! ✨🩰🧼 So, this chapter. Let’s talk about her. The real action here is perceptual rupture. The moment you realize someone is watching you, but not in the “flirty eye contact in an indie café” way. No. In the “someone found your discarded legwarmer ribbon and folded it like scripture into their jacket pocket” way. Delicious. Horrifying. Both. Psychologically, this chapter is playing with reciprocal hyperfixation. How the act of being seen can unravel just as much as seeing. She doesn't name it, but she feels it—the way she catalogs his reactions, the way her interest grows when he avoids her eyes, like a cat with a wounded bird. She's measuring his discomfort like a dancer mapping mirror angles. Efficient. But curious. And curiosity? Is the gateway drug to ruin. Also let's talk about that ribbon. Because symbolically, she discards it—functionally useless, easy to forget. But he keeps it. Stores it like evidence of contact. That's how obsession works. You think it’s nothing. You think it’s gone. But it's in someone’s pocket. It's their proof that you touched the world they live in. On a more serious note: mental health themes remain central. He is not quirky. He is unwell. She is not "coolly aloof." She is also unwell. And the way those fractures collide? That’s what this fic is. Not fluff. Not romance. A slow collision of two very broken people who think they’re control freaks, but are actually being dragged by subconscious forces stronger than either of them.

And no, I will not give you relief. Not yet. We’re still descending.

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Cotton dissolves like sin on your tongue.

You've perfected this ritual. The pad breaks down slowly against the roof of your mouth, becoming pulp, becoming nothing. The texture no longer bothers you.

Nothing bothers you before 5 AM.

Your reflection watches with clinical interest.

Dark circles beneath your eyes. Acceptable. Not ideal, but within parameters. You've calculated the exact amount of concealer needed to erase them—three dots, blended outward in concentric circles.

Precision matters, even in camouflage.

The cotton expands slightly as you work it around your mouth. Your stomach will feel full for approximately forty-seven minutes. Long enough to get through morning barre without distraction. Long enough to maintain focus when others are already thinking about breakfast.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

Your tongue presses the dissolving fibers against your teeth. No calories. No guilt.

Just the illusion of consumption that tricks your body into compliance.

The bathroom is eerily silent—except for the sound of your breathing.

Four counts in, four counts out. The same rhythm you maintain during adagio. The same rhythm your heart should follow during rest periods.

You reach for your hairbrush. The bristles scrape against your scalp, just shy of painful.

Good.

Pain means progress. Pain means you're paying attention.

Camille took your hairpins. All of them. The evidence was clear: her side of the room littered with them this morning, carelessly scattered like she couldn't be bothered to hide her sabotage.

How desperate. How transparent.

You pull your hair back until it hurts. The ponytail is tight enough to create tension at your temples.

Not your preference—a bun offers cleaner lines, better balance—but you adapt.

Adaptation is part of excellence.

The last of the cotton dissolves. You rinse your mouth, watching the water swirl down the drain.

Clean. Empty. Ready.

Your leotard fits precisely as it should. Dark blue, high-necked, modest in cut but not in purpose. The fabric compresses your ribcage just enough to remind you of your boundaries. Your physical limits. The container you must perfect.

White tights. No runs, no snags.

Navy leg warmers, positioned exactly three inches above the ankle bone. The little ribbons on the front—blue to match—catch your eye. Tacky. Childish. But the color coordinates perfectly with the leotard, and aesthetic cohesion supersedes your opinion on childishness.

Function over feeling. Always.

The cropped sweater—also white—settles just below your sternum. The ensemble is well thought out. Coordinated. It communicates seriousness, dedication, attention to detail.

These are not clothes. They are statements of intent.

Your reflection assesses you with the same merciless scrutiny you apply to everything.

Arms: acceptable. Neck: could be longer. Posture: correct. Weight: maintained within 0.4 kilograms of target.

You turn slightly. Check your profile. The curve of your spine, the placement of your shoulders.

No room for error. No allowance for imperfection.

The cotton has left a slight residue in your mouth—texture that reminds you of your choice.

Your control. Your discipline.

You think, briefly, of the convenience store. Of the cotton pads in their perfect packaging. Of the man who wouldn't look at you.

Kim.

The name surfaces without permission. An unexpected ripple in the still pond of your morning routine.

You dismiss it. Irrelevant. A random encounter that means nothing.

(But you remember the tremor in his gloved hands. The way he backed away. The way he watched when he thought you wouldn't notice.)

Your dance bag waits by the door, packed according to your usual system. Pointe shoes in their separate compartment. Towel folded precisely in thirds. Water bottle filled exactly to the line you've marked with clear nail polish. Kinesiology tape. Scissors. Antiseptic wipes. Bandages. Everything you need. Nothing you don't.

The dormitory is silent as you move through it. Your footsteps make no sound. You've learned to walk like a ghost. To exist without disturbing the air around you.

The kitchen light is on. Unexpected. Unwelcome.

Elodie stands at the counter, spreading something on toast. Butter, probably. Or worse—jam. Sugar and fat combined in a useless, indulgent paste.

You grimace. Her lack of will is evident in every bite she takes.

Every gram of unnecessary calories.

Every moment wasted on pleasure rather than preparation.

She'll be replaced soon. They all will. The company has no room for weakness.

"Morning," she says, her voice still rough with sleep. "You're up early."

The observation is pointless. You're always up early.

She knows this. Everyone knows this.

"Yes," you say, because a response is expected, not because the conversation has value.

Her eyes flick to your ponytail. Notice the deviation from your usual style. Her mouth opens slightly—about to comment, to ask, to pry.

You don't give her the chance. "Excuse me."

Two words. Polite but final.

You move past her, not waiting for a response.

The dormitory door closes behind you as the hallway stretches ahead, empty and dim.

Perfect. This is how mornings should be. Quiet. Solitary. Undistracted.

You begin the walk to the studio at your usual pace.

The route never changes. Left from the dormitory. Right at the café that won't open for another two hours. Straight past the bakery where the smell of fresh bread will soon fill the air.

Your stomach tightens. The cotton is doing its job, but barely.

You focus on your breathing instead. Four counts in. Four counts out.

The streets are empty except for delivery trucks and the occasional cleaner hosing down the sidewalk.

Paris pretends to sleep, but it never truly does. It just shifts its rhythms, like a dancer moving from allegro to adagio.

Your mind drifts, just slightly, to the convenience store again. To the fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly and unreal. To the man with the gloves who wouldn't meet your eyes.

Kim.

What a curious specimen.

Most men stare. They always have.

They look with hunger or appreciation or professional assessment.

They look because looking is taking, and you are something to be taken.

But he refused to look at all. Refused even to be seen himself.

It was... interesting.

The memory of his downturned face surfaces again. The curtain of washed-out hair. The blue latex gloves worn thin at the fingertips.

You wonder what his hands look like beneath those gloves. If they're as elegant as their shape suggests. If they're damaged somehow.

Scarred. Diseased.

You wonder why he was afraid.

(You wonder if he's still afraid.)

The thought brings an unexpected sensation.

A slight warmth in your chest.

A tightening that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

Then, the studio appears ahead, windows still dark.

You'll be the first to arrive, as always. The first to warm up. The first to claim your spot at the barre.

You reach for your key card, already positioned in the outer pocket of your bag for efficiency.

The cotton in your stomach has begun to expand, creating the illusion of fullness. Of satisfaction.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

This is what separates you from Elodie with her toast and jam.

From Camille with her petty sabotage.

From all of them with their weaknesses and wants and human frailties.

You are not weak. You are not wanting. You are not frail.

You are becoming perfect.

The studio door beeps as your card registers. For a moment, you think you see movement in your peripheral vision—a shadow shifting, a presence retreating.

You turn your head, just slightly. Just enough to check.

Nothing. Just the empty street. The dim morning light. The faint drizzle that has begun to fall.

You step inside, leaving the outside world behind.

Here, in the studio, everything makes sense. Everything has purpose. Everything can be controlled, measured, perfected.

The lights flicker on automatically. The empty room waits for you, patient and demanding all at once.

You set down your bag. Remove your sweater. Take your position at the barre.

As you begin your first plié, you notice one of the blue ribbons on your leg warmers has come loose. It dangles precariously, threatening to fall.

Distracting. Imperfect.

You untie it completely. The ribbon comes away in your hand, a small strip of navy satin. You place it deliberately by the door, next to your things. You'll dispose of it properly later.

For now, it's been removed. The imperfection excised.

Your gaze returns to the mirrors, reflection multiplying—four versions of yourself executing the same movement precisely.

Arms: acceptable. Turnout: could be deeper. Neck: elongate further.

You move through your warm-up.

Pliés. Tendus. Dégagés.

Each movement builds upon the last, preparing your body for what you'll demand of it today. Preparing your mind for the scrutiny that will come.

The door opens at 6:15 and Madame Villon enters first, as always. Her eyes sweep the studio, landing on you without surprise.

She expects your presence. Your dedication is not remarkable to her.

It is baseline.

"Good morning," she says, her voice crisp in the quiet room.

You incline your head slightly. "Madame."

She moves to the piano, arranging her notes for the day's class. Her movements are economical. You recognize the discipline in her posture, the control in her hands.

She was exceptional once. Now she creates exceptionalism in others.

The other dancers begin to arrive. First Mathilde, then Sophie, then Clara. They move to their usual spots, begin their own warm-ups. Their reflections join yours in the mirrors, creating a forest of limbs and torsos and necks all striving toward the same impossible standard.

Camille arrives at 6:27. Three minutes before class officially begins.

Her hair is already in a perfect bun—the style you couldn't achieve today.

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. She smiles. The expression doesn't reach her eyes.

"Morning," she says, her voice pitched to carry. To be heard by others. To create the illusion of friendship.

You nod once. Acknowledge the performance without participating in it.

Her gaze drops to your ponytail. Registers the deviation from routine. Her smile widens slightly—satisfaction poorly disguised as concern.

"No bun today?" she asks, knowing exactly why.

"No," you say, final.

She moves to the barre, taking her position behind Mathilde.

Her spot in the hierarchy is clear—not quite at the back with the weakest dancers, not quite at the front with you and Elodie.

Middle tier. Hungry for advancement.

Madame Villon claps once. "Places."

The pianist begins. Your body responds automatically.

First position. Demi-plié. Rise. Second position. The sequence is as familiar as breathing.

More familiar, perhaps, since you've never had to think about how to breathe.

Class progresses with its usual intensity. Madame moves among the dancers, making corrections. Her hand on Sophie's waist, adjusting alignment. Her voice sharp as she instructs Léa to extend further, reach higher.

She passes you without comment. Not approval. Not yet.

Just the absence of correction, which is its own kind of evaluation.

Center work begins. The barre no longer there to support you, to steady you. Just your body in space, responsible for its own balance, its own lines.

You execute each combination flawlessly.

Not perfect—perfect doesn't exist yet—but flawless in the sense that no one else in the room could identify your mistakes. Only you know the millisecond delay in your spotting during the final pirouette. Only you feel the slight tremor in your supporting leg during the adagio.

These are errors you will correct.

Weaknesses you will eliminate.

Imperfections you will excise, like the ribbon from your leg warmer.

Madame calls your name. "Demonstrate the grand allegro, please."

It's not a request. It's not even really a command.

It's an expectation.

You take your place in the center. Feel the weight of every gaze in the room. The cotton in your stomach has long since dissolved.

The music begins. Your body launches into motion. Jump, turn, land, extend. The combination is complex—designed to test not just technique but musicality, stamina, presence.

You move through it flawlessly again. Each beat accounted for. Each position achieved exactly as choreographed.

Your breathing remains controlled.

Your face betrays no effort.

When you finish, landing in fifth position with arms curved perfectly in low fifth, there is a moment of silence.

Then Madame nods once. Not praise. Acknowledgment.

"Again," she says to the class. "Four at a time."

By the time Madame signals the end of class, your leotard is damp with sweat. Your muscles vibrate with exertion. Your ponytail has loosened slightly—another imperfection to address.

"Thank you, ladies," Madame says. "Rehearsals begin at ten. Do not be late."

The dancers disperse, moving toward their bags, toward the changing rooms.

Conversations bloom in their wake—discussions of the day's schedule, complaints about sore muscles, plans for the brief break before rehearsal.

You remain at the barre, extending your cool-down.

There is no benefit to rushing. No advantage to socializing.

Your body requires proper care if it's to serve your ambition.

Camille passes behind you, her reflection catching yours in the mirror.

“Lunch later?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear.

A performance that continues.

"Perhaps," you say, noncommittal.

You both know you won't join her.

You both know she doesn't want you to.

The studio empties gradually. Dancers leave in twos and threes, their voices fading as they move down the hallway.

Soon it's just you and your reflection, multiplied across the mirrored walls.

You finish your cool-down. Move to collect your things.

The sweater goes back on—your body temperature will drop quickly now that you're no longer working. The water bottle is half-empty. The towel damp with sweat.

You look for the navy ribbon, left by the door where you placed it.

It's gone.

You scan the floor.

Perhaps it fell. Perhaps it was kicked aside accidentally.

But there's nothing. The ribbon has vanished.

Your eyes narrow slightly.

Camille. It must be Camille.

First the hairpins, now this.

But why would she take a discarded ribbon? What possible advantage could it give her?

Perhaps it's simply spite. Perhaps it's just another way to demonstrate that your space, your belongings, your boundaries are not truly your own. That nothing here belongs exclusively to you—not even your trash.

Or perhaps it's something else. Something you haven't calculated yet. Some new form of sabotage you'll need to anticipate and counter.

You straighten your ponytail. Adjust your sweater. Shoulder your bag.

The ribbon doesn't matter. It was defective. Discarded. Its loss is irrelevant.

But you remember exactly where you left it.

Remember that it was there, and now it's not.

Remember that someone took something of yours, even something you no longer wanted.

You don't know why you're here.

This purgatory with its flickering lights and linoleum floors that never quite look clean no matter how recently they've been mopped.

L'heure bleue.

The convenience store that exists in that strange space between your world and...

Perhaps it's curiosity.

Perhaps it's boredom.

