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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 4 months ago

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I just imagine the worst case senerio mc is very much in love with sebastian but is to much of a coward and ominis is just like date me and we will see if he does anything I imagine ominis just wanting to start some chaos for fun up to you if mc stays with ominis or goes to sebastian

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

BAHAHA I love chaotic Ominis energy, thank you so much for this fun idea anon!!!

Words: ~2,900

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Fluff, Fluff Again, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance

Beta: @newdreamlove95💚

You weren’t sure how the conversation had gotten to this point. One moment, you were lamenting to Ominis about your absolutely humiliating, all-consuming love for Sebastian Sallow—your best friend, the object of your affection, the man who would never actually see you as anything more than a friend. The next?

"Date me," Ominis said, far too casually for something that nearly made you choke on your tea.

You blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"

"Pretend to date me. Just for a little while," he repeated, smirking. "Let's see if it gets a reaction out of him."

You gawked at him. "Ominis. That’s—that’s ridiculous. That’s insane."

"It’s brilliant," he corrected smoothly. "You’re too much of a coward to confess, and Sebastian is too much of an idiot to realize he loves you. So, why not give him a little… motivation?"

You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "This is absurd," you muttered, but a traitorous part of you—the one that had suffered through years of unspoken feelings, of watching Sebastian flirt his way through half the bloody school without sparing you a second glance—was tempted.

Ominis, sensing your hesitance, leaned in. "Come now, darling," he drawled, his voice dripping with mischief. "Let's have some fun, shall we?"

And that was how you ended up fake-dating Ominis Gaunt.

At first, it was just small things—little gestures designed to sell the illusion. Ominis would walk you to class, hold doors open for you, lean in close when you spoke so it seemed like you were sharing something secret, something intimate.

It wasn’t bad. In fact, it was.. quite nice. Pleasant even.

Ominis was handsome—sharply so, with his angular features and regal posture. He was charming, too, undeniably a gentleman. He treated you well—better than well. If you hadn’t already been hopelessly in love with someone else, you might have been in danger of falling for him for real.

The first time he kissed your cheek, it was at breakfast.

The Great Hall was loud, buzzing with idle chatter and the clatter of silverware, but the moment Ominis leaned in and pressed his lips to your cheek—so soft and brief, like it was something he’d done a hundred times before—the world seemed to pause.

You heard the sharp inhale Sebastian took from across the table.

A beat of silence.

Then, chaos.

Gasping. Whispering. A sudden scraping of chairs as people leaned in to murmur, eyes darting to you, to Ominis, to Sebastian—who hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but had gone very still, his knuckles white as he gripped his fork. The sound of your name mixed with Ominis’s swirled around you in frantic, excited voices.

"Are they together?"

"Since when?"

"They never said anything!"

The rumors spread like fiendfyre. By lunchtime, people were glancing at you with barely contained excitement, whispering whenever you and Ominis walked past. At dinner, Imelda raised an eyebrow and said, "Didn’t peg you for Gaunt’s type, but you two are sort of cute together, I suppose."

And all Sebastian did was sit there.

Not a word. Not a single comment. Just tense silence.

Ominis, for his part, was thoroughly enjoying himself. His theatrics only increased as the day went on—light touches on your arm, a hand resting at the small of your back when you walked, the occasional teasing whisper that made it look like he was saying something scandalous. But the longer it went on, the more painfully obvious it became:

There was a Sebastian-shaped void in your heart.

And no matter how much you enjoyed Ominis’s company, no matter how sweet and effortless it all felt—he wasn’t him.

He wasn’t the one you wanted to laugh with, to steal glances at when he wasn’t looking. His touch wasn’t the one you craved, his voice wasn’t the one you longed to hear first thing in the morning. It wasn’t Ominis who made your heart race with just a look, who made your pulse stutter every time he leaned in a little too close.

It was Sebastian.

And Sebastian, the idiot, was doing absolutely nothing.

Until the fifth day.

Until you were sitting in the common room, curled up on the couch with Ominis, his arm slung lazily over the back of the cushions behind you, when Sebastian finally—finally—snapped.

It started small, just a shift in the air, a tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago. You felt it before you saw it—before you looked up and found Sebastian standing over you, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked.

Your breath caught. His voice was even, but there was something off about it. Something dangerous.

Ominis hummed beside you, amused. "She’s rather comfortable at the moment, Sallow. Surely it can wait?"

Sebastian’s eyes flickered to him, dark and sharp. "No, it can’t."

Ominis barely concealed his smirk. He made a show of shifting away from you, drawing his hand back, and you knew he was enjoying every second of this.

You let Sebastian pull you from the couch, his grip firm around your wrist as he all but dragged you out of the common room.

Only when you were alone—tucked away in a quiet corridor where no one else could hear—did he let go.

Your wrist tingled where his fingers had been. You swallowed, suddenly nervous under the weight of his stare.

Sebastian didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, staring at you, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His hands clenched into fists, like he was barely restraining himself.

"Since when?" His voice was rough, the words scraping against his throat.

You blinked. "Since when what?"

His expression darkened. "Don’t play dumb," he said, stepping closer. "Since when have you liked Ominis?"

You hesitated. There were a thousand ways you could answer, a thousand ways you could end this little charade—but you weren’t sure you were ready to.

"Why do you care?" you asked instead, your voice quieter than before.

His eyes flashed. "Why do I—" He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Are you serious?"

"You never cared before," you pointed out, tilting your chin up. "You're the one spending every waking moment with some girl or another. Why does it matter if I'm with Ominis?"

"Because he’s not right for you," Sebastian snapped. "He doesn’t—he’s not—" He broke off, frustrated, like the words were getting caught in his throat. "Do you even like him?" he asked suddenly, voice sharper now, accusing.

You swallowed. "Of course I do."

"Yeah?" Sebastian's lips curled, a flicker of something cruel in his expression. "Then say it."

Your stomach twisted. "Sebastian—"

"Say you love him," he challenged, stepping closer. "Tell me you love him."

For a long, aching moment, the two of you just stared at each other. The dim glow of the torches cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the storm raging in his dark eyes. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him like this before—so desperate, so unguarded.