Perhaps it's the man with the ashy blonde hair who seems to vibrate with anxiety whenever you enter his orbit.

Kim.

The protein bars are arranged in descending order of caloric content. You scan the nutritional information with practiced efficiency. This one: 15g protein, 160 calories, 2g sugar.

Acceptable. Not ideal, but functional.

Your body requires fuel. Not pleasure, not indulgence—just the bare minimum to maintain performance.

The store is empty except for you and him. The pink-haired girl is absent tonight. No buffer between you and his strange, trembling avoidance.

You approach the counter, place the protein bar down slowly, almost teasing.

The sound it makes against the surface is soft but there is no mistaking it.

A statement of presence.

No response.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Your time is valuable. Each wasted moment is a micro-failure.

You tap one long manicured nail against the counter. Sharp. Demanding. A single finger communicating what your voice shouldn't have to.

Still nothing.

Finally, you clear your throat.

There's a sudden scattering noise from the back room—something falling, something being knocked over in haste. Then footsteps, quick and uneven.

He emerges from somewhere behind rows of shelves, eyes are fixed on the floor, that curtain of hair hiding his features just as it did before. His shoulders curve inward, making his tall frame seem smaller, less substantial.

He doesn't look at you.

Doesn't acknowledge your presence beyond the most basic recognition that someone is standing at his counter. His focus fixes on the protein bar as if it's the customer, not you.

"Is the pink-haired girl not working tonight?" Your voice is cool. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

He doesn't respond. His fingers—still encased in those blue latex gloves—hover over the protein bar without touching it. His breathing has quickened, just slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

"Do you work here every night?" Another question. Direct. Uncomplicated.

Nothing. Just that same frozen posture. That same careful avoidance.

How curious.

How peculiar, this man who seems physically incapable of meeting your gaze.

As if eye contact might burn him. As if your attention is a weight he cannot bear.

Is he afraid of you?

The thought brings that same strange warmth to your chest. That same unquantifiable feeling you haven't yet categorized.

"You paid for my cotton pads last time," you say. Not a question this time. A statement of fact. "Why?"

His fingers finally move, picking up the protein bar with such care you might think it was made of glass. He scans it, the beep unnaturally loud in the silent store.

When he speaks, his voice is so soft you almost miss it.

"Three euros forty."

Just that. Just the price. Nothing more.

You extend your hand with exact change, coins arranged in your palm for maximum efficiency of transfer.

He doesn't take them from your hand.

Instead, he places a small plastic tray on the counter, sliding it toward you without making contact.

For coins. So he doesn't have to touch you.

The realization makes something in your chest tighten, and it’s not offense. Not exactly. Something more... interesting.

You place the coins in the tray. He takes it, careful not to brush against your fingers. Counts the money methodically. Places your change in the same tray, slides it back to you.

All without once lifting his eyes to your face.

"Thank you," you say, though you're not sure why.

The transaction doesn't require gratitude. It's a simple exchange of currency for goods. Nothing more.

He nods once, that same sharp downward jerk of his chin you noticed last time. His hands retreat to his sides, then behind his back, as if he doesn't trust them to behave appropriately in your presence.

You collect your change. Take the protein bar. Turn to leave.

That's when you see it.

A flash of navy blue, peeking from his pocket. Small. Satin. Unmistakable.

The ribbon from your leg warmer. The one you left by the studio door. The one that disappeared.

Not Camille.

Him.

But how? How did he get it? How did it travel from the dance studio to this convenience store? To his pocket?

You pause, your back to him, processing this new information.

He must have been there. At the studio.

Must have seen you. Must have taken what you discarded.

The realization should disturb you.

Should trigger alarm, concern, perhaps even fear.

It doesn't.

Instead, that same strange warmth spreads through your chest—that same unnamed feeling that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum

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jethrowest · 1 year ago

Text

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

gif credit

divider credit

Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

#homelander #homelander x reader #the boys #antony starr #my writing #let me see you stripped down to the bone #oneshot #god it feels so good getting this out #i’ve been going through a painful writer’s block so 🥹#thank you everyone who helped and anyone who reads #this is my first full-fledged homelander fic so i’m a bit nervous but! very excited 🖤#love you all 🥰

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simspaghetti · 2 months ago

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SIMS 3: THE GLOBETROTTER CHALLENGE

Original Sims 4 Challenge here by moonfi - this is just an adaptation for TS3!

I love the idea of the original globetrotter challenge by @moonfi but the original rules are for TS4 and are specifically themed around those worlds, so I decided to make my own version adapted for the TS3 worlds / gameplay, ofc all credit goes to moonfi for the original idea :)

Credit also goes to @florydaax for the store world legacy & @horusmenhosetix for the HIX Completionist Challenge - I took some inspo from both of those to come up with the goals for each location

This is my first attempt at creating a challenge for public release so if anyone has any feedback / suggestions pls lmk

Feel free to tag me or use #TS3Globetrotter if you try this out I'd love to see how your gameplay goes - no obligation to do that though! I'm just curious lol :)

Your sim is an adventurer visiting many places around the globe… Begin your explorations in the challenge below…

[Google Docs Version HERE - I reccomend reading the challenge on there & making a personal copy for gameplay!]

There are two ways to play this challenge, the original way is intended to be played with one sim. If you're going this route it’s best to turn the aging off or set it to long - However, there is also an option to play this challenge generationally if you wish (just treat each ‘round’ as a new generation or span 2 rounds across each generation etc. It’s up to you how you want to work that out!)

The challenge is NOT about accumulating money, but enjoying the gameplay. Each round has its own main LTW and a few other goals to fulfil, but it rarely has a specific career your sim must follow - that’s because the focus should be on exploring the world around them rather than spending a lot of time in rabbitholes

This challenge uses a combination of store worlds & EP worlds, but I’ve also included few alternative custom worlds for each round you can use instead if you’d prefer - if you want to take creative liberty and choose your own world you’d rather use for a round that’s totally fine! Just make sure it fits in with the correct vibe & theme for that round / generation

You can play these rounds in whatever order you want to, but I’ve presented them in a similar order to the original challenge w. each backstory following on from the last - you can ignore or alter the backstories as you wish to suit your gamplay ofc!

THE RULES:

MOD RECCOMENDATIONS: This challenge can be played without mods, but it is definitely enhanced by their inclusion, so here are some suggestions… NRAAS Traveller will allow your sim to travel to any world you have installed, and retain relationships w. sims from previous trips once they move worlds NRAAS Tempest will allow you to take control over the world climate, which is recommended for full immersion - I also suggest checking out Pudding Parade’s Tempest project to find some premade settings for several types of different climates you can just place in your save! UPDATE: Pudding Parade has also made some preset suggestions for this challenge here! You might also want to check out my mod / CC reccomendation list for off-grid living :)

Create a sim (any age, but recommended to start with a YA), and once you move them to the first location give them a tent and set the funds to 0–50 simoleons (0 for a more challenging start) Cheats bar: testingcheatsenabled TRUE // familyfunds [insert household name] 0

Main LTWs must be completed during their round, the other goals must be completed at least halfway before moving to a new location You have a choice of several LTWs to complete for each round - take your pick of one of these, it’s not expected for you to do more than one If you’re only playing with one sim for the duration of the challenge, you can either buy a LTR to change your sims lifetime wish for each round, or go and change it manually in CAS through cheats

Your sim cannot travel to places outside the world you’re currently playing in (unless specified by that round)

They can apply for a job once they have: a tent (or a bed), a campfire (or a stove), a fridge, a toilet, a shower, a sink, a counter, a chair. they must quit their job when you move to the next location. your sim can make money by selling things they found and created from their family / personal inventory.

You can purchase (or ‘rent’ for the purposes of storytelling) a house in a world once you have the funds to do so - just know you’ll have to leave it behind when you move, so don’t get too invested!

When moving to a new location your sim can take one piece of furniture and their tent. you should sell the rest. all the collectibles or souvenirs your sim found and put in their inventory travel with them as well - just no big bits of furniture like sofas, beds etc.

In order to move worlds, your sim needs to have 20,000 simoleons in the bank - you can cheat this money if you need to, but you must reset your family funds back to normal once they’re in the next world.

If your sim forms relationships or has kids in a previous world, they can either abandon / leave them behind completely or bring them along to the next world - it’s totally up to you!

As an additional challenge, aim to master the Photography skill & take scenic photos of every town your sim visits

NEW RULE: Your sim can swap out one of their traits each round to be better suited for the gameplay - I've included some trait suggestions, but it's up to you what you decide to go with

ROUND 1: THE ARCTIC ⛰️🌠

WORLD REC: Aurora Skies / Saaqartoq

Recently packing up all their belongings and hopping on a plane from their hometown of Sunset Valley, your sim wishes to explore the world. Their first stop is to experience the most unique wonderful natural anomalies to be found in the cold arctic ocean. Where better to start their adventures than in The Arctic at the very top of the world?

Seasonal Recommendation: Set the town to a cold temperature climate using NRAAS Tempest OR disable Summer

Trait Rec: Eccentric / Computer Whiz / Handy / Loves the Cold / Genius

LTW: ‘The Tinkerer’ / ‘Become a Creature-Robot Cross-Breeder’ / ‘Scientific Specialist’ / ‘Master Forager’ (CUSTOM)

Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Logic: ‘Celestial Explorer’ Collecting: ‘Metal Collector’ & ‘Gem Collector’ Science: ‘Experienced Experimentalist’

Obtain the 'Forbidden Fruit' seed

Reach level 7 of the ‘Logic’, ‘Science’ & ‘Handiness’ Skills

Reach level 3 of the ‘Fishing’ skill

Get the ‘My Best Friend’ Lifetime Reward

Swim in the hot springs / cold ocean for at least 1 hour

Go ice skating (on a rink OR on a natural body of water)

Take a romantic ride with another sim in a hot air balloon

Woohoo in the ‘science lab’ lot OR in a hot air balloon

Gain the ‘polar bear club’ moodlet from swimming in natural water during winter

‘Watch the stars’ or stargaze through a telescope for at least 2 hours during an aurora event (or between 12-4AM if you’re not playing in a world w. Auroras enabled)

ROUND 2: SLICE OF PARADISE 🛟🏝️

WORLD REC: Isla Paradiso / Sunlit Tides / Mariner's Reach / Isla Escudo

Having spent a good chunk of time immersing themselves in the scientific community, your sim feels like they’ve achieved enough to deserve a nice holiday. They set out to a warm island town to relax. They just want to chill, run away from the cold and sink their toes into the ocean. They’ve dipped their toes into fishing before, and would now like to fully immerse themselves in the deep blue sea and see what kind of things they can find.

Note: If your world doesn’t have dive lots or seashell spawners, I highly recommend placing some down so you can complete all the challenges for this round!

Seasonal Recommendation: Set the town to a hot temperature climate using NRAAS Tempest OR disable all seasons other than Summer

Trait Rec: Loves the Heat / Loves to Swim / Sailor / Angler

LTW: ‘Presenting the Perfect Private Aquarium’ / ‘Deep Sea Diver’ / ‘Pond Whisperer’ (CUSTOM)

Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Fishing: ‘Ametur Ichthyologist’ & ‘Commercial Fisherman’ Scuba Diving: ‘Pearl Diver’ & ‘Savvy Snorkeler’

Master the ‘Fishing’ & ‘Scuba Diving’ Skills

Meet & become friends (or lovers) with a mermaid

Get a sunburn & a suntan (the tan can be real or from a machine)

Get the ‘Immune to Heat’ Lifetime Reward

Dive in all your world’s dive lots

Buy a boat

Fight a shark

Collect all seashells

Sunbathe in one long session on the beach for 4 hours

Go scuba diving & swim in the ocean for at least 3 hours

Woohoo in an underwater cave

Obtain the 'Mr. Marnier' Gnome

ROUND 3: DEEP IN THE WOODS 🌲🦉

WORLD REC: Hidden Springs / Moonlight Falls / Great Bear / Ainali / Eriu Fe

Your sim has grown tired of the endless heat on the islands and wants to move somewhere cooler again. The smell of pine trees and a more rustic way of life has been calling their name for some time now. They wish to admire nature, sing with the birds, get their hands into the rich soil to grow some interesting plants and go hiking in the woods.

Seasonal Recommendation: Leave all seasons on default OR just disable snow

Trait Rec: Gatherer / Green Thumb / Loves the Outdoors / Night Owl / Vegetarian / Animal Lover

LTW: ‘The Perfect Garden’ / ‘The Zoologist’ / ‘Greener Gardens’ / ‘First Class Farmer’ / ‘Master Forager’ (CUSTOM)

Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Gardening: ‘Master Planter’ & ‘Botanical Boss’ Collecting: ‘Butterfly Collector’, ‘Firefly Collector’ & ‘Beetle Collector’

Get the ‘Super Green Thumb’ & ‘Collection Helper’ Lifetime Rewards (if you don’t have collection helper already)

Master the ‘Gardening’ Skill

Complete the ‘Omni Plant’ opportunity Chain (info here)

Own at least 2 minor pets (lizards, snakes, rodents or birds - or a combo of these)

Drink from the ‘fountain of youth’ & ‘wish for youth’ (you may need to place it down in edit town)

Plant every plant from the Grocery Store

Pick all the wildflower types

Observe all wild animals that come onto your home lot

Befriend a deer

Go hiking all day (walk to some community park lots, preferably up a mountain) and sleep out under the stars in a sleeping bag on a community lot at least 2x

Cook potatoes, garlic, onion, tomatoes, fish and roast marshmallows over a campfire at least once

Woohoo in a tent

Consume all the herb types (in whatever way you want) and feel their moodlet effects

ROUND 4: THE DAZZLING DESERT 🍸🌞

WORLD REC: Lucky Palms / Strangetown (V1) / Strangetown (V2) / Wild Wild West

Living in the woods was a great way for your sim to recharge their batteries and take it slow for a while, but now they’re ready for a bit more excitement! They find themselves among the vibrant desert sands, hoping to let loose, party a little bit, and also venture a little bit further out to do some archaeological exploration in a new landscape

Seasonal Recommendation: Set the town to a hot / desert temperature climate using NRAAS Tempest OR disable all seasons other than Summer

Trait Rec: Loves The Heat / Lucky / Party Animal / Daredevil / Adventurous

LTW: ‘Private Museum’ / ‘Master Romancer’ / ‘Lifestyle of the Rich & Famous’ / ‘Vocal Legend’

Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Charisma: ‘Celebrity’ Mixology: ‘Cool Creator’

Reach level 7 of the ‘Mixology’, ‘Gambling’ & ‘Charisma’ Skills

Go to the casino at least 10x

Make 3 wishes at the wishing well

Host 5 parties

Set off 10 fireworks

Visit & drink at bars on at least 10 different occasions

Obtain a ‘Dusty old lamp’ and make a wish of your choosing

Get the ‘Learned Relic Hunter’ Lifetime Reward

Visit Al Simhara and get a maximum visa level for Egypt

Dig at 10 dig spots in Al Simhara

Find at least 30 relics

Analyse every relic your sim finds

Woohoo in a sarcophagus OR a hot tub

ROUND 5: STONE-BAKED SUMMER 🍕🍾

WORLD REC: Monte Vista / Veronese Island / Lago Simiore / Isla Escudo

All that partying has left your sim wanting to take it a bit more slowly and go back into nature. They’re feeling drawn to beautiful rolling hills, olive trees and cobblestoned streets. All this tasty produce the land is known for has made them want to try their hand at cooking and nectar making, after all, if they really want to experience the culture they need to learn to eat and drink like a local too! They’re also beginning to get inspired by the gorgeous scenery and want to try their hand at some art.

Seasonal Recommendation: Set the town to a warm / Mediterranean temperature climate using NRAAS Tempest OR disable Winter

Trait Rec: Artistic / Natural Cook / Savvy Sculptor / Virtuoso

LTW: ‘Culinary Librarian’ / ‘Celebrated 5-Star Chef’ / ‘Bottomless Nectar Cellar’ / ‘Master of The Arts’

Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Cooking: ‘Star Chef’, ‘World-Class Chef’ & ‘Menu Maven’ Painting: ‘Brushmaster’ Sculpting: ‘Chiselmaster’ & ‘Master Sculptor’

Reach level 7 of the Cooking, Nectar Making & Painting OR Sculpting Skills

Get the ‘Born to Cook’ Lifetime Reward

Obtain every type of grape from all the worlds

Collect and learn all the recipes

Travel to Champs Les Sims, learn the Nectar-Making Skill and purchase at least 1 Nectar Maker for your lot

Make every type of meal on the wood-fire oven

Purchase a wood-fire oven for your home lot

Create at least 1 perfect-quality nectar

Visit the ‘Art Gallery’ & ‘Museum’ lots in town

Sell §5000 worth of paintings &/ sculptures

Get up to level 5 in an instrument of your choice

‘Play for tips’ for at least 3 hours on a community lot

ROUND 6: SPOOKS IN THE SHADOWS 🕸️🪦

WORLD REC: Midnight Hollow / Moonlight Falls (if not used already in round 3) / Bridgeport / Halloween Hideaway / Haunted Valley II

All that cooking, nectar making and painting was very relaxing, but your sim is ready for one more final, exciting adventure now before settling down for good. They’ve been hearing rumours about strange supernatural happenings in a distant corner of the world, and they’re keen to check out what’s going on for themselves. They find themselves in a dark place where mysticism and strange happenings seem to lurk around every corner…

Seasonal Recommendation: Leave as is or use NRAAS Tempest to create a more rainy / foggy & slightly colder climate

Trait Rec: Neurotic / Perceptive / Coward / Brooding / Supernatural Fan / Supernatural Skeptic / Night Owl

LTW: ‘Paranormal Profiteer’ / ‘Alchemy Artisan’ / ‘Leader of the Pack’ / ‘Mystic Healer’ / ‘Turn The Town’ / ‘Zombie Master’

Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Alchemy: ‘Master Alchemist’ Collecting: ‘Mushroom Collector’

Master the ‘Alchemy’ Skill

Become a supernatural being of your choosing (fairy, werewolf, witch or vampire)

Get the ‘Alpha Wolf’ OR ‘Magic Hands’ OR ‘Immortal’ OR ‘King / Queen of the Fae’ Lifetime Reward depending on your supernatural type

Visit the ‘Graveyard’ lot and hang out / sleep there for at least 1x from 8pm-8am

Get into a fight with a supernatural being during a full moon

Donate plasma to a vampire

Turn 3 sims into supernatural beings (either your supernatural type by biting them or another type by using elixirs)

Woohoo in a fairy house OR magical wardrobe

Create a playable ghost OR resurrect a ghost using Ambrosia

Have a child with said ghost or previously-a-ghost sim

ROUND 7: SETTLING IN THE COUNTRYSIDE 🌾🐮

WORLD REC: Appaloosa Plains / Dragon Valley / Riverview / Constant Springs / Winchester Farming Community / Country Love

After delving into just about every corner of simnation, your sim is beginning to feel like it’s time to hang up their walking boots and settle down in the good life with their family. But their work isn’t done just yet, they have grand aspirations of owning their very own farm, surrounded by a brood of animals and maybe even a few more kids. If they’re gonna plant roots somewhere, they’re gonna do it to the fullest extent!

Seasonal Recommendation: Leave as is

Trait Rec: Nurturing / Hopeless Romantic / Animal Lover / Cat Person / Dog Person / Equestrian / Family-Oriented / Loves the Outdoors

LTW: ‘The Animal Rescuer’ / ‘The Fairy Tale Finder’ / ‘The Ark Builder’ / ‘The Jockey’ / ‘Surrounded by Family’ / ‘Country Caretaker’ (CUSTOM)

Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Riding: ‘Equestrian Champion’ (HORSE) Racing: ‘Endurance Equine’

Master the ‘Horse Riding’ Skill

Own a horse who masters the ‘Jumping’ & ‘Racing’ Skills

Get the ‘Raised by Wolves’ Lifetime Reward

Own a cat OR dog who masters the ‘Hunting’ Skill

Own at least 4 animals total (at least 1 of each type)

Woohoo in a haystack

Get married

Have at least 3 children total

Teach children all their toddler skills

Do homework with children at least 1x per child

Be ‘best friends’ with all of your children

(OPTIONAL) ROUND 8: TO THE MOON 🌜🛸

WORLD REC: Lunar Lakes / Moon Base Delta / Cronor / Mermaidia

Your sim thought their adventures were over now that they’ve explored everything this planet has to offer… That was until they were given the opportunity to be one of the first colonisers of a brand-new civilisation on a planet in outer-space. They’ll have to do their fair share of mucking-in, helping the community create new inventions or assisting in the town’s military force to defend from space-invader attacks, but it’s a brand new frontier, and your sim definitely aims to be at the front of it!

Seasonal Recommendation: Use NRAAS Tempest to create a climate where it is usually always the same weather but with more fog & hail OR disable all seasons other than Spring & disable rain (treat hail like meteor showers)

Trait Rec: Eccentric / Handy / Athletic / Brave / Bot Fan / Perfectionist / Workaholic

LTW: ‘Monster Maker’ / ‘Leader of the Free World’ / ‘Perfect Mind, Perfect Body’ / ‘Become an Astronaut’ Other Goals:

Complete the following Skill Challenges: Collecting: ‘Amateur Rock Finder’ & ‘Awesomest Rock Collector in the Universe’ Handiness: ‘Electrician’, ‘Plumber’ & ‘Tinkerer’ Inventing: ‘Scrap Collector’

Master the ‘Inventing’ & ‘Athletic’ Skills

Invent at least 1 simbot

Get the ‘Teleportation Pad’ & ‘Climation Control Unit’ Lifetime Rewards

Get abducted by an alien

Befriend an alien

Have an alien baby OR move in with an alien (you can send the baby back to its homeworld once its born if you want)

Woohoo in a bot workshop, time machine OR jetpack

That's the challenge done! Have fun :D

#TS3 #Sims 3 #Sims 3 Challenge Ruleset #TS3 Challenge #Simblr #TS3Globetrotter #Globetrotter Challenge

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sun-and-flames · 2 months ago

Text

A Rising Dawn - Chapter 8

Mydei x (female) Reader

Fic Rating: Mature

Chapter Length: 2.8k

Fic Status: Complete (8/8)

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Learning to Trust, Sweet, Wholesome, basically no angst, no use of y/n, smut(chapter 7), First time, set before the events of 3.0

Author’s Notes: The final chapter is here! I just wanna thank you all so much for reading and for sharing your thoughts with me about the fic <3 I have never received such kind and heartwarming comments on a fic ever before and I genuinely mean that. It means the world to me to hear how you all have been enjoying this little fic that started out as a mere one-shot idea <3 I've had an absolute blast writing it and I also learned a lot about my writing in general. I wrote this fic in a different way from how I used to write fics before and I don't think I ever wanna go back now haha I don't know yet when or if there will be another project like this in the future, even though I am playing with the idea. Just this time it's Phainon x Reader and a modern AU. But we'll see eventually. For now, thank you again for sticking with me and I hope you'll like this final chapter <3

Previous Chapter

AO3 Link

Summary: In the Holy City, daily life remained the same for the citizens despite the threat of the Black Tide lurking beyond the city’s borders.

But sometimes, a brief encounter can bring about a new dawn for its residents. Chrysos Heirs and regular citizens alike.

Even more so when the Golden Thread has tied your fates together a long time ago.

With a sigh you wrapped the thin blanket around your nude body and stepped onto the balcony of Mydei’s home in the early Entry Hour. Sleep still tugged at your mind and body and yet, you’ve never felt more awake either.

You sat down on the cushions of the bench and gazed up into the sky where Kephale’s light shone brightly at the start of this new day. Sounds from inside reached your ears where Mydei prepared some breakfast for you in the kitchen and something about this made your heart swell inside your chest.

It felt so… domestic. So cozy.

And also unbelievable. You remembered the first time you were here and sat in the very same spot weeks ago. How tense and nervous you’ve been and now… You were sitting here with a smile on your face and nothing but a thin blanket from his bed covering your body.

Mydei stepped onto the balcony with a tray in his hands, full of small plates and two steaming cups. The smell of coffee reached your nose and you inhaled the scent sharply. Perfect for such a lazy morning.

As Mydei put the tray down you couldn’t help but throw a glimpse at him. His steps were so much quieter without all the armor. He wore nothing but pants, his upper body exposed. All powerful and rippling muscles. A gorgeous but also thrilling sight.

To think how these strong arms have held you like something delicate last night, how those hands that could crush stone and bend metal touched and caressed your body with a tenderness few people possessed to begin with…

You averted your gaze when warmth rose in your cheeks.

Instead you allowed the smell of coffee and freshly sliced fruits to distract your mind and senses. He sliced it all. All the fruits, the cheese, the bread…

“Oh,” you said as your eyes traveled over the plates, “that really wasn’t necessary.”

Mydei paused at that. Looked at you with a raised brow, unblinking. You tilted your head but it took a long moment until realization dawned upon you. When it did, you chuckled.

“Yeah, alright. I’m one to talk,” you said, your voice ridden with laughter. Mydei’s lips twitched upwards, amusement glistening in his eyes. He handed you one of the cups of coffee before he sat down next to you.

Another proof just how much your situation has shifted. Before, he took his seat on the chair on the other side of the small table and now, you were both sitting next to each other, barely clothed - your current state hardly counted as such at all - and with no distance between you. Your arm and knee brushed his, you could feel the warmth of his body…

This would’ve been impossible weeks ago.

Let alone sleeping with him.

It filled you with pride and glee knowing that affection and intimacy were not mere concepts to you anymore. That you could indulge in them without hesitation, without panicking.

And one day, he would be able to grasp and hold your wrists without that sliver of dread filling your mind too.

———————

“The kids were talking about wanting to see the sea one day,” you said as you picked up all the bowls you’ve brought and put them back into your basket.

Mydei looked at you for a moment, but didn’t stop storing the training weapons the kids used today. He closed the doors of the weapon cabinets at the side of the training grounds until nothing but the traces in the gravel and sand showed any sign of activity here.

“Would you take them?” he asked.

Going to the sea, especially taking children there, was impossible given the current circumstances on Amphoreus, but that was not what Mydei was implying. At all. You contemplated his words for a moment.

“I don’t know,” you replied eventually. You’ve never been to the sea again after that day all these years ago. And you had no idea if you wanted - no, if you could - face it again. Open water, untamed waves, expanding over the horizon… the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs, brushing up on the shore…

You frowned.

A hand came to rest on your shoulder and you flinched, pulled out of your thoughts. When you looked up you met Mydei’s gaze. Burning brightly as ever but the concern flashing across them was impossible to miss. You haven’t noticed that he had approached you.

“I’m not fond of the sea either,” he said. You tilted your head, looked at him with a curious glance in your own eyes. Mydei looked away, crossed his arms in front of his chest as he gazed into space, eyes unfocused.

“When I was a little kid, my father threw me into the Sea of Souls. All for the sake of protecting his own life from a prophecy that I would one day slay him and take the throne for myself. He even schemed and took my mother’s life to prevent her from saving me.”

You felt your blood run cold. Your hands began to tremble as you stared at him, how he was still gazing at nothing in particular, arms crossed in front of him, brows furrowed.

His own father…?

“I… didn’t know, I’m so sorry,” you said and looked to the ground. What a tragic tale. And those few words probably didn’t convey half of the horrific story. The thought how any parent could do such a thing crept up inside your head but then your own parents appeared in your mind and your stomach churned at the thought. Your hand came up to clutch the crystal around your neck absentmindedly.

And here you have been, talking and burdening him with your own past when you never knew… never bothered to ask-

Mydei put a finger - armored and cold - beneath your chin, halting your thoughts.

“Do not fret this.” He pushed your chin up until you had to meet his gaze. His brows were furrowed the slightest bit, the glance in his eyes hard and unyielding. It left you speechless.

“Just like you, I have fought and worked on not letting it rule my thoughts and actions. Do not linger on it on my behalf.”

He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want concern. He didn’t want you to feel sorry for him. Not when neither of you could look back on a happy past and childhood.