And maybe you should have ended it right there. Maybe you should have told him the truth—that it had all been fake, that Ominis had only done it to force his hand, that you had always wanted him. But after years of pining, years of watching him chase after other girls while you sat on the sidelines, something petty and reckless inside you wanted to push him just a little bit further.

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze with as much conviction as you could muster.

"I love Ominis," you said.

It was a lie, a flimsy, paper-thin thing, but you said it anyway.

Sebastian stilled.

For a moment, there was nothing—just the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, the way the candlelight flickered against the stone walls.

Then he laughed—a hollow, humorless sound.

"You're such a shit liar," he muttered.

He took another step forward, closing the remaining space between you, and suddenly, there was nowhere to go. Your back hit the cold stone wall, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, but Sebastian didn’t touch you. He just stood there, so close you could feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of cedar and parchment and something distinctly him.

You had spent years longing for Sebastian Sallow, years waiting for even a fraction of this attention. And now? Now he was looking at you like he was one breath away from devouring you whole.

You swallowed hard, summoning every ounce of stubbornness you had left. "I'm not lying."

His lips twitched. Wrong answer

"Yeah?" he murmured. "Then say it again. Say it like you mean it."

You swallowed hard. "Alright fine," you admitted. "Maybe I don't love him, but—"

"But what?" His hand slammed against the wall beside your head, fingers curling into a fist as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "I don't get it. You don't even fucking like him that way, it's obvious, and yet suddenly you're dating?"

A lump formed in your throat. "Why does it matter?! You've never cared before!"

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"You think I don't care?" His fingers twitched at his sides, his restraint fraying right before your eyes. "You think I could just sit there and watch you be with someone else and not lose my fucking mind?"

He scoffed.

"Do you have any idea what these last few days have been like for me?" he leaned even closer—so close now that his nose brushed yours. "Watching him touch you like that? Watching you smile at him like he hung the fucking stars?"

Your heart slammed against your ribs. "Sebastian—"

"No." His hands came up, fingers brushing against your jaw before gripping—not rough, not painful, but enough to hold you still. Enough to make sure you listened. "I have been hopelessly in love with you for years, and now you're dating my best fucking friend?"

You felt like the air had been knocked from your lungs.

Sebastian Sallow—your best friend, the man who had occupied every stolen thought, every quiet wish, every stupid, hopeless dream—was looking at you like you were his entire world. Like he couldn’t breathe without you.

You stared at him, lips parted, breath caught in your throat.

"You... you love me?"

"Of course I love you," he said, voice rough with frustration, with desperation. "How could you not know that?"

"Because you never said anything!" you shot back, your voice trembling. "Because you’ve spent years acting like I was just your friend while you flirted with every other girl in Hogwarts! Because you—"

Sebastian cursed under his breath. "None of them were you!"

Your breath hitched.

"None of them ever mattered," he continued. "Do you hear me? Not a single one of them."

His hands were trembling now, his jaw tight, his brows drawn in an expression that looked almost pained. His thumb brushed against your cheek, just barely, as if testing whether this was happening, whether he had already lost you.

Your resolve crumbled. Seeing him like this, you couldn’t lie anymore.

Not when you had spent years pretending you were fine being his friend. Not when he was right here, raw and desperate, telling you everything you had ever wanted to hear.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

Sebastian's eyes widened, his breath hitching like you had just knocked the wind out of him. His grip on you faltered for a split second—like he couldn’t believe he had actually heard the words.

"You do?" He breathed.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, your heart racing. "Of course I do, I always have."

Sebastian let out something between a laugh and a shuddering breath, like he had just been freed from something unbearable.

But then his fingers tensed against your cheek, his brows furrowing.

"Then why the hell are you dating Ominis?" he demanded, his voice still breathless but frustrated now, like his brain had just caught up with the situation.

You winced.

Well. This part was going to be awkward.

You hesitated, your hands reaching to grip the front of his robes as you avoided his piercing stare. “Uh… well—”

“Well?”

You cleared your throat. “Technically, I’m not… really… dating Ominis.”

Silence. Dead, suffocating silence.

"What?"

You winced again, gripping his robes tighter. “It isn’t real.”

“…Excuse me?”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Ominis—uh, may have suggested it, you see, and I may have agreed to—”

Sebastian pulled back, staring at you in disbelief. “You’re fake-dating my best friend?”

You nodded weakly. “Mmm. Just a bit.”

Sebastian opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. And then he groaned, dragging both hands down his face, his entire body practically vibrating with irritation. “I lost my fucking mind for five days over something that wasn’t even real?”

You bit your lip. “Well, when you say it like that—”

Sebastian cut you off by grabbing your face, tilting it up, his eyes blazing.

“You schemed with Ominis,” he growled, shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. “You plotted against me.”

You gave him a sheepish smile. “Yes, but it worked, didn’t it?”

Sebastian inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on you tightening. Before you could even think of saying anything more, he crashed his lips against yours.

You gasped into his mouth, but he didn’t give you a second to react. Didn't give you a second to tease him, to smirk about how well your little plan had worked, because he was done playing games.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, kissing you like he was staking his claim, like he was furious with you but couldn’t stop himself. And you—you melted instantly, hands threading through his hair, pressing yourself closer, deeper, letting him consume you whole.

It was heat and desperation and frustration, the kind of kiss that made your entire body feel weak, made you feel like Sebastian was the only thing keeping you upright, and fuck—

You were so gone for him.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breaths ragged.

“You conniving little minx,” he murmured, shaking his head, though there was something almost fond beneath the exasperation in his voice. “You really schemed against me.”

You shrugged, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “To be fair, it was Ominis’s idea.”

Sebastian pulled back just enough to glare at you. “Of course it was.”

“I just went along with it.”

He scoffed. “Oh, sure. Just an innocent bystander in your own elaborate scheme.”

“Well,” you tilted your head. “I didn’t know if it would work. I didn't even think you liked me that way.”

Sebastian groaned, dragging one hand through his hair before gripping your waist even tighter. “Merlin, you really don’t have a single clue, do you?”

You hesitated, chewing your lip. “I mean… no, but I was pretty hopeless, so... desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Sebastian let out a strangled laugh, his eyes narrowing. “Unbelievable.”

You gave him an innocent smile. “Are you saying you would’ve confessed if I hadn’t fake-dated Ominis?”

Sebastian let out a huff, tipping his head back like he was asking the ceiling for patience. Then he leveled you with a pointed stare. “I don’t know, maybe I would have! Eventually! I was getting there!”

You snorted. “Yeah? When? After I married someone else?”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “Not funny.”

You grinned, unable to stop yourself. “Kind of funny.”

His fingers flexed against your waist, like he was debating whether to throttle you or kiss you again.

“I should be furious with you,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, considering. “But you’re not.”

His jaw worked. “No. Because now I finally have you.”

A slow, deliberate clap echoed from down the corridor.

You both whipped around to see Ominis, leaning far too casually against the wall, looking deeply pleased with himself.

"Beautifully done," he said, smirking. "Truly magnificent."

Sebastian groaned, dragging both hands down his face. "Merlin’s bloody beard."

You, on the other hand, couldn’t help the way your lips twitched as you met Ominis’s self-satisfied gaze. He looked positively smug, arms crossed, head tilted slightly like he was enjoying every second of this.

“I hate you,” Sebastian muttered at him.

Ominis hummed, completely unbothered. “No, you don’t.” He pushed off the wall, taking a few slow steps toward the two of you. “In fact, I daresay you love me. Perhaps not as much as you love her, but still.”

Sebastian scowled, muttering something under his breath about “smarmy little bastards” while Ominis grinned like he’d just won the House Cup.

“I have to admit,” Ominis continued, tapping a finger against his chin, “I thought you’d crack after three days. Four, at the most. But no, you really dragged it out.”

Sebastian shot him a glare. "Piss off."

Ominis only grinned.

"Enjoy your night, lovebirds," he said, strolling away like he hadn’t just orchestrated your entire love life.

His footsteps retreated, and Sebastian let out a frustrated groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You laughed breathlessly, still a little dazed, still reeling from everything that had just happened. "So… are you going to thank him later?"

Sebastian huffed against your skin. "I’m going to kill him later."

Then he pulled back just enough to kiss you again. And this time, neither of you stopped.

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pukefactory · 2 months ago

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☽────✧˖°˖ OPERATION PAPERCLIP ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring ENA X Reader Who Likes To Draw

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): ENA (ENA: Webseries)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ At first, you only drew her when she wasn’t looking. Which, to be fair, was difficult—ENA’s neck turns with alarming flexibility, and her eyes sometimes seem to operate on independent surveillance. You’d think she didn’t notice. But one day, while she was loudly declaring war on a nearby chair (“YOU! You smug-legged traitor!”), you caught her reflection watching you from a puddle. One eye was the shape of a frown. The other blinked. “Were you… caricaturing me?”

☆ You try to get her symmetry right. Or, rather, her lack of it. She’s never the same twice: one drawing has her geometric hand cradling a melting balloon. The next, her yellow side is smiling like the sun knows a secret. When you look back at them all together, it’s like you’re watching someone glitch through emotions, pages fluttering like a flipbook of joy, sorrow, and things in between. The pages smell faintly of turrón and electricity.

☆ Moony found your sketchbook first. “OHOHO! WHAT’S THIS—PAGES OF OUR MUTUAL CHUM?! Shall I investigate further?!” You snatched it from his noodly hands before he could start narrating. Later, ENA approached you with a folded napkin and very calm rage. “Moony said you were…’creating a fanfiction but with more pictures and fewer words?’” You were not sure how to explain the difference between art and devotion in a language she could hear.

☆ You once caught ENA mid-shift—sadness spilling out like static, face half-paled and twitching. You didn’t speak, just sketched. When she saw the drawing later, her half-circle eye blinked slow. “Oh. I looked like a gargoyle having an existential breakthrough. But also like a balloon in prayer. Hmm. HmmMMM. You captured it.” She tried to pose like it again, but tripped on her own polygonal foot. You kept drawing anyway.

☆ One page is filled with nothing but her hands. That weird asymmetry—one warm and soft, like sunlight that remembers being human. One sharp, angular, like it could shatter something and apologize after. She asked why. You told her it’s the way she gestures when she speaks. “Ah. My flailing appendages of meaning. I see.” She’s started doing it more. You’ve started drawing faster.

☆ Sometimes you doodle her words next to her face, like little dialogue bubbles. But ENA doesn’t always talk in words. She talks in metaphors, fragmented syntax, Morse code sighs. One time you tried to replicate it exactly: “THE CLOUDS ARE RAVENOUS TONIGHT, DEAR HEART.” She saw it and gasped. “Did I say that?! That’s AWFULLY poetic of me! Wait—what was I talking about?” You had no idea. Neither did she. You kept the page anyway.

☆ When she first saw the sketchbook, she looked at every page without blinking. Her expressions shifted like a slideshow of theater masks—smile, frown, awe, panic, neutral, awe again. Finally, she handed it back and muttered: “…Do you draw me because I’m strange or because I’m you-shaped?” You didn’t know what to say. She blinked again. “That was very cryptic. You don’t have to answer. But if it’s both, that’s okay.”

☆ Sometimes you draw her in scenes that haven’t happened yet. ENA in a paper boat. ENA with wings made of receipts. ENA with a crown of toasters and lightbulbs. She looks at them, points, and goes, “Oh! That’s going to happen next Tuesday.” You ask her how she knows. She just shrugs. “It’s just a feeling.” You check the calendar anyway.

☆ You caught her mimicking a sketch you did of her once. Trying to stand in that exact dramatic pose—head tilted, one eye closed, one arm high above her head. She held it for about four seconds before falling over and sobbing dramatically. “I HAVE FAILED THE ARTIST!! THROW ME TO THE PARROTS!” You gave her a sticker. She stuck it to her forehead and recovered instantly.

☆ Now, whenever you pull out your sketchbook, she’ll freeze in place like a deer caught in the spotlight of creative judgment. “Are you drawing me now? Wait—do I look tragic enough? What if I shift…like this?” She twists into a shape only possible in dreams and cubism. You tell her she always looks like art. She tries to respond, but her mouth glitches between a smile and a sob. “…I think I’m flattered,” she finally decides. “But my feelings are buffering.”