People on the streets already had too many stories and rumors about him to tell. All these prejudices that even you haven’t been completely unaffected by in the very beginning.

You knew the stories all too well. Mydeimos, the Undying. The stories spread far and wide among Okhemans. That the Chrysos Heir kept returning from death. The crown prince of Castrum Kremnos who killed the former king.

You never dwelled too much on these stories.

You didn’t care.

Mydei has never given you any reason to ponder how… strange that body of his truly was. Or what deeds he has committed in the past. Not when he gave you nothing but warmth and comfort. And safety. He was nothing like the rumors on the streets. He was a Kremnoan warrior, not even you doubted that, but there was so much more to him that you couldn’t find it in you to care about anything else but how he was to you.

And if he did not want you to linger on this tragic and horrible story of his past, then the very least you could do for him was to heed his wish.

As you reached for his hand and pressed a kiss to his armored fingers, you hoped it would convey all that you thought and felt about this. Though, deep down you hoped he knew he could always speak to you if anything weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“I guess, we… have to ask Lady Tribios then to take the kids to the sea,” you said, a soft smile on your lips.

Mydei made a “hmpf” sound, though his lips twitched upwards and his expression softened.

———————

He… took a liking to this, he noticed.

You lying on top of him like this. Your cheek against his chest, your hands tracing the markings on his neck or playing with his hair, your legs entwined…

After sleeping with you, it seemed all the more intimate to have you close to him like this.

The crystal from your necklace caught his eye and he reached for it where it rested between your chest and his. You never took it off. Never.

With curious eyes you raised your head and watched him as he slid his thumb over the smooth surface. Even for something so small and delicate, Chartonus’s work was entirely unparalleled in Amphoreus.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked. Maybe it was finally time to let you in on the origin of these crystals. You pushed yourself upwards a bit, braced yourself on your arms on his chest as your eyes shifted between him and the necklace. The way you rested on top of him made it seem like you treated his chest like a random surface - a table or wall.

Adorable. And amusing. It drove home just how much smaller than him you were.

You shook your head. “No,” you said, “it’s pretty though.”

He huffed at that. Only you would say that. Probably an answer he should’ve anticipated. Still, he wondered if you would still call it pretty if you knew the truth. Maybe that’s why he hesitated to tell you all this time. He scolded himself. Was he truly fearing your answer? After everything you’ve been through?

“What is it?” you asked, your eyes locked on the crystal still in his hand.

“My blood.”

Time halted. Moments passed. Moments in which he was all too aware of his heavy heartbeat and the anticipation of your reaction growing in his mind. Your brows furrowed but your eyes never once averted from the crystal.

And then you reached for it. Took it from his hand to inspect it as if you were seeing it again for the first time, with a frown on your face and lips pursed. He didn’t say a word.

“Your blood?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

No doubts about his words. Just disbelief. You stared at the crystal dangling from the leather band, inspecting it as if it could give you an answer itself. He understood the confusion. It was unlikely an ability that you have come across before. Even he doubted there was a second person capable of using their own blood to fight. Natural for you to not associate a shiny red crystal - that you found on the ground - with blood.

How it worked, he did not know either. It came to him like breathing. Instinctual. It didn’t take energy or a lot of thought to conjure them up and shape them into whatever attack he initiated.

So he showed you instead.

He raised the hand that held the crystal before so you could see without having to move from your position on top of him. A mere thought was all it took. Mydei watched how your eyes widened when the markings on his arm began to glow before a crystal rose from his palm.

The shine faded an instant later and the crystal, about the size of the one around your neck, came to rest in his open palm.

He nodded towards you. You hesitated, stared at the crystal with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, surprise written all over your features. Or was it wonder? Disbelief? His lips twitched upwards as you took the crystal, looked at it from every angle as if to confirm it was real. The same crystal as around your neck.

“Does it hurt?”

His eyes widened at that. The amusement faded, left only bewilderment within him. That was your first thought? His ability has been called everything over the years - strange, grotesque, terrifying - and he fully expected a similar sentiment from you. And yet, all that left your lips was concern. For him.

“No,” he said. It was no lie. He barely felt the sensation of his blood surging through his body to gather and manifest like this anymore. When the itching in his veins grew too strong - consuming - it changed but in the thrill and adrenaline of it all it was something that spurred him on rather than harmed him.

You nodded. Satisfied with the answer. You still stared at the crystals, though eventually you put the new one aside, let it sink onto the mattress next to him, and turned your attention to the one around your neck again.

Until a soft smile broke out on your features. The glance that flashed across your eyes seemed to illuminate your entire face. He wondered what kind of thought could achieve such a thing.

You looked at him. Eyes beaming. Mouth forming a gentle upwards curve.

“Does this mean… that I’ve been carrying a part of you close to my heart all this time?”

Time stood still. And Mydei could only stare. Bewildered and speechless. Stunned. Golden eyes widened, lips parted and yet, no word escaped him.

He was caught off guard. Utterly and undoubtedly so.

He expected anything. Fear. Distaste. He would’ve been prepared if you had been grossed out. If you had taken the necklace off the moment you’ve learned it was blood. But here you were. Smiling and beaming at him with joy - adoration - because of the realization that you have kept this part of him close to your heart this entire time.

Did he mean that much to you? Did it make you happy to know that you have been carrying a literal part of him with you? Did it make you feel safer? You have held onto it so often. When you talked about your past. When you felt worried. Nervous. Scared.

It didn’t matter at all to you that it was blood.

All you cared about was how close he has been to you this whole time.

Mydei didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what to do. What to say. He was… speechless. And so… touched. Once the shock slowly faded, it made way for something deeper. Something warmer. Something that made him yearn to hold you close. To wrap you in his arms and keep you safe from everything that weighed on you.

Your fingers brushed some of his strands away from his eyes, but only the tender touch of your lips on his managed to pull him out of his frozen state.

He gave in to the warmth and blissful sensation of your kiss instantly. Wrapped his arms around your body to press you close and indulge. And bask. And let go of himself.

“Thank you for this gift,” you whispered against his lips. And again. He couldn’t fathom how - why - you were treating this as something so precious. Deep down he wondered if his confusion stemmed merely from the fact that no one has ever treated his body, his ability, his origin, as anything but a curse. Devastating and terrifying.

But you…

“Does it… make you happy?” he dared to ask against your lips. You nodded, strands of your hair tickling his face with the almost eager gesture. He felt his heart race in his chest at the confirmation.

And pulled you into him again.

But as he kissed you, kept your body close to his, all he could think of was how he didn’t want to miss this. If he could he would fuse your souls together until he never had to be parted from you again and could indulge - bask - in your warmth and affection. And in turn, shower you in such himself.

He knew it was a foolish thought.

And he knew that beyond this bed and these walls, his life and duties remained unchanged and much less warm and comfortable than your arms around him and your lips on his.

Still…

He would need to think. Consider a lot of things.

The Flame-Chase journey. His detachment. The future of the Kremnoans. You.

And at this point in time he had no idea how to do everyone and everything justice and reach solutions that would not only secure the future of Amphoreus and his people, but also allowed him to have this. To indulge in you. Bask in your warmth and the comfort you brought without dismissing any of his duties.

But, he would reach for it anyway.

He would fight on, as he’s always done, and strive towards a future that had you by his side while still embracing his fate.

Or, if needed, resist his fate with all the strength of his mighty will.

#hsr #honkai star rail #mydei #mydei x reader #mydei x you #my fic

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jacevelaryonswife · 11 months ago

Text

Hiding all of our sins from the daylight | Part Two

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader

summary: Even if you were willing to forget what happened, when you saw the prince that morning you knew that your relationship would never be the same.

word count: 3.191

tags: slight angst and adult themes

masterlist — previous part

A bond germinated between the prince and you as the days went by. There was no sin in your conversations, but a servant could never be friends with a nobleman, and above all: a woman could never be friends with a man. Although you believed that the existing dynamics with Jacaerys Velaryon did not fit into any of the previous options. It was your duty to be available to the prince of Dragonstone for what he wanted, and at the time, he needed a thoughtful listener.

"I don't want to fill my mother's head with my worries, even though I know she would listen. She is the queen and we are at war, it’s not time for this," was his justification.

The trust between you has developed slowly.

How are you feeling? Do you want to say something? Do you need anything?

It was the questions that guided the days following the incident with the wine. Over time, the prince began to report his dissatisfaction with the black council, either because of the way the queen didn’t let him act or how the other lords did not respect her enough.

"I just want to be useful for her cause, but she sees me as an incapable little boy," he shouted one of the times that the queen did not allow him to guard with Vermax.

"The queen cares about your safety, my prince. She suffers enough from the death of Prince Lucerys, she doesn't want to risk your life.”

“I'm not going to die!”

"You can't guarantee that, my prince."

And despite sometimes regretting not being formal enough in your answers, the prince showed satisfaction in the sincerity of your words more than once. Obviously no mention of your conversations with him was made for the other girls, you found it too dangerous.

And if there was anything beneficial for you, it was the opening that Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir gave so that your thoughts and feelings were also exposed. Superficial at first, experimental, but that became more intimate over the weeks.

"I try to keep myself constantly busy to ease my concerns about the war, but it's not working as I would like. Every night before bed I think about the worst,” you confessed a day after dinner, during the hour of the bat.

“Me too.”

The conversations became routine during breakfast while you cleaned his chambers and after dinner when you helped him sleep. Secretly, those were your favorite moments throughout the day, although you didn't want to admit it for a while.

The only problem with intimacy was to make you forget your place.

Sometimes, almost, an unweighted response was almost directed to the prince. Other times the physical comfort seemed to extrapolate while you smoothed his dark curls, although he did not manifest discomfort. He never did, actually. Maybe that influenced your behavior around him, especially when he began to reciprocate the attempt of comfort, touching your hand with nothing but respect and delicacy, although firm enough to be felt while you confessed your fears to him.

It was dangerous to allow such closeness to the prince.

You were no stranger to the stories of servants who fell in love with their lords, reciprocated or platonic, it was not something you sought to fantasize, promising yourself that you would immediately move away in the first different twinge in your heart. Although, dealing with feelings was not that simple.

That night, the prince was enthusiastic about the diplomatic experience with the Freys, telling every detail of the conversation accurately. He seemed quite proud to be useful, even the frown present in his feature in the last few days had disappeared.

“When I was a child, Viserys told me the Iron Throne would be mine one day,” Jace commented with a rare smile these days.

"He told?" You asked, knowing very well that it was true.

"A long time ago, before his health got worse, I think I was six years old," he replied on the other side of the table, keeping his smile open.

"Have you ever imagined yourself there?" A silly question, you thought.

“Sometimes, especially before war. Now I feel like I'm cheating on my mother,” his face hardened softly as he looked down.

"You are the heir of the Queen, it is not wrong to imagine your future," you tried to comfort him with the obviousness of the situation, although you understood what was going on in the prince's head and heart.

“I know, but just seems wrong,” he countered, looking at you. “How about you?”

“Me?”

"Have you never imagined yourself being the Queen?"

That made you chuckle. "There is a barrier that people like me should not overcome, even in thoughts," you almost laughing at him.

"Please, everyone has thought about sitting on the iron throne," he leaned totally against the chair, watching you with frowning eyebrows and a smile on his lips. as he totally leaned against the chair.

"I never thought such a absurd," you reinforced.

"I doubt it, have you never thought about being a noblewoman?"

"Of course I thought! I would be pleased to be the ugly daughter that no lord wants to marry, so I could enjoy my position without having only my side a decrepit old man as lord husband. But the Queen? I've never dared so much."

He laughed loudly and his eyes almost closed. "Well, I think it's a good plan, but I believe you would be a fine Queen."

That took you by surprise.

The absurdity of the statement made your eyes widen and your cheeks warm up. "And you will be a fine King," you replied with a giggle, doing little of what he had said - even you believed faithfully in your own statement.

Suddenly, you felt his gaze endure on yours in a different, more intense way, as if... he was seeing you, totally seeing you.

And that made your heart warm.

No, no!

“I must go, my prince. It's late,” you stood up immediately. "Do you need anything?"

He took a while to respond, shaking his head negatively. "N-no, I don't," getting up to accompany you to the door. "Listen, I- I have to say something to you."

Your heart was beating faster than usual and continuing in the presence of the prince did not improve the situation. You didn't know why you felt so suddenly affected, but you imagined that it was the ideal time to reassess the proximity to him.

“I would like to thank you for the support in these weeks, for listening to me,” he said.

"You don't have to thank me, my prince, it's my duty," you exhibited a restrained smile, holding your hands in front of your body.

“I know it's just-“

The previous look that made your heart warm returned, however, more nervous, afraid as he approached you. His hands held your face gently, not giving you time to move away before he leaned over to touch your lips. You froze in place, not being able to move a single member, even after the prince had moved away with terror in his eyes.

"I... I'm sorry, I didn't want to disrespect you, I promise," he said in despair, faster than he intended. "This is not going to happen again, I-

"It won't," you said, heart almost coming out of the chest, "We can't do that, Jace, I'm your servant- that-"

"It was my fault, I'm the one who has to beg for your forgiveness, I dishonored you," he almost spoke too loudly, almost.

"You didn't dishonor me!" You exclaimed as if it were obvious. "But that can't happen again. You are the heir to the iron throne and I am just a servant of low birth, there is no hope for us," your voice almost failed.

When Jace's eyes found the ground, his posture changed, the nervousness turned into something you didn't know how to identify, even though your own anguish was still very vivid while your heart beat fast.

"It's unfair," was all he said when he looked at you again.

“Indeed.”

A squeeze formed in your chest every second that your eyes remained connected, along with a restlessness that you did not know resided in your body until now. No, no, no...

In a bold attitude, you held his hands, uncertain of what to say, uncertain of what to do and uncertain of what you felt for him. It wasn't possible. Nothing, not a single word came out of your mouth while your heart beat faster and faster.

You shouldn't, you knew that, but maybe... maybe...

It was your turn to approach him, cautiously, absorbed in the brown of his iris and the way he mirrored your look.

There was no hurry to meet your lips this time, nor does it take long to be reciprocated. It was the kind of affection that women should have only with their lords husbands in the intimacy of their chambers, not with the prince of the kingdom whom you served and could harm yourself if you were caught.

But it seemed so right.

Your heart pumped soft fire through your body as the kiss gained layers, encouraging you to intertwine your fingers with his. It was not lascivious or obscene, but it involved your body during the act and made you float in the sweetness of his lips before it came to an end mutually.

Your hand slid to the side of his flushed face, smoothing his cheek gently. Even though part of your mind dealt with the turbulence of the situation, the other was delighted with the fullness of serenity.

"I've never been with a woman," he murmured about your touch, reluctantly. "I never wanted to ruin a woman outside of marriage."

Oh. That took you by surprise.

In fact, that brought you to reality again, but without the previous panic.

"You did it right," you comforted him with a restrained smile, feeling nervous. "There is no shame in that."

"I know, but I don't feel secure thinking about it."

Honestly, you didn't know what to say, but you knew that that situation could take a dangerous turn if it were prolonged. He could not consider such an act even for a second, so you just said goodbye to him immediately.

"It's late, you should rest, my prince."

The storm in his eyes almost snatched you together, but there was still prudence in your mind. There was no dispute on his part, allowing you to be involved by the coldness of the corridors until your rooms shared with the other servants. Although sleep wrapped around your body quickly, the prince stole your dreams with memories of what had happened.

When the nightingale time came, his image seemed almost palpable to your eyes. All you could remember were the lips of the princes against yours, the proximity, the softness of his hand, the way he looked at you.

It was dangerous.

All that was dangerous.

Especially for you. Nurturing an additional affection for the prince of the kingdom was a path of no return for ordinary people. There was no hope for you. There was no future between you. He would marry a lady of a important family and have little princes while you would perform your duty serving the next royal generations.

Even if you were willing to forget what happened, when you saw Jace that morning you knew that your relationship would never be the same.

"Good morning, my prince," was all you said when you entered his chambers.

Judging by the way the prince's gaze found yours, you believed he thought the same. “Good morning,” he replied in front of the window.

You left the breakfast on the table and went to organize the luxurious bed - unkneading the sheets and squeezing the pillows without looking at him while doing your work. Even though it was a rational attitude, the smell that emanated from the fabric transported you directly to last night, to the warmth of his lips, to the comfort of your hands and to the soft fire that warmed your veins.

Suddenly, you found yourself wanting more.

The subtle spark quickly turned into a fire, making you want to dive into bed and be surrounded by his smell, wanting to be kissed again in a sweet way, wanting his body pressed above your...

Wanting to make love to him.

Seven hells. No, it couldn't be.

The realization of the fact clouded your mind.

You felt nothing but the burning between your thighs, not even the repetitive call of your name by the prince. You wanted it, you wanted it, you wanted it.

You shouldn't, you shouldn't, you shouldn't.

In all these years you have performed your duty to the kingdom without any ambitions. Now, you believe you deserve enjoying a great pleasure and a great sin.

That's when the hand on your shoulder along with a call brought you back to reality.

"Are you okay?" The prince asked behind you.

There was nowhere to escape. And honestly, you didn't want to.

Taking him by surprise, you held both sides of his face and leaned over to capture his lips in a sweeping and demanding kiss, contrasting with the softness of the night before. Jace immediately corresponded, tying your waist and bringing your body closer to his. There was no fear in the way your lips moved or with the lack of distance between your bodies, on the contrary, you deepened the kiss and wrapped a hand behind his neck, breaking any space between you.

He reciprocated the vigor with the same intensity, savoring your lips as if they were the only thing that lacked him in life, almost pulling the air out of your lungs. You felt surrounded by the dragon fire and silently prayed to the Mother for your body to burn.

“I dreamed with you all night,” he whispered close to your lips, holding you close.

“Me too,” you slitted the apple from his cheek with your thumb. His lips were red, swollen, shiny and so tempting...

When you were about to lean again, knocks echoed from the door and made you jump back immediately, resuming your attention to the bed while the prince went to the breakfast table.

It was the Queen herself, talking to the prince of Dragonstone at the same time that you made a greeting to her.

“I wish to speak alone with prince Jacaerys.”

No other command was needed. With one last greeting, you left Jacaerys' chambers with a racing heart and trembling steps, as if walking on embers. The consequences of your actions would be disastrous if discovered, you were not foolish, but you couldn't help but want more. And can't you help but think about how that happened?

When did such a feeling arise and develop?

It was the questioning that guided your rest of the morning, the whole afternoon and the beginning of the evening. The duties kept him away from you, fueling concerns about a possible worsening for the queen's cause. Because of that, you decided to occupy yourself in the only way you knew: working.

You swept, cleaned, aired and washed until you were tired and coughing because of the dust.

At the end of the additional service, you went to the rooms shared with the other girls to clean yourself and be presentable to him, hoping to be able to see him during dinner.

It was insane, you knew that, but you couldn't help it. You wanted it, despite what it would imply.

And when thinking about what to enjoy with the prince would result, you realized something too serious to be ignored. What if you generated a bastard? Oh gods. Where were you with your head? How did you consider losing your maidenhead with a prince of the kingdom? It would be a scandal! You would be ruined! The queen would send you away, maybe to Essos at worst.

Nothing was effective to keep those thoughts away from your head, especially when you held his dinner with trembling hands. Everything got worse when he offered you a wide smile when entering his rooms, making you freeze briefly before walking to the table and greeting you with a reverence.

“Good evening, my prince,” you forced yourself to say.

“Good evening, my lady,” he replied humorously. "I missed you."

No, no, no.

You smiled insecure and looked down, unable to answer back.

“What's wrong?” He asked when he went to your meeting.

What should you say?

“I can't do that,” you chose to be brutally honest. "I can't get pregnant, I can't have a-" you couldn't say such a word, not in front of him, and you prayed that he wouldn't feel offended.

Unfortunately, his jaw closed and the posture hardened. Heavens.

"... a bastard?" He asked in a strangled voice. "I would never impute such a burden to you."

Your heart squeezed while remaining silent, too nervous to say anything. He seemed angry, creating a fear in your mind about the dragon's fury.

“And I would never dishonor you,” he added, holding your hands as his brown eyes warmed up. But that was Jacaerys, your prince and your friend who would never hurt you.

“I know,” you agreed with a nod and intertwined your fingers with his, being able to breathe relieved at last.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm fine," you assured him with a soft smile.

"Eat with me, I don't have a big appetite."

You knew how to identify an order when you heard it. Of all the sins done and thought of in the last hours, sharing the meal with a prince was not so excruciating.

Sitting in front of him, you took a piece of bread and soaked it in the mushroom broth, watching him drink a generous sip of mead. None of you said anything for a while, leaving the noise of the violent sea wind that crashed against the walls of the castle being the only sound so far.

"What are we going to do?" He just asked.

"I don't know," you replied sincerely. "I think we should go back our dynamics, we can't be more than we are," your voice was lower than usual.

“I like being with you,” he said.

“Me too, Jace, but there's no hope for us,” you held his hand. "This will only break our hearts."

Although painful, that was the only truth that existed. He would never be yours. He would never abandon his duty to the kingdom for you, the opposite was just daydreams and songs invented to make ordinary life less gray. You were and would continue to be a servant and Jacaerys Velaryon would be just a sweet memory of something that could never happen.

Because that was just the order of things.

——————————————————————————

taglist: @hxtd @fkanitta @ladyofvelaryon @llynx7 @briarrainsstuff @jhepolie @dani-says-stuff @vavafaure1994 @fallenangel161 @naive-daydreamer @uhnanix @yrcbhu5wdv

a note: I know it take a while, but I really put all my efforts in here!

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon masterlist #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #house of the dragon #jacaerys #prince jacaerys

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paracosmic-murdock · 4 months ago

Text

vigilante like me

chapter seven: you hang from my lips like the gardens of babylon

pairing: matt murdock x black widow!vigilante!reader

summary: nights and nights of playing the hero as if that could redeem you that easily ended up taking you to new york, where you accidentally met the man who would turn your world upside down. a vigilante like you.

warnings/tags: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, injuries, mentions of murder and themes explored in the past couple chapters, mentions of reader being able to wear matt's clothes but it's not specified whether they're too big/too small/fit perfectly/etc., phd in applied flirting and ma in yearning studies, some smut (minors dni), takes place sometime during the blip, when born again comes out we might find out if my decisions of who were gone were right, spoilers/references of stuff and themes from daredevil (2015); avengers: infinity war (2018); avengers: endgame (2019) black widow (2021); and hawkeye (2021), but y'all must've watched all of those already so idc, yelena belova and the themes and events from the black widow (2021) movie are very relevant in this plot, song: cowboy like me (taylor swift)

word count: 2.9K

✰ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

Who would you call if you killed someone? That is the question.

As a Black Widow, you never really cared about hiding a body… you found your target, got the job done, and left. You never stuck around long enough to find out anything. Either way, you have nobody to call in case you ever had to hide a body or get an alibi. You don't think you would need anybody for that, right? You know enough.

But, who would Matt Murdock call if he killed somebody? Would he call anybody at all? He is not the kind of person who would burden anybody else with his faults if he can help it. Both knowledge and involvement are a heavy weight to carry, and Matt isn't willing to put anybody —much less if it is a person he loves— in that position; there is enough with those who already know he is Daredevil. However, he knows that there is one person in his life right now that wouldn't judge him and would be glad to help him carry such a cross—to ease his guilt.

That someone is you, he knows that all too well. That is why he couldn't tell you what happened; what he did.

He just returned home, took a long shower, a habit he had recently gotten from you, and went to sleep on his couch.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of your phone. It was 7 AM, and your boss was calling you for God only knows what. Then, you remembered what had happened the previous night and the way he probably just found the gym.

“Hello?”

“Dear God, are you alright?!”

You cleared your throat. “I take it that you are in Fogwell's already.”

“Yeah! What the Hell happened here?! I saw the security footage right away, God!”

“Security footage?” you asked, fearing for yourself and for Matt's identity.

“Yes, where are you?”

“At home,” you lied, making a grin of guilt you knew he couldn't see.

He sighed. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit, of course,” you replied. “Can you not… tell the cops about this?”

“Sure, so the guy who drugged you and left you there and the other guy who tried to kill you can be free and get away with it?”

“Basically,” you replied, preparing yourself for him to disagree. “Look, I can't get involved with the cops, you know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I'll make up for it,” you promised. “I'll be there today. 9 AM, Boss.”

“Oh, don't you dare,” he answered. You swear you could see his upset face staring at you, outraged like a father. “If you actually die in the workplace, I'll have way more issues, you know? Just… I'll come see you at lunch break. Do you need anything?”

You hummed. “I need you to delete that footage. Please.”

“Alright, I will,” He sighed. “What happened with- uh, you know. The guy who saved you?”

“I told him to take me home and not to worry,” you lied, again. “He, uh… left when I called a friend that's a doctor. You know Louis? He trains at Fogwell's almost everyday. He's an ortho surgeon, which is convenient, right?”

“I hope you're not lying to me, young lady.”

“You don't have to come see me, Bobby,” you chuckled. “I'm okay, and there's a friend with me here.”

“Do you even have friends?”

“An incredibly tiny amount and half as many as I used to.”

“What? Four to two?” he questioned, all ironic.

“You're a smart one, aren't you?”

He scoffed. “You're suspended for a week for being mean to your boss and also you're taking a few sick days. You must be eighty percent dead. Paid.”

“I'll take a three-day leave.”

“Make it five. And you'll take it easy once you're back, alright? Promise.”

“Okay, I promise.” You curved your lips slightly.

“I'll come see you tomorrow morning,” he announced. “I'll take Marlene with me and we'll bring you a nice breakfast.”

You sighed. “I don't want to put any of you at risk, okay? I'm not sure what those people truly wanted, but what I do know is that they could target anybody close to me.”

“I can take care of myself,”

“Those were the good old days,” you reminded him. “I'm gonna be back as good as new. You know that if there's someone in Fogwell's who can take a beating, it's me.”

“You remind me of someone, Y/N,” Bobby commented with a smile you couldn't see but you felt it in his voice. It was one of affection, very fatherly.

Your idea of fatherhood is based on some movies or shows. You always thought he was the model of a great father, at least he was always that way with you: dumb dad jokes you pretended not to laugh at, always protective of you despite you constantly telling him not to worry, and believing in you and helping you no matter what. Bobby Fogwell was a great boss, a great father figure, and a way greater person.

If there was somebody who didn't deserve to carry the burden of you or be affected by your shit, that was definitely him.

“Who would that be, sir?” you asked.

“There was a boxer here back in the good old days,” Bobby began. “Good at punching but somehow better at taking a punch. One thing about him? He never stayed down. He knew the floor very well and knew that's not where he belonged. Lost more than he ever won, but his conviction used to make it seem like he could never lose.”

“Do you think I've lost more than I've ever won, Bobby?”

He clicked his tongue. “Would you ever let me finish?”

“You stopped talking!”

“To breathe, damn,” You knew he rolled his eyes. “Alright, so… He had a son; a single father he was. The boy was in an accident when he was a kid, I think he was nine or ten, I'm not sure. The thing is: God, he did everything for his kid… when you see what parents sacrifice for their children, that's when you look at yourself and realize when and where you're failing. I'm not saying he was perfect, but he was damn good. And you must be wondering what that has to do with you, right?”

“Right,”

He chuckled. “I think you have never been one to look beyond the present, and I know you haven't really gotten around to care about someone else, but you'd be the best at it. You always stand up, no matter how awful those punches are, and I need you to look in the mirror and tell yourself that you can do anything; nothing can end you.”

“You really wanna see me all beaten up, don't you?” you questioned him, trying to suppress a laugh.

Bobby did laugh. “I'm gonna put you in the ring, lady. We'll make thousands out of you.”

“Will we? What would my stage name be?”

“I've actually thought about it. My go-to is Black Widow, you know? Because you're Russian like Natasha Romanoff and you're a damn good fighter.”