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noorpersona · 2 months ago

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Jealousy: Tendou (NSFW)

The event was a swirl of warm lighting, soft laughter, and the rich, heady scent of tempered chocolate and burnt sugar.

Somewhere in the heart of Tokyo, a five-star patisserie had been transformed into an evening affair—a private industry showcase for chefs, culinary press, and the occasional wide-eyed investor. Tendou Satori moved through the space like he belonged to it. Which, of course, he did.

You stood near the back wall, watching him with an easy smile. Even dressed in black slacks and a soft linen shirt, half-buttoned and rolled at the forearms, he looked like trouble. The smooth curve of his freshly-shaved head caught the ambient light, shining faintly as he turned in profile to greet a cluster of press. He was striking—his angular features more mature now, but his grin still full of mischief, his eyes always dancing.

You were his plus one tonight—his girlfriend, his anchor, his favorite distraction. And while you didn’t know the first thing about ganache ratios or butter emulsions, you did know the way he talked about his craft with such unfiltered joy. It was endearing. Infectious. Sexy.

The event had gone well—Tendou had been in his element, the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand as he joked his way through tasting stations and critiques. You’d lingered behind while he stayed back to help clean up, perched near the edge of the room, sipping something bubbly and watching him from afar.

That’s when Ryouta—one of the younger chefs, clean-cut and too confident—approached you again. You’d met him earlier, briefly, and now he was back, a tray of glossy pastries balanced on one hand.

“Still hungry?” he asked with a smirk, holding out a delicate lemon-honey tart on a golden tasting spoon.

“It was really good,” you admitted politely.

“Here,” he said, stepping closer, holding out a dark, glossy square balanced on a miniature spatula. “This one’s been giving me trouble all month—bittersweet ganache with orange blossom and sea salt. Let me know if it actually works this time.”

He watched you intently as you leaned forward. “It’s all about the bloom at the end. Should hit just after the salt fades.”

You bit. Smiled.

“Yeah?” he asked, already reaching into the tray again. “Alright. Try this one too—different profile, less floral.”

He held it between two fingers, lifted it toward your lips.

You hesitated. “Uh…”

“It’s fine,” he laughed. “Happens all the time at these things. No one touches anything with their own hands.”

That logic was questionable, but the dessert smelled incredible, so you took it gently from his fingers and let it melt on your tongue. Rich. Decadent. It bloomed in layers—bitter, then sweet, then citrus.

You were nodding in delight when a voice—low and sing-song—broke the moment in two.

“Well, this looks cozy.”

You turned.

Tendou stood just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, head tilted like a cat watching something wiggle in the grass. His expression was all sharp corners and candy-coated charm, but you could see it—the tension. The tightness in his shoulders. The twitch of his jaw as his eyes dragged over Ryouta’s hand, still hovering too close to your mouth.

“Oh, Satori,” Ryouta said, laughing. “She’s got a good palate. I was just letting her—”

“Feed her with your fingers?” Tendou cut in, smiling wide. “How generous.”

You blinked. “Wait, it’s not like—”

But he was already by your side. He slid an arm around your waist and plucked your champagne flute from your hand like it had offended him personally.

“We’re gonna head out,” he said cheerfully to no one in particular. “Enjoy the rest of the night. Try not to lose any more chocolates to strangers.”

And then he was guiding you—no, steering you—toward the doors. Not rough, not rude, but with enough silent urgency that you didn’t ask questions.

Not until you were in the car.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “What was that?”

Tendou didn’t answer at first. His fingers drummed against his knee, eyes fixed on the city lights flashing past the window.

You leaned in. “Satori.”

“I watched another man feed you dessert with his fingers,” he said, tone bright and clipped. “Which was wild, by the way.”

You blinked. “He’s a chef.”

He turned his head toward you, smiling a little too wide. “So am I. But I don’t let people lick chocolate off my hands unless they’re gonna moan about it later.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I didn’t moan.”

“Not yet.”

The rest of the ride was quiet. But your body wasn’t. Your heart drummed loud in your ears, a slow and fluttery pulse you could feel all the way down your arms. There was a weight behind his silence that made your thighs press together involuntarily, your breath shallow with anticipation.

Every glance he didn’t give you felt like a brush of fire, and every flex of his fingers against his knee sent a little jolt down your spine. You were still tasting the chocolate—but now it was wrapped in tension, thick with something dangerous and deeply personal. It sat behind your teeth like a promise unspoken.

But the moment the door shut behind you both at home, it was like the tension snapped loose.

Tendou grabbed your wrist and tugged you to him—not harshly, but with purpose. His mouth met yours in a kiss that was all teeth and caramel heat, hands sliding up your sides like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first.

You gasped into him. “Satori—”

“I don’t share,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your throat. “Not food. Not you. Not the way you taste.”

He backed you toward the kitchen counter, palms skimming down your thighs to lift you up with practiced ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking.

“I didn’t think it would bother you,” you whispered, breath catching as he kissed your collarbone, nipping just hard enough to make you shiver.

“It didn’t,” he said, voice dark. “Until it did.”

He tugged your dress up, mouth following the line of your thigh, his hands everywhere—hot, demanding, worshipful.

“You gonna let anyone else feed you like that?” he asked, just before he slid your panties aside with two fingers.

You moaned. “No—”

“Say it.”

“I won’t,” you gasped, hips jerking as his mouth met you, tongue sweeping slow and devastating. He licked into you deliberately, like he wanted to savor every reaction—every stuttering moan, every twitch of your legs around his shoulders.

His fingers gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open while he devoured you. It built steadily—no teasing, no games—just hungry focus and the low hum of pleasure as he drank down every sound you gave him. You couldn’t stop it; your legs were trembling, your fingers tangled in his shirt as the heat curled, then peaked—

You came with a cry that echoed through the foyer, hips bucking as his name slipped broken from your lips. He didn’t stop until you were shivering, overstimulated, eyes glassy.

He looked up, mouth slick, eyes shining with something darker than mischief. “We’re not done.”

Then he stood, leaned in close, and kissed you deep—slow and messy and full of intent.

And melt, you did.