You clicked your tongue, trying to ignore how much being called a Black Widow by someone who didn't know any better really hurt you. “Did the man that I remind you of have a better stage name? I can't accept that.”

“Battlin’ Jack Murdock.”

Listening to that name made your heart jump. Of course it was Matt's father, and of course you felt like you had invaded his privacy by knowing what happened to him as a kid.

“That's a badass name,” you commented, looking at the door as you felt Matt's presence join you in his bedroom as if you had just summoned him. He had a tray in his hands but you didn't really pay attention. “I'm honored.”

“Damn right you should be,” He laughed. “Anyway, I won't take anymore of your time. Get well soon, okay? And rest a lot.”

“Will do, Boss.” You hung up the call.

“Work?”

You hummed. “Yeah. Bobby has security cameras now, but don't worry, I got him to delete the footage.”

“That's good to know, I guess.”

“Yeah, you're safe,” you noted. “He saw that you saved me, though.”

“So I heard.”

“Show off.” You scoffed.

Matt shook his head and smiled lightly. “I brought you breakfast.”

“Such a gentleman,” You lifted a corner of your lips while he sat beside you, looking incredibly handsome in his midnight blue dress suit for work. “I've only ever seen this in the movies.”

“Now you can say you've experienced it.”

You stared at his face. You couldn't help it. He was just so…

��Oh, you like me that much, sweetheart?” Matt grinned.

You just stood up. “Shut up. Give me a toothbrush.”

“I left one for you near the sink. It's the one that doesn't look used.”

“Copy that.”

“Do you not like me, then?” Matt questioned you, increasing the volume of his voice as you left the room.

“I don't. You're absolutely hideous and I might need a paper bag hiding your face once I'm back.” you muttered on your way, knowing he could hear you.

He laughed. “Was that a joke?”

“That was the truth.” you denied before starting to brush your teeth.

You didn't expect what you saw once you were back in the room.

“You're a kid,” You shook your head, taking a seat beside him. “Definitely. Are you seven?”

“No.”

You ripped the paper bag open. “Gross face. So hard on the eye.”

Matt smiled and brought you closer. “I hope you're not ugly because there can't be two of us.”

“Disgusting,” You kissed him. “Can't believe I like you this much.”

He brought you even closer and kissed you again, wishing he could do so and never, ever stop. Maybe having you like this would help him forget the one thing that has been driving him insane since the previous night, though you were the reason he did what he did.

Matt can't even say what he did. That would make it real, putting it a name.

“Hello?”

You inhaled, trying to muster the strength to speak. “Hi, Sveta.”

“Hi!” She greeted you cheerfully. You curved your lips softly as you heard how excited she was to speak to you. “You've forgotten about me.”

“I could never forget about you,” you replied. “Actually, I was thinking about having lunch with you today, are you in?”

“Yeah, of course,” she agreed. “We could go to that restaurant near my place, is that okay? It's the one that's right across the street.”

“Italian?”

“Yep.”

“Alright, see you there. 1 PM is alright?”

She hummed. “Perfect. See you.”

Waiting until Matt left for his office to make the call drove you far too anxious for your own good. So, when the rough calculations told you he must be at this workplace already, you gave yourself the freedom to make the call that was begging you to be made.

You decided you were going to stop fighting. It was of no use anymore.

During the hours of introspection in which Matt was out being Daredevil and you were failing to fall asleep in his bed, you came to the conclusion that you weren't doing anything to help anybody. It was all much more an excuse, or maybe you just weren't able to stop fighting because it's all you've ever known in life. Who are you if not a fighter?

That is what you had to find out, and now you had a reason to get an answer. Just because something is all you've ever known, it doesn't mean that it's all that you are.

However, it doesn't mean you should start right now. Maybe the process could wait until you found them. Because they did you dirty, and you couldn't really fathom how much until you were staring at yourself on your phone's screen.

There was no way in hell you could hide the fact that you had taken a beating not too long ago. It was so bad that you knew even under the average New Yorker's careless eyes, it was quite obvious with the way you stood, the way you walked, and the stitched cuts all over your body.

Either way, you did your best with Matt's clothes. Yours were all ripped and torn from the attack you had received, not to mention full of blood.

As you had a moment to do what you feared—looking at yourself, you felt tears running down your cheeks. You hadn't cried in five years, when Yelena was blipped, and before that, a couple years after she found you and showed you some other of the files Natasha had gotten from the Red Room, the one that said how you specifically were selected and later taken from your family. Reading how those routine genetic tests they perform at hospitals to pregnant women and their fetuses were just given to the wrong hands so they could find perfect matches for the model of girls they wanted for their Black Widow program, how the doctors would be so careful with the mothers of these girls and their pregnancies, how everyone just faked a baby's death to give them to the Dreykov, and how you were one of those. Just knowing that there wasn't any further information about you, wherever you were born and who your family was was so devastating that it made you shed a few tears. Before that, you cried when you killed Olga, and before that, the last day of an undercover mission in Naples when you were seven years old. The only souvenir you had from there was the last name of the Widow who pretended to be your mother, Katerina Volkova. You kept it as your own later. Those are the only happy years you know you have lived.

Now, you believed you could find happiness again; one as beautiful as how a child's innocence is, and you could only get there once you had the peace that will come when Fyodor and Crosby are gone.

It was ironic how a fake face was the only thing that made you feel safe. As if only someone else deserves peace, not you. Never you… So, you wore it as you left Matt's apartment building and got to yours in a cab.

You quickly checked your apartment for any possible intruder, so paranoid you could pass out from the stress.

Thankfully, it was all clear.

You found a bigger bag and saved some clothes, knives, all your guns but the one in the fridge, bullets, money, makeup, medicine, first aid kit, coffee, laptop, and a book you had bought but never read. You thought you might have to stay with Matt for a couple days at least and you had to be ready.

When you got back to Matt's apartment, you left your bag in a corner, changed your clothes, and left for the restaurant you and Svetlana would have lunch at.

The thing you weren't counting on was Matt going to his place with lunch for you, spotting you leaving far too easily.

So he followed you.

You and Svetlana had your lunch and got up to date with each other's lives. It was easy talking to someone who understood your struggles and shared a past.

She was always easy to read, that's how you knew she had no kind of involvement in what had happened to you. Once she was free, she decided she wouldn't be one to hide and be under radar; it was her moment to find out who she truly was.

“Can I ask you something a little personal?”

Sveta nodded. “Of course.”

“I wouldn't be asking this if it weren't this important, but… what happened between you and Fyodor?”

“That asshole. If I see him ever again, I will rip his head off,” she swore. “But, to make it short, I wasn't taken from my family just like that… Him and my father sold me to Dreykov.”

You covered your mouth with your hand. “I can't believe it.”

“It's true,” Svetlana confirmed. “He always knew what I was going through and never, not even once, tried to find me. Not to mention that they lied to my mother and told her I was kidnapped by my father's enemies. She fell ill soon after thinking they wouldn't be able to find me.”

“Sveta, I am so sorry to hear that,” You shook your head, surprised by the information and outraged for ever engaging with Fyodor. “I needed to talk to you about him. He's in New York, or maybe he already left.”

“He's here?!”

“Yeah. And… he did something to me, something unforgivable,” you added. “He was insisting on going out with me and we saw each other last night. He drugged me, and when I woke up, I was beaten and hurt by a man who was seeking revenge for Tarakanov's death.”

She just stared at you. “We will find them.”

“I ubit’ ikh.” you completed.

Matt didn't need to know Russian to understand you and Svetlana meant you wanted to kill Fyodor and Crosby for what they did.

What will happen when or if you find out they are already dead?

Will you ever realize Matt was the one who killed them?

What would you say to that?

taglist: @wh1sp

#matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil #daredevil x fem!reader #daredevil imagine #daredevil fanfic #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock x you #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock x fem!reader

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thebroccolination · 3 months ago

Text

Soooo when I said, “There’ll likely be a loud minority openly complaining about Krist topping and Singto bottoming and much more silent disapproval,” in my last post, I was giving the fandom way too much credit.

According to friends on Twitter, there was indeed a significant backlash over the sex scenes portrayed in the novel, some fans even going so far as to @ the series’ official account to complain about it.

(Don’t want PhiTam, yet tagging Krist first. Mixed signals, fam.)

Multiple folks say the mood among the fandom on Twitter at large right now seems to be mainly denial, that because the novel and series are written by different people, Singto’s character will surely play the top role in the series—even though he’s the bottom in the novel.

But, y’know:

And I, uh. I mean. This is:

Y’all?

Even outside the series, they’ve been—

Yeah, that.

So like. Y’know.

I mean, listen. To be so viscerally clear here, the reason I’m excited about Krist playing the top is because he played the bottom in both of his previous BL roles. (KristSingto had two shorts for Baby Bright where Krist seems more top-leaning, but I guess it was vague enough for people to ignore if they didn’t want to see it.) So I’m glad he’s getting versatility as an actor.

But it’s also because he’s been mistreated in the past by many KristSingto fans who, since they perceive him to be “the bottom” or “the wife,” seem to think this means he’s got to be docile and submissive and sweet, even when he’s pushed too far. To be honest, I had the realization recently that maybe the reason so many Peraya chose to ignore interfans calling Krist homophobic for so many years could be that they didn’t care either way. As one of the OG fandoms, it seems that their fans skew older and more conservative, so it could be as simple as that. They knew he wasn’t homophobic, everyone did, but real life queer issues didn’t matter to them, so they didn’t care that interfans were absolutely decimating his reputation among the queer community when it was OG Peraya stalking him and harassing him that made him post that story in the first place.

I mean, not to invalidate the high emotions going on over on Twitter dot com, but I can’t believe this upset over Singto’s character bottoming for Krist’s character wasn’t limited to a few silly temper tantrums from fringe fans with outdated beliefs about queer people.

Honestly, that there’s anger over this at all says plenty about how they must perceive the bottom role. Being on top is hot, but being on bottom is shameful? (What is this, Ancient Rome?)

I hope y’all know I try as much as I can to avoid making posts about fandom negativity and toxicity. I think emphasizing the positive aspects is more helpful in the long run. But many in KristSingto’s fandom continually treat both of them like products, and I am truly tired of it. Many whitewash Singto, many belittle Krist, and they need to fix their attitudes.

Personally, I consider myself part of all three of the KristSingto fandoms: Yuyu (Krist), Peraya (KristSingto), and Samoonjaopa (Singto). So when I criticize any of them, I’m not trying to burn the house down. I’m saying, “Stop playing with matches in the house.”

Many Peraya boycotted “Be My Favorite” which, like, whatever, watch what you like. But many among that many also openly complained about it while it was airing. Some went so far as to bully Gawin, using alt accounts to call him a halfbreed and a leech. When I called out this behavior, I was accused by multiple Peraya of trying to make the fandom look bad, that those alt accounts were clearly run by other fans trying to do the same. When the focus, as far as I’m concerned, should have been on protecting and supporting Gawin. There were very few Peraya who showed support for Krist’s friendship with Gawin continuing publicly, and their quiet likes and endorsements of tweets criticizing Krist did far more damage to their reputation than me standing up for Gawin ever did.

While I’m doing this, lemme just address the fandom ridiculousness that’s been going on across the board over the past year, shall I?

Some Samoonjaopa complained about Singto’s lack of solo work last year compared to Krist’s and went so far as to @ Krist to tell him that he wasn’t doing enough to keep Singto steadily employed. Which? Isn’t Krist’s job??? And ignores the possibility that Singto can get his own work, is a seasoned talent at GMMTV in his own right, and maybe just wanted to relax last year since the man is a dedicated introvert who’s openly and repeatedly said he’s prioritizing his mental health more these days? And again: there are many in Singto’s fandom who are continually, constantly whitewashing his photos. Stop whitewashing Singto. You’re his fanbase. The people who are supposed to love him most for who he is, not the fictional person you’re photoshopping him into for your aesthetic preferences. How do you think he’s felt for the past decade seeing not only the media whiten his skin but his own fans? Portray his melanin or stop posting photos of him at all. If you can’t see how beautiful he is tan, you don’t deserve to call yourself Samoonjaopa.

Meanwhile, some Yuyus have continually moaned about Singto’s return, complaining about Krist’s lack of music projects even though Krist himself said he’ll be focusing on that after “The Ex-Morning” airs. He’s already been hospitalized this year? Stop pressuring him to film a series, host, take care of his family, and work on an album? They’ve also accused Singto of coming back to GMMTV because he ran out of money, that his freelance career was bombing, etc. Calling him desperate and a leech. (People really like to accuse people close to Krist as a leech, what is that.) What’s worse is that some of them don’t even dislike Singto—they just want to piss off the Peraya. But hasn’t Krist made it devastatingly clear that he adores Singto? Was it not enough when he had to call out one of his own solo fans for trash-talking Singto last year when he was already getting backlash for his friendship with Gawin?

Fans in all three fandoms need to reevaluate why they’re even here.

This applies to all fans in all fandoms everywhere: if you spend most of your time in fandom fighting and policing people and spreading anger and toxicity rather than lifting up the real people you’re ostensibly here to support, then you’re doing this wrong.

Love brought you here. Act like it.

I left Twitter because the situation there was too toxic to stand, even to stay for KristSingto and BounPrem, and while I haven’t been there for months, I did predict that some Peraya would be upset about a possible dynamic switch. I just overestimated their maturity about it, clearly.

I probably should have said all of this while I was on Twitter, but people have to realize it on their own or it won’t stick.

So what I’m going to do instead is go on promoting KristSingto to fans who haven’t had the chance to get to know them yet, because I love Krist and I love Singto, and I think they deserve more fans, new fans who don’t treat them like property.

Obligatory final note that of course this isn’t the entire fandom behaving badly. If you’ll notice, I used qualifiers in this entire post. Some, many, etc. There are many lovely people in all three fandoms, but the ones ruining everything are loud and need to be addressed for things to improve. Ignoring them hasn’t helped so far. I say this because sometimes people get very upset and don’t utilize close reading skills.

All this over top/bottom dynamic switch.

Told y’all it was brave of KristSingto to do it.

Now to hope no one bothers KristSingto about it at the book fair tomorrow. 👁️👁️

#krist perawat #singto prachaya #kristsingto #the ex morning spoilers #the ex morning #thai bl #thai ql

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mirrorball-leclerc · 1 year ago

Text

snow angel - track six

series masterlist // previous // next

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, maggielindemann and others

maia_bennett and we don't talk shit about you on the internet...

tagged: landonorris, carlossainz55

view all comments

user1 oh my god is she for real?

landonorris pretty girl 🧡

↳ maia_bennett pretty boy 🧡

user2 this has got to be some sort of joke, right?

lilymhe lol.

↳ user3 this is the most threatening lol i've ever see. period and everything.

alex_albon LMFAOOOOOO

↳ user4 most unserious driver on the grid.

↳ user5 we don't talk about alex's chaos enough

francesca.cgomes see this caption would work if we didn't all know what carlos and lando did in the spanish media.

↳ user6 SPEAK THE TRUTH KIKA!!

user7 you've got to be fucking kidding me...

user8 oh no. honey this isn't the flex you think it is.

luisinhaoliveira99 oh sweetie...

user9 i pray you're ready for the shit storm that is about to hit you.

alex_albon LMFAOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

user has turned off comments

liked by luisinhaoliveira99, maxverstappen1, yukitsunoda0511 and others

rheareynolds "but for what it's worth, he's her problem now."

tagged: luisinhaoliveira99, maia_bennett, landonorris

user10 MOTHER!! MOTHER IS MOTHERING Y'ALL!!

user11 oh, she's so cunty and i love that.

lilymhe everyday i am grateful i live on the same earth as rhea reynolds.

↳ rheareynolds oh lily, you sure know how to make a girl blush.

luisinhaoliveira99 oh girl, i fucking love you.

↳ rheareynolds baby, i fucking love you 😘. no one show this to mick!

↳ mickschumacher this is a public instagram comment section...

↳ rheareynolds LOVE YOU TOO BABE 💙!

maxverstappen1 see, i can't tell if those are lyrics or someone told you that but either way, YOU ATE THAT SHIT UP!!

↳ rheareynolds why thank you maximilian.

↳ maxverstappen1 i'll let it slide, just this once.

georgerussell63 SHE CAME TO SERVE!!

↳ rheareynolds CHANNELED MY INNER RUSSELL GEORGE FOR THIS PHOTOSHOOT!!

francesca.cgomes ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS!

↳ rheareynolds I HAD THE BEST TEACHER!

user12 oh she's so unhinged and i fucking love that shit.

oscarpiastri i just heard the most unholy screech come from the dining hall. target has been reached.

↳ rheareynolds good. he deserves this and much worse.

logansargeant YES QUEEN!! SERVING CUNT!!

↳ rheareynolds LOGIE! THANK YOU! ❤️

yukitsunoda0511 my offer still stands.

↳ rheareynolds no yuki, you are not biting his ankles while pierre holds him down.

↳ pierregasly BOO!! LET US TAKE HIM DOWN!!!

maia_bennett real mature rhea. real mature.

↳ rheareynolds oh honey, we haven't even scratched the surface.

charles_leclerc THAT'S MY BESTIE!!

↳ rheareynolds what an iconic duo, regina george and lightning mcqueen.

alex_albon REGINA GEORGE CAME TO GAG LANDO NO WINS!

↳ rheareynolds albono, i think you gagged him even more with the no wins.

maxfretwell let be known that i had no idea what was going on. i just thought she was your best friend.

↳ rheareynolds no it's okay maxie, i don't blame you for having a shitty best friend.

pierre gasly added one person

kika gomes i can't believe i'm saying this but what the hell guys? why wasn't i added sooner??

rhea reynolds you're the only sane one.

lily muni he if the loser shows up with her can i fight him??

yuki tsunoda i'll help! daniel ricciardo you two are so violent.

esteban ocon when mick said lando had cheated on you with your childhood best friend, i didn't think he meant maia, who knew you two were together. and constantly hung out together with you two.

mick schumacher i told you guys it was bad!

oscar piastri ...

alex albon WHAT DO YOU KNOW PIASTRI?? oscar piastri she's been to every single race this year... the girl he showed up with in bahrain was a fake girlfriend. he's been dating her for months. oscar piastri and i learned that every time lando said he was hanging out with carlos, he was with her. don't ask how i learned.

rhea reynolds THAT MOTHER FUCKER!!

rhea reynolds oh he's fucking lucky i could go to jail for murder.

rhea reynolds i had a different song planned to be the next single but i changed my fucking mind. fuck lando norris, fuck carlos sainz, and fuck maia bennett. i hope they enjoy their little corner in hell.

lily muni he oh regina george has not come to play.

george russell i think you mean leighton murray did not come to play.

lewis hamilton i have you all muted for a reason but please, make him miserable. it's the least he deserves.

rhea reynolds oh my manager is about to be so pissed at me but what lewis hamilton says goes.

pierre gasly BURN THE BITCH RHEA!

yuki tsunoda I'M GOING TO HIS FUCKING ANKLES!

daniel ricciardo GET HIS FUCKING ASS!!

kika gomes YOU DESTROY THAT MAN RHEA!

logan sargeant WE WILL DESTROY HIS FUCKING PEACE!

lance stroll to quote yuki, "we ride at dawn fuckers"

logan sargeant SHE WENT STRAIGHT FOR THE JUGULAR!

alex albon i am in awe of you rhea reynolds.

lewis hamilton i think you've outdone yourself rhea.

lily muni he marry me. forget alex and mick. marry me.

kika gomes no! marry me! rhea reynolds fuck it, we'll marry each other. throuple all the way.

mick schumacher trust me. it gets worse.

charles leclerc HOW MUCH MORE WORSE COULD IT POSSIBLY GET?

mick schumacher think like dear john by taylor

lily muni he oh shit. it's that bad?

max verstappen WHATEVER I GET TO MAKE HIM FUCKING MISERABLE!

yuki tsunoda FUCK YEAH! I'M BITING ANKLES BITCHES

oscar piastri OSCAR PIASTRI REPORTING FOR DUTY!!

kika gomes that man will never know peace as long as we live

pierre gasly he hasn't known peace since december 2021

kika gomes good, then we're doing our job as her friends.

oscar piastri there is nothing i enjoy more than slowly torturing my teammate

daniel ricciardo chaotic aussies and mclaren. something they can never get away from.

logan sargeant listen, if we host a listening party, at the same time, in different garages. he can't really shit on any of us.

max verstappen so what you mean is, all of us play tummy hurts, on a loop to annoy him?

charles leclerc SIGN ME THE FUCK UP! ANYTHING TO ANNOY HIM AND HIS PARTNERS IN CRIME!

lance stroll I'M IN! FERNANDO'S IN TOO!!

rhea reynolds i seriously love you guys.

lily muni he rhea, baby, we love you too.

oscar piastri i enjoy chaos. we aren't quite at the love phase rhea.

rhea reynolds oh fuck you swimp.

logan sargeant SWIMP!!

oscar piastri OH FUCK OFF!

taglist: @emilyval @ihateyougunthersteiner @lesliiieeeee @33-81 @landonorizzz @yoremins @nikfigueiredo @badassturtle13 @cataf1 @silentreader128 @taylorsatl @alessioayla @greeneyesandsunshine @mrscharlesleclerc @sesamepancakes @localwhoore @vettelsebastianvettel @yourbane @nichmeddar @landossainz @cha-hot @ssararuffoni @cherry-piee @vroomvroommuppett @shineforever19 @kissesandmartinis @luckyladycreator2 @blushmimi @namgification @moonyzsworld @casperlikej @lilsiz @seesaw-it @aandreea2005 @asparklysoul @scarletwidow3000 @reader-22s-blog @cowboylikemets1989

not taggable: @wisteriafence @Pinksstrawberry

click here to be added to the taglist

¡leclerc-s speaks! no cause if there was no more drama there this story would end so much sooner and we don't want that yet.

¡disclaimer! this is in no way making assumptions about the people involved in this story, this is all fake. it is a fanfiction please don't take any of what is said seriously. this is all for entertainment purposes and as a creative outlet for me. enjoy!

#leclerc-s #snow angel series #f1 instagram au #f1 x oc #f1 oc #f1 smau #f1 social media au #f1 #formula one #f1 fic #formula 1 fic #f1 x female oc #lando norris x female oc #mick schumacher x female oc

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novaursa · 5 months ago

Text

Caught by Fire (the fallen)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the absence

- Next part: the sinful

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air in the small council chamber was heavy with unspoken anxiety. The assembled lords took their seats, the hush of anticipation broken only by the shuffling of parchment and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor.

At the head of the table, King Viserys I sat with his fingers pressed against his temples, his expression one of visible irritation. It had been two weeks since your return to King’s Landing, and yet the matter of your betrothal remained unresolved.

Otto Hightower sat at his usual place beside the king, his hands resting lightly on the table. His face betrayed nothing, but internally, he braced himself for the inevitable.

Lord Jasper Wylde, ever the opportunist, was the first to speak, his voice smooth but laced with amusement. “Your Grace, it has been two moons since the princess embarked on her tour, and yet we remain at an impasse. Surely she must have some inclination.”

Viserys let out an exasperated sigh, leaning back in his chair. “One would think,” he muttered. “Yet every time I ask her, she gives me the same answer: she has not yet decided between Lord Corwyn Velaryon and Lord Edric Baratheon.”

Tyland Lannister chuckled lightly, though there was no true mirth in it. “Ah, the knight and the storm.” He smirked. “Both fine choices, if one values battle prowess and salt in equal measure.”

Lord Lyonel Strong, ever the voice of reason, leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “It is not uncommon for a lady to take time in such matters, Your Grace. These are not small choices. The princess understands the weight of her decision.”

Viserys groaned, rubbing his forehead. “I understand that. I do. But this is not just about her choice—this is about the realm. The lords are growing restless, whispering about favoritism, about delays. We must put an end to this uncertainty.”

Otto remained silent, his fingers curling slightly against the wood of the table. He had heard the whispers, too. Lords grew impatient, alliances were questioned, and rivalries simmered beneath the surface. And yet, he also knew that your hesitation was not due to carelessness but rather a refusal to be coerced into something you were not yet ready to accept.

Jasper Wylde leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps the princess enjoys watching them squirm.”

Viserys shot him an irritated glare. “She’s not playing a game, Lord Wylde.”

Otto cleared his throat, speaking for the first time. “It is possible that she does not see either match as wholly suitable.”

Viserys sighed, shaking his head. “Then she must say so. If neither pleases her, we must look elsewhere. I will not have her dragging this out indefinitely.”

Tyland Lannister folded his hands together. “Perhaps a… nudge would be in order, Your Grace.”

Viserys arched an eyebrow. “A nudge?”

Tyland shrugged. “A firm reminder of the importance of duty. Her cousin, the princess Rhaenyra, eventually made her choice for the good of the realm. Perhaps the princess needs to be reminded that her decision must serve more than just herself.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “I have already tried to explain this to her. She is not deaf to duty—she simply refuses to rush.”

Jasper Wylde chuckled. “Perhaps what she truly desires has yet to present itself.”

Otto stiffened almost imperceptibly at those words, but his face remained composed.

Viserys waved a hand dismissively. “Enough speculation. If she refuses to decide between the two, then we must look at other options. I will speak to her again before the next court session.”

Otto inclined his head. “A wise course, Your Grace.”

Viserys exhaled heavily, shifting in his seat. “Very well. If there is nothing else—”

Jasper Wylde smirked, glancing toward Otto. “No… nothing else of importance.”

Otto shot him a warning look, but the man only grinned wider.

The meeting concluded shortly after, the lords dispersing into the halls of the Red Keep. Otto remained seated for a moment longer, staring down at the untouched parchment before him.

Two weeks.

Still no decision.

And yet, even amidst the king’s frustration, Otto could not help but feel an uneasy flicker of something dangerous and unspoken.

A hope he did not dare acknowledge.

The Red Keep was unusually quiet in the late afternoon, the usual hum of courtly life dulled by the golden light slanting through the arched windows. The heat of the day had begun to wane, leaving behind a soft breeze that whispered through the stone corridors.

Otto Hightower had not intended to seek you out. He had told himself that a man of his station, a man of reason, should not be so easily swayed by matters of the heart. And yet, as his feet carried him through the corridors, as his fingers brushed against the edges of his sleeves in some feigned attempt at composure, he knew there was no more use in denying it.

You had consumed his thoughts.

And so when he saw you—alone, standing upon one of the quieter balconies that overlooked the Blackwater—he did not turn away.

You were dressed simply, as befitted the waning hours of the day, your hair unbound and shifting lightly in the breeze. The weight of the past two moons still clung to you, evident in the slight tension in your shoulders, in the way you exhaled as though trying to dispel something unseen.

Otto hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward.

“Princess.”

You turned at the sound of his voice, surprise flickering across your face before settling into something softer.

“Lord Hightower,” you greeted, your tone even. “I did not expect to find you here.”

Otto’s lips pressed together for a brief moment before he inclined his head. “Nor did I.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “And yet here you are.”

Otto let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening behind his back. “It seems we are both given to wandering.”

A small, knowing smile touched your lips. “Or perhaps we are merely trying to escape the endless demands of court.”

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet laugh that barely escaped his lips. “That is a far more reasonable explanation.”

You turned back toward the view, your fingers brushing absentmindedly against the stone railing. “I imagine you’ve come to speak of my indecision.”

Otto hesitated before stepping beside you, his hands bracing against the railing as he cast his gaze toward the horizon. “It is what the court whispers of, yes.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “They call it indecision, but in truth, I have already decided.”

Otto turned his head slightly, watching you. “Have you?”

You glanced at him, something unguarded in your eyes. “Yes. I do not wish for either of them.”

There. The words were spoken plainly at last. The admission sent something sharp and hot coursing through Otto’s chest—something dangerously close to relief.

“And yet you have told no one,” he said carefully.

Your fingers curled slightly against the stone. “Because to admit that I do not wish to be bound by expectation is to invite the king’s frustration.”