Again and again, until the only thing you could remember was how his name sounded in your mouth and how good it felt to be wanted this much.

—

The morning after, the room was quiet.

Golden light slipped through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the sheets. Tendou lay on his side, propped on one elbow, head tilted slightly as he watched you sleep. You were sprawled against the pillow, breathing slow and steady, hair tousled from his hands and the night before. The blanket had slipped down just enough to reveal the evidence.

His marks.

Your skin was littered in them—hickeys blooming along your collarbone and throat like wine-stained petals, small bruises dusting your ribs, and faint bite marks along the curve of your thigh where the sheet barely clung. Some were shallow, teasing reminders. Others were darker, deeper. Possessive.

He let his fingers trace a lazy path down your spine, not enough to wake you, but enough to feel you sigh in your sleep, your body instinctively curling toward the touch.

He smiled to himself.

“You’re covered in me,” he murmured, voice low, smug, and barely audible. His hand ghosted over the marks like he was admiring a painting he'd made just for himself.

You stirred slightly, blinking against the pillow. “You went feral,” you muttered, voice rough with sleep.

He chuckled, eyes still on you. “You liked it.”

You rolled onto your side, facing him now, the sheet falling from your shoulder.

“You got jealous over chocolate.”

“I got jealous over you.” His eyes met yours—sharp, unrepentant, glowing in the morning light. “And I’d do it again.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just leaned in and kissed him, slow and warm, lips brushing his lazily, your hand cupping his jaw.

“I think you left a tooth mark on my hip,” you whispered, breath curling against his mouth.

“Good,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching up. “Now everyone knows you’re mine.”

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berryz-writes · 1 month ago

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Nightmare

azriel x reader

summary: The roles have switched. Now it's Azriel broken and tired needing your comfort after a nightmare

Note: Guyss ik ik the title is basic but i wanted to post it and i've been staring at this for like 10 minutes because i can't think of one 😭 anyways enjoy <33

I had woken in the early hours, the kind of wakefulness that comes suddenly and without reason. My throat burned for water and no matter how many times I flipped my pillow or shifted beneath the sheets, sleep simply wouldn’t come. So I had slipped out, barefoot and quiet, letting the gentle hum of magic guide me down the hall to the kitchen.

I drank, cool water soothing my throat, the glass trembling slightly in my hand from the residual grogginess but as I made my way back toward my room the air shifted.

It started as a feeling. The faintest drop in temperature. A weight pressing down on the space between my shoulders, not painful, but insistent.

And then I saw them.

A slow, thick tendril of shadows spilled out from beneath a door -Azriel's door - curling like smoke over the cold marble floor. They moved with purpose, toward me it seemed.

They seemed distressed, brushing up my ankles more shadows joining a trail of them going to a crack in his door. My pulse spiked, but not from fear. From knowing.

Azriel.

I crossed the hall, the cool stone soothing against my feet, and stopped in front of the heavy oak door. The shadows recoiled slightly, drawing back as if giving me space, encouraging me to enter. I raised my hand and knocked softly.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Silence.

Only the sound of strained breathing carried faintly through the wood- sharp, uneven, like someone struggling to breathe without waking themselves. My brows pulled together, heart sinking. The shadows didn’t move now simply hovered near the door, waiting. As if pleading.

“Az?” I said, voice low. I turned the handle. It gave way with a soft click.

Darkness swallowed the room. No candles, no fire. Only moonlight spilled across the far wall casting pale light in narrow ribbons through the windows. And there, tangled in the sheets of his bed was Azriel.

Even in sleep he looked tense- dangerously so.

His wings were half-unfurled, his body was twisted in the sheets, muscles rigid beneath sweat-dampened skin and his brow was drawn so tightly it looked painful. The smooth caramel of his skin was filled with strain, his breath coming in short almost gasping bursts. Shadows clung to his face like a second skin, obscuring parts of it revealing just enough to see the silver trail of tears carving their way down his cheeks.

Something shattered in me at the sight.

He never cried. Not when he bled, not when he was broken. But he was crying now and utterly silent about it.

I stepped closer, heart in my throat and gently placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Azriel” I whispered.

His eyes flew open.

And everything happened at once.

In a blur of movement the shadows exploded outward and I was slammed down into the mattress, the cold bite of steel at my throat before I could even blink.

The blade shimmered with blue siphon-light, the edge so sharp I felt it hum against my skin. I froze. My breath hitched. His body hovered above mine, tense as a coiled spring. His hand gripped the hilt of his dagger with terrifying precision every muscle locked in place.

His eyes- hazel ringed in gold- burned into mine. Wide. Ferocious. Haunted.

For one long second we just stared at each other, my heart slamming against my ribs. The moonlight struck his features fully now: the angular lines of his cheekbones, the scarred curve of his jaw, his lips parted slightly, drawing shallow, panicked breaths. His hair, dark and tousled fell across his forehead in damp waves.

“Azriel” I said softly, carefully. “It’s me.”

The blade didn’t move.

But his eyes did- searching, flickering with recognition.

Then…something cracked.

His grip loosened. The dagger slipped from his hand and landed with a dull thud on the mattress beside us. His breath hitched sharply and he scrambled back, horror etched into every line of his face.

“I-” His voice broke. “Fuck- I didn’t know- it was instinct- I thought...”

“It’s okay” I breathed, sitting up slowly.

He backed into the far side of the bed dragging both hands through his hair. His wings trembled slightly before folding in tight against his back, like they too were ashamed of the outburst.

“I thought it was real” he whispered, barely audible. “I was still there.”

My chest ached. “What did you dream about?”

He shook his head once, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused. “I can’t- ” His voice caught. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does” I said, gently, crawling across the bed toward him.

He looked at me finally. His eyes were rimmed with red, still wet with the aftermath of whatever storm had ripped through him in his sleep. A warrior broken open.

“You didn’t call for anyone” I murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “But your shadows did”

His eyes widened slightly. “They…brought you?”

I nodded.

He exhaled shakily, some part of him unravelling.

He didn't wipe the tears.

He didn’t even blink them away.

They trailed silently down the strong lines of his face. Azriel sat motionless on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, eyes locked on the far wall with the expression of someone looking through it.

Not at it.