Otto studied you in the fading light, his pulse betraying him as his gaze lingered on the curve of your lips, the way the wind caught the loose strands of your hair. He had spent so long denying what was already written into his bones, but here, in this stolen moment, with you beside him, reason faltered.

“You are not like them,” he said quietly, his voice softer than he intended.

You turned toward him fully now, curiosity flickering across your face. “No, I am not.”

Otto exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “And that is why they fear you.”

You watched him for a long moment before stepping closer, tilting your head slightly. “Do you?”

Otto swallowed, his heart beating a fraction too fast. “Fear you?”

You nodded, eyes searching his face. “Yes.”

There were a thousand ways he could have answered. A thousand words he could have spoken to steer himself back to safer waters. But when you stood so close, when the air between you was charged with something neither of you had dared to name, he found that deception no longer served him.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice rough. “But not in the way you think.”

Your gaze flickered to his lips, and something inside him snapped.

He reached for you before he could think better of it, one hand cradling the side of your face, his fingers threading into the loose strands of your hair. You inhaled sharply but did not pull away—if anything, you leaned into his touch, your own fingers curling against the front of his tunic.

“Otto,” you whispered, and the way you said his name was his undoing.

He closed the space between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was at once desperate and restrained. It was the kind of kiss born from long-held restraint finally breaking, from stolen glances and words left unsaid.

You melted into him, your hands fisting in his tunic as his other hand found the curve of your waist, pulling you against him. The kiss deepened, his thumb brushing over your cheek as if to memorize every inch of you.

It was intoxicating. It was madness.

And yet neither of you pulled away.

When you finally parted, your breaths mingling in the cool evening air, Otto did not step back. His forehead rested against yours, his fingers still tangled in your hair.

“This is…” He swallowed, shaking his head slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “This is dangerous.”

You smiled, breathless. “Then why did you let it happen?”

Otto exhaled, his thumb brushing against your cheek one last time before he forced himself to step back, to put distance between you. “Because for once in my life, I did not want to listen to reason.”

You watched him carefully, your own breath unsteady. “Then tell me, my lord—will you listen to it now?”

Otto was silent for a long moment before his gaze darkened, his voice steady despite the fire still burning in his chest.

“No.”

And then he turned and walked away, before he could ruin you both completely.

The heavy wooden door of Otto Hightower’s chambers shut behind him with a dull thud, the finality of the sound echoing in his mind like the toll of a bell. He stood motionless for a moment, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his breath measured yet uneven.

He had lost control.

The weight of what had just transpired on that balcony pressed against his chest like a vice. It had been reckless, foolish beyond reason. He was a man who prided himself on restraint, on measured calculations that ensured stability and order. And yet, with a single moment of weakness, he had thrown caution to the wind and kissed you as if the world itself did not matter.

Otto exhaled sharply, his pulse still betraying him as he moved toward the washbasin, splashing cool water onto his face. His reflection in the polished mirror above it looked no different—still the same man, still the Hand of the King—but beneath the surface, everything had shifted.

Seven hells.

He braced his hands against the basin, inhaling deeply, forcing his mind back into order. He would not let this affect him. He could not.

And then—

The door swung open without warning.

Otto’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt before he registered the intruder’s identity.

Lord Jasper Wylde stood in the doorway, his ever-present smirk widening as he took in the scene before him—the slightly disheveled Hand, the beads of water still clinging to his beard, the tension that hung so thick in the air one could slice it with a blade.

“Well,” Jasper drawled, stepping inside as if he owned the place, “I must say, Otto, I have never seen you so… discomposed.”

Otto inhaled sharply through his nose, his patience already worn thin. “Wylde.”

Jasper closed the door behind him, his smirk only deepening. “You know, I was wandering the halls, minding my own business, when I happened upon a most curious sight.”

Otto clenched his jaw. “Jasper, leave.”

Jasper ignored him, strolling leisurely toward the hearth, as if this were his own chambers and not Otto’s. “Princess Y/N looked quite radiant tonight, didn’t she?”

Otto turned away, willing himself to ignore him.

“And you, my dear lord Hand,” Jasper continued, his tone dripping with amusement, “look as if you’ve just committed an act of treason.”

Otto stiffened.

Jasper chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, Otto, Otto, Otto… you really are terrible at hiding things when you’re shaken.”

Otto exhaled slowly, turning to face him with a cold, measured glare. “If you value your position, Wylde, you will tread carefully.”

Jasper’s smirk never wavered. “Come now, do you really take me for a fool? I don’t need to hear the court whispers to know what transpired tonight.” He tilted his head. “I saw the way you left the balcony. You looked like a man who had either committed a sin or was desperate to commit another.”

Otto’s fingers twitched.

Jasper’s grin widened. “And then, of course, there was the princess.”

At that, Otto’s breath hitched ever so slightly.

Jasper’s gaze sharpened, and for the first time, his voice lost some of its playfulness. “She was smiling, Otto.”

Otto’s expression hardened. “That is not your concern.”

Jasper let out a short, knowing laugh. “Oh, but it is.” He leaned against the back of a chair, watching Otto like a predator watching wounded prey. “Because if I can see it—then others will see it soon enough.”

Otto turned away, pacing toward the window, his mind racing. This was dangerous. This was beyond dangerous. If Jasper had seen it, who else would? How long before the court began to whisper, before Viserys caught wind of it?

“I have nothing to say to you, Wylde,” Otto finally muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Jasper tutted. “A shame. I had so hoped you’d confide in me. After all, who else can you possibly talk to about this?”

Otto’s grip tightened behind his back.

Jasper’s smirk faded slightly, and when he spoke again, there was something almost genuine beneath the mirth. “Tell me, Otto… what exactly do you intend to do now?”

Otto’s breath was slow, measured, controlled. When he turned back, his expression was unreadable, his voice steady.

“I intend,” he said carefully, “to ensure the realm’s stability, as I always have.”

Jasper studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. “Ah. There it is.”

Otto frowned. “There what is?”

Jasper smirked, though this time there was a glint of something sharper beneath it. “That self-righteous lie you tell yourself to sleep at night.”

Otto’s gaze darkened.

Jasper exhaled, stretching slightly before stepping toward the door. “Very well, my lord Hand. I shall leave you to your stability.” He paused at the threshold, glancing back one last time.

“But do be careful, Otto,” he murmured, and this time, there was no amusement in his tone—only quiet knowing. “It’s a dangerous thing, falling for a dragon.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Otto standing alone in the dim candlelight, his pulse still betraying him, his mind an unrelenting storm.

Jasper Wylde was a fool.

But he was not wrong.

The dining chamber was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against fine porcelain. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, but even its warmth did little to dispel the tension that had settled between Otto Hightower and his daughter.

Alicent sipped from her goblet, watching her father over the rim of her cup with the sharp, assessing gaze that she had inherited from him. He had barely touched his meal, his movements slow and deliberate, his usual keen expression dulled by something far heavier than mere exhaustion.

For a man who had built his life upon control and discipline, Otto Hightower was decidedly not himself.

“You are troubled,” Alicent finally said, setting her goblet down with careful precision.

Otto did not immediately respond. Instead, he cut a small piece of bread from the loaf beside him, though he did not eat it. His fingers tapped absently against the table, his gaze distant, lost in thought.

“I am not troubled,” he said at last, though the weight in his voice betrayed him.

Alicent tilted her head slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You have not eaten, nor have you spoken much. If you are not troubled, then you are certainly preoccupied.”

Otto sighed, setting his knife down beside his untouched plate. “The affairs of the realm do not often allow for restful nights, my dear.”

Alicent narrowed her eyes slightly. “This is not about the realm.”

Otto’s fingers twitched, but otherwise, he remained still. “Everything is about the realm, Alicent.”

She exhaled slowly, folding her hands in her lap. “Is this about the princess?”

At that, Otto finally looked at her, his green eyes sharp, though not unkind. “Why would you ask that?”

Alicent arched a brow, unimpressed by his attempt at evasion. “Because you are a man who thrives on certainty, on order. And yet, ever since she returned, I have seen you become… unsettled.”

Otto inhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a firm line. “Your imagination runs too freely.”

Alicent smirked faintly. “No. My mind is simply sharper than you give it credit for.”

Otto regarded her for a long moment before exhaling heavily. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers coming together in contemplation. “She has not chosen.”

Alicent nodded. “No, she has not.”

“And that uncertainty has made the court restless.”

Alicent hummed, tilting her head slightly. “The court or you?”

Otto’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, and Alicent caught it—the brief flicker of something he wished to hide.

She sighed, setting her goblet down before leaning forward slightly. “Father… do you truly believe the princess delays her choice because she enjoys toying with the lords of the realm?”

Otto frowned slightly. “She is weighing her options.”

Alicent shook her head. “No, Father. She has decided. She simply does not wish to speak the answer aloud.”

Otto stilled.

Alicent studied him, her voice lowering slightly. “And I think you already know why.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Otto’s fingers curled into his palm beneath the table, hidden from view, his breath slower now, heavier.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “Alicent. This is dangerous.”

Alicent exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. “You say that as if you do not already know that it is too late.”

Otto’s lips parted slightly as if to protest, but no words came.

Alicent leaned forward slightly. “She looks for you, Father.”

Otto blinked, his breath catching ever so slightly. “What?”

Alicent gave him a knowing look. “At court. At feasts. In the halls. When she walks into a room, she searches for you before she sees anyone else.”

Otto’s grip on his goblet tightened. “You should not say such things.”

Alicent’s smirk was soft, but her gaze was sharp. “You are the one who should not deny such things.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “The king would never allow it.”

Alicent nodded, but there was something almost smug in her expression. “Perhaps. But the question you should be asking is whether she would allow it.”

Otto looked at her sharply. “Alicent.”

But she merely leaned back, sipping her wine with an air of quiet satisfaction.

“I think you should ask yourself something, Father.” She set her goblet down, tilting her head as she regarded him. “What is more dangerous? Admitting the truth? Or pretending you can still control it?”

Otto said nothing.

And for the first time in a long, long time—he did not have an answer.

The Red Keep was draped in twilight, the last rays of sunlight bleeding into deep shades of crimson and violet as the city below slowly came to rest. The air was warm with the remnants of the day’s heat, though the corridors of the castle remained cool, the thick stone walls swallowing the warmth like a beast devouring its prey.

Otto Hightower knew he should not have sought you out. He had spent the past days reinforcing his own discipline, reminding himself of his duty, his station, the boundaries that must exist between you. But restraint had never felt so fragile—not when you looked at him the way you did, not when the weight of unspoken things sat so heavily between you.

And so when he found you alone in the dimly lit library, standing by the open balcony doors with a book idly resting in your hands, he had not turned away.

Neither had you.

"Lord Hightower," you murmured, setting the book aside, watching as he stepped deeper into the chamber. The flickering candlelight illuminated the stern planes of his face, his beard still neat despite the tension that lingered in his jaw.

"Princess," he replied, his voice quieter than he intended.

You tilted your head slightly, the corner of your lips curving just enough to betray the amusement beneath. "You always seem to find me when I am alone."

Otto exhaled, his hands clasping tightly behind his back. "Perhaps I should take that as a warning to be more careful."

"Or," you countered, stepping closer, your voice softer now, "perhaps you should stop trying to resist what we both know to be inevitable."

Otto inhaled sharply. "You do not know what you say."

You smiled faintly, reaching out to brush your fingers against the edge of his sleeve. "Do I not?"

His resolve cracked like glass under pressure. In one swift motion, he caught your wrist, his fingers wrapping around your skin as if to stop you—but neither of you pulled away. The air between you crackled, thick with tension, with something dangerous and intoxicating all at once.

"You tempt fate," Otto said, his voice low, almost hoarse.

"And you," you murmured, stepping even closer, your breath warm against his cheek, "tempt yourself."

His self-control snapped.

Otto crushed his lips against yours, his grip tightening just enough to pull you flush against him. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as you returned the kiss with just as much fervor, just as much desperation.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was not a careful one. It was filled with weeks—moons—of restraint unraveling all at once, of unspoken words given voice in the way your lips moved against each other.

Otto’s hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing yours against the cool stone wall beside the balcony. His other hand slid to your waist, gripping you firmly as if afraid you might disappear.

But just as your fingers slid into his hair, just as your breaths mingled in the quiet hush of the library—

The door swung open.

"Cousin?"

The sound of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s voice sent a bolt of ice through Otto’s veins.

You pulled back instantly, though Otto saw the brief flicker of frustration in your gaze before you schooled your expression into something composed. He took a single step back, turning just in time to see Rhaenyra standing in the doorway, her brows lifting in slow realization.

There was silence.

Rhaenyra’s violet eyes flicked between the two of you, lingering for a fraction too long on the way Otto’s hand was still resting on your waist before he quickly let go.

Otto straightened, clearing his throat as he clasped his hands behind his back, forcing his face into the impassive mask of the Hand of the King. "Princess Rhaenyra," he greeted stiffly.

Rhaenyra smirked.

It was not the reaction Otto had anticipated.

"I thought you might be here," she said to you, her tone light, amused even. "But I did not expect to find you with such… distinguished company."

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders before stepping forward as if nothing had transpired at all. "What do you need, Rhaenyra?"

Rhaenyra tilted her head, clearly enjoying herself far too much. "Oh, nothing of importance. But now that I am here, I must ask…" Her smirk widened as she glanced at Otto. "Are you keeping our dear Lord Hand very busy?"

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he refused to rise to the bait.

You only smiled. "Why? Are you in need of his wisdom, cousin?"

Rhaenyra chuckled, shaking her head. "No, I think he has given enough guidance for one evening."

Otto exhaled slowly through his nose. "If my presence is no longer required, I shall take my leave."

Rhaenyra stepped aside, waving him forward as if he were nothing more than a guest being dismissed from a feast. "Oh, please do not let me interrupt."

Otto walked past her without so much as a glance, his mind already reeling, his pulse still betraying him. But as he stepped into the corridor, he heard Rhaenyra’s voice drift after him, soft but laced with amusement.

"I do wonder what my father would think of this."

Otto did not look back.

He did not dare look back.

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