And gods, his face…

His mouth was slack, lips parted as he breathed- barely. His jaw, normally clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, now hung loose with something I could only call defeat. His eyes, usually sharp enough to peel lies from truth were distant. Dead.

And still, the tears kept falling.

Not sobbing. Not gasping. Just…falling.

I couldn’t take it. Not one more second.

I moved closer, slowly, gently, like approaching a man on the edge of a crumbling ledge. Because he was. His broad back rose and fell unevenly, wings trembling with the effort of keeping still. His head bowed slightly forward now, shoulders caved in like the weight of it all had finally broken through that impossible armour.

“Az” I whispered, kneeling before him on the bed “Look at me.”

He didn’t.

But when I reached up, when I cupped the side of his face in my hand- he flinched.

Not from fear. From shame.

His eyes squeezed shut, his whole body tensing like he was bracing for a blow. My thumb brushed beneath his eye, catching a fresh tear.

That single act undid him.

A sound escaped him- guttural, broken, like something being torn from the deepest part of his chest. His body folded inward like the strength holding him up had simply vanished. And then he was collapsing into me.

Into my arms.

He clutched me with such raw desperation it stole the breath from my lungs. His arms wrapped tight around my waist, his face burying in the crook of my neck as his body shuddered. Trembled and fell apart.

And he cried.

Not the silent tears I’d found him with but deep, aching sobs. The kind that only came from wounds so old, so buried, that they bled in silence until the dam finally broke. His entire frame shook, wings pulled in tight, shadows flickering helplessly around him like they didn’t know how to comfort him anymore.

I held him tighter. Pressed my lips to his temple. Let him break without judgment, without fear.

And then through the broken gasps he started to speak.

“They locked me in that cell when I was eight.”

His voice was hollow. Shaky.

“I screamed for three days. My brothers told me if I made a sound, they’d break my wings. So I screamed into my hands until my voice disappeared.”

My breath hitched, but I said nothing. Just kept my fingers threaded through his hair grounding him.

He pulled in a sharp breath and exhaled like it hurt.

“I started…seeing things in the dark. Hearing voices that weren’t mine. The walls felt like they were closing in. Sometimes I still feel them now.”

I kept my hand at the back of his neck, thumb stroking softly. Up and down. A soothing rhythm.

His voice cracked further. “The worst part wasn’t the silence. It was the hope. Every time I heard a footstep above, I thought it might be my mother." His voice broke off again. “She never came”

I shut my eyes, just for a moment, as grief twisted in my chest.

“And now” he rasped, shaking his head “even when I sleep- I go back there. That fucking cellar. I can’t stop it. I smell the mould on the walls. I taste blood in my mouth. And all I can think is that I deserved it. That somehow it made me stronger. Made me who I am today”

My hands stilled.

He laughed once- bitter and hollow. “What kind of person thanks the people who broke them?”

I tilted his face gently forcing him to meet my eyes. “You survived them” I whispered. “You're so strong....the man you are now is because of yourself.”

He stared at me, blinking slowly, as if the words didn’t compute.

“You didn’t deserve any of that, Azriel. Not then. Not now.”

He shook his head, but his grip on me only tightened, fingers digging into my waist.

“I’m not- ” His throat worked around the words. “I’m not good at this. Letting people see me like this.”

I smiled faintly, brushing away another tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to be good at it”

His breath caught. And for a moment, his eyes searched mine like he wasn’t sure how this was real.

“I don’t know how to let people love me” he whispered.

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to his. “Then let me start.”

He closed his eyes. A fresh tear slid down, catching the moonlight. But this time, he let me wipe it away.

And he didn’t look at the wall again.

**the next morning**

The morning sunlight bathed the room completely.

It filtered in through the windows in long, golden threads, brushing over the stone walls and scattering across the bed in delicate beams. The warmth crept over my skin slowly, and I blinked awake, not quite remembering where I was- until I felt the weight.

Azriel.

His arm was draped over my waist, heavy and secure. His head rested against my shoulder, his dark hair spilling across my collarbone. One of his wings was curled around us like a blanket, shielding us from the world. His breathing was steady now. Peaceful.

I hadn’t seen him look this peaceful before. Not once.

He still held onto me in sleep, fingers curled loosely at my hip like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that the danger was gone.

I shifted carefully, not to leave but to see him fully.

He looked younger in the daylight. Softer. His scars caught the sunlight and turned to gold against his skin. His tears from the night before had dried, but I could still see the faint streaks they’d left behind. And gods, it broke me all over again.

Because even now- even resting in safety- he looked like someone who expected to be alone.

I reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his face, fingertips ghosting along the curve of his temple. He didn’t stir but his brow twitched faintly. I wondered how long it had been since someone touched him without needing something in return.

Azriel didn’t ask for things. He endured.

He gave and gave and bled for the ones he loved and yet he never asked for anything in return. Not comfort. Not kindness. Certainly not this.

But last night…last night he’d let me see the pieces he buried so deep I wasn’t sure he remembered they were still there. He had broken in my arms and still clung to me like I was something worth holding onto.

He stirred slightly and I felt the moment his body tensed, his mind waking faster than the rest of him.

His hand tightened reflexively at my side before he blinked his eyes open.

Those beautiful hazel eyes found mine.

And for one heartbeat he looked like he might panic. Like he remembered everything and was about to retreat behind those stone walls again.

So I whispered, soft as a secret “You’re okay.”

Azriel didn’t move. His lips parted like he wanted to speak but no sound came. Instead his eyes searched mine- as if trying to figure out why I was still there. Why I hadn’t run.

Why I hadn’t seen the worst of him and walked away.

“I’m still here” I said, reading the question he didn’t ask. My hand came up again brushing his cheek with my knuckles. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His voice, when it came was hoarse.

“I thought maybe…I dreamed it.”

“You didn’t.” I smiled gently. “You opened up. And I listened”

His gaze flicked away, shame creeping in around the edges.

But I touched his jaw, guiding his face back to mine. “Don’t do that” I whispered. “Don’t hide from me now.”

He nodded once, slowly. Like he didn’t know how to believe me but wanted to try. Pressing a soft kiss to my head we laid there in silence his wing still wrapped around us.

Azriel shifted closer again, hesitating, then pressed his forehead lightly to mine.

“I don't know how to do it without you” he said softly.

“You don’t have to” I murmured. “I'll always be here. I promise”

And then he closed his eyes, content to lie here with me for all eternity.

note: UHHHH idk if i did this idea justice guys. As you can tell I've recently learnt how to properly use effect in sentences. (look at me using them commas and dashes EXCESSIVELY😋) anyway i totally am not writing this note because i'm CRINGING at my old fics

#azriel x reader #acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #azriel x y/n #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #azriel x you #berrywrites #pro azriel #azriel x reader fluff #azriel x female!reader #azriel spymaster x reader #acotar fic #acotar x reader #acotar x y/n #acotar x you

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seiwas · 1 year ago

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if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas.

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.

You nod.

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.

He hums.

“But I couldn’t find you, so…”

He hums again.

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

A pause.

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.

You snort, “I wish.”

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.

An interesting man.

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.

“Do you come to this–”

“My studio is just by the corner, so–”

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”

“It’s on the way to work most days.”

You nod, humming.

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.

“And this?”

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer.

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.

“Just ask, I know you want to.”

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along.

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.

“Would that be troublesome?”

You laugh at his rigidness.

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.

So, no.

There’s no other place he’d rather be.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?

“Will you be free next weekend?”

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it.

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.

“Not for a session.”

You tilt your head curiously.

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.

“For a date.”

You begin to take up his weekends now, too.

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.

It’s unexpected, but you like that.

And you like him—quite a lot, really.

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him.

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.

Things are good a month until your exhibit.

Things are good until they aren’t.

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.

You groan, banging your head against the table.

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.

Nanami finds you in your studio that way.

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this.

And it’s too much—it’s all too much.

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.

Silence.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.”

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.

“Then we’ll do what we can.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”

“Who?”

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”

That makes you look up.

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.

You remold and repair to build up yourself.

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.

He smirks, “You’re a natural.”

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.

A gasp escapes you.

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.

A tear drips down your face.

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours.

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.

He smiles at you the same.

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.

It is as much you as it is him.

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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riddlesrizzler · 2 months ago

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frat bro! mattheo

Mattheo Riddle, Sigma Nu’s enigmatic president, is the kind of person who commands attention without saying a word. His presence is a paradox-a mix of calculated coldness and quiet charisma. With his sharp, angular features, dark eyes that seem to see straight through people, and a perpetual air of composure, he exudes authority. But behind the walls he’s built is someone who deeply values loyalty, respect, and the power of the unspoken bond between his brothers. Whether he’s in a suit at a formal event or lounging in his hoodie, Mattheo always carries himself with a quiet intensity, his gaze often distant, as though he’s constantly watching, analyzing, and weighing every situation. Despite his aloof, almost intimidating aura, there’s a tenderness that only a select few get to witness-something reserved for those who earn his trust. He’s fiercely protective, not just of the fraternity but of the people he cares about, especially sweetheart! reader. With a hand on the reins of the house and a deep sense of duty to uphold tradition, Mattheo is known for his sharp intellect and unwavering determination. Yet, when it comes to the ones he holds close, he’s softer, more human, even if he’d never admit it aloud. His loyalty isn’t given lightly, but once it’s earned, he’s the type to go to any lengths to protect what matters most.

works

- Sigma Nu’s Sweetheart

- Tackled at the Tailgate

- Lit Like This

#slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter #slytherin aesthetic #my works #au!#mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo x y/n #mattheo x you #frat bro! mattheo #rizzler writes

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boykisser4 · 10 months ago

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Tangled Souls

pairing: demon!Shōta Aizawa x male!reader, nsfw/dc so minors begone

warnings: male reader, smut, monsterfucking, biting, slight blood play, tailfucking, multiple orgasms, male masturbation, breeding kink, creampie, degradation, reader is a virgin but it's not central to the plot

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: your mother has always told you to be wary of the woods. Boys get lost in there, only to wind up dead, their bodies and faces twisted in pleasure and agony. you've followed that rule diligently your entire life—only to find that belief shaken when a beautiful demon appears on your doorstep in need of your help.

In the quiet town of Shibuya, nestled between the bustling neon lights and the whispering whispers of the ever-expanding urban sprawl, there was a rumor as old as the cobblestone streets themselves. It spoke of a set of ancient woods that lay just beyond the outskirts, a place where the line between reality and the supernatural grew as thin as a thread. The townsfolk had long ago learned to keep their children close and their doors locked when the moon was high, for it was said that the forest was a playground for creatures that were better left to the imagination.

You, a young man on the cusp of adulthood, had heard the stories countless times. Each time, your mother's voice grew a little more tremulous, her eyes a shade darker with fear. Yet, as you grew older, the whispers of the woods grew louder, beckoning you with secrets and promises of adventure. One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced with the sway of the autumn leaves, you found yourself standing at the edge of the forest, your heart thudding a rhythm that echoed through the trees.

The demon that appeared before you was not what you had expected. He was not the monstrous creature of your nightmares, but rather a being of such ethereal beauty that it seemed as if the moon itself had taken human form. Shōta Aizawa, a man with sharp, angular features and hair as black as the abyss, emerged from the shadows with a grace that seemed to defy the very fabric of reality. His eyes, piercing and red, bore into yours with an intensity that made your knees wobble and your breath hitch in your throat.

He spoke to you, his voice a velvety caress that seemed to wrap around your very soul. "I am lost," he said, his words tinged with a hint of desperation. "Can you help me find my way?" There was something in his gaze that made you feel as if you could trust him, despite the whispers of your mother's warnings. Without a second thought, you nodded, and together you stepped into the enigmatic embrace of the woods that had called to you for so long.

The journey was a blur of moonlit paths and whispers of leaves that seemed to carry secrets of their own. Aizawa walked with purpose, his tail swishing gently behind him as if it had a mind of its own. You couldn't help but feel drawn to him, as if there was an invisible thread connecting the two of you. As the night grew deeper, you began to feel a warmth building in your loins, a need that you had never experienced before. It was as if the very air was thick with a scent that called to your most primal instincts.

You stumbled upon a clearing, the light of the moon casting a silver glow upon the dewy grass. Aizawa paused, his eyes scanning the area before they settled on you, a smirk playing upon his lips. "You're brave," he murmured, his voice a low purr that sent shivers down your spine. "But I require more than just your guidance." He stepped closer, his tail curling around your leg, sending waves of pleasure through your body. "I need...companionship."

The air grew thick with tension as he reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You felt yourself lean into his touch, your body betraying your mind's attempt at rational thought. He leaned down, his breath hot against your neck, and whispered, "I can give you what you've been craving, if you let me." His teeth grazed your skin, and you felt a sharp sting followed by a pulse of exquisite pleasure that had you gasping. It was then that you realized the extent of your folly—you had entered the demon's domain, and now you were his to claim.

The smirk on Aizawa's face grew wider as he stepped closer, his body pressing against yours. You could feel the heat emanating from him, a stark contrast to the coolness of the night air. His tail slithered upwards, coiling around your waist before it dipped lower, teasing the fabric of your pants. Your cheeks flushed with both arousal and embarrassment as you felt yourself growing hard against his thigh. He chuckled darkly, his hand moving to cup your erection firmly, his claws digging into your skin just enough to make you wince.

"You're so eager," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "But before I give you what you want, you must do something for me." His grip tightened, and you whimpered, the pain adding to the confusing mix of emotions swirling within you. "You must accept me—all of me," he continued, his other hand moving to the base of his tail, revealing the swollen tip. It was then that you understood the full extent of what he was asking for—what he needed.

With a flick of his tail, he unzipped your pants, pulling them down along with your underwear. The cool breeze kissed your exposed skin, making you shiver. He knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours as he took you in his mouth, the sensation so foreign yet so intoxicating that you couldn't help but moan. His tongue danced around the head of your cock, teasing the slit before taking you deeper. You watched, entranced, as he swallowed you whole, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure.

The demon's tail slid between your legs, the tip probing at your entrance. You felt a moment of fear, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the all-consuming need that had taken root in your core. He pushed in gently, the sensation of his tail entering you unlike anything you had ever felt before. The pain was there, but it was muted by the sheer ecstasy that flooded your body with each thrust. His mouth never left your cock, sucking and licking as he claimed you, his tail moving in rhythm with his mouth.

The pleasure built, wave upon wave, until you could no longer hold back. You came with a cry that was part pleasure, part fear, your seed spilling into his eager mouth. Aizawa pulled back, licking his lips with a satisfied smirk. "Now," he purred, his tail still buried deep inside you, "we are truly connected." He began to move again, his tail working in tandem with his mouth, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of another orgasm.

You felt yourself being filled, the pressure inside you growing unbearable. His tail swelled, and with one final, powerful thrust, he released his own essence deep within you. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt before—a mix of pleasure and pain that left you trembling and gasping for air. As he pulled away, his tail slipped out of you with a wet sound, leaving you feeling both empty and utterly claimed.

Breathless, you looked down at him, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "You are mine now," he said, his voice a dark promise. "And together, we will uncover the secrets of the night." With that, he rose to his feet, pulling you along with him. The woods seemed to close in around you, the whispers of the trees growing louder as you took your first steps into a new, darker chapter of your life.

The moon cast a cold, pale light over the clearing as Aizawa led you deeper into the woods. The sounds of the night grew more sinister, more alluring, with each step you took. You were no longer the same person who had ventured into the forest; you were now a part of it, bound to this demon in a way that transcended simple companionship.

The demon's hand was a vice around your wrist, guiding you through the underbrush with a sense of urgency that sent your heart racing. His eyes gleamed with excitement, his sharp teeth bared in a predatory smile that made your stomach twist in anticipation. You knew that there was no turning back now—you had made a deal with the creature of the night, and you would see it through to the end.

As you stumbled through the woods, the air grew thick with the scent of lust and power. It was a heady perfume that seemed to coat every leaf and branch, making your head spin. Aizawa's grip on your wrist was the only thing keeping you grounded, a reminder of the bargain you had struck.

The clearing grew wider, revealing a hidden grotto bathed in an eerie blue light. The walls were slick with moisture, and the ground beneath your feet was soft and yielding. Aizawa pushed you against one of the damp walls, his eyes burning with desire. His hand snaked down to your now-bare cock, stroking it back to life with a skill that seemed otherworldly.

"You're mine now," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. "And I will take you, in every way imaginable." His tail slithered around your waist again, this time with more urgency, the tip grazing your throbbing member. "But first, you must learn to crave it."

With that, he sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. He took your cock in his mouth once more, sucking and licking with an intensity that had you bucking your hips against the cold stone. His claws dug into your thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake, but the pain only served to heighten the pleasure. His tongue flicked against your slit, tasting the pre-cum that beaded there, and you couldn't help but moan his name.

The demon's tail grew more insistent, sliding between your cheeks to press against your tight hole once again. You felt yourself opening up to him, your body betraying your fear and welcoming the intrusion. He pushed in, the feeling of fullness making your eyes roll back in your head. His movements grew faster, his mouth and tail working in perfect harmony to drive you to the brink of insanity.

The walls of the grotto seemed to pulse with an ancient power, the very air vibrating with it. You could feel it in your bones, a call to the darkness that now lived within you. The demon's eyes glowed brighter as he brought you closer to the edge, his tail swelling even more within you.

You came again, your body convulsing with the force of your climax. Aizawa's tail pumped into you, filling you with his essence as he swallowed down your seed. The world around you spun, colors swirling and colliding as the power of the woods claimed you fully.

As the aftershocks of pleasure subsided, you slumped against the wall, panting and spent. Aizawa's tail slid out of you with a wet sound, leaving you feeling both violated and oddly satisfied. He stood, his own arousal evident in the bulge of his pants. "Now," he said, his voice a low growl, "it's time for you to truly understand what it means to be with a demon."

Without another word, he tore open his own pants, revealing his engorged cock. It was monstrous, a twisted mix of human and demonic, and it throbbed with an unnatural hunger. You stared, both terrified and fascinated by the creature before you.

He stepped closer, his claws digging into your hips as he lifted you off the ground. "You will take me," he growled, his eyes never leaving yours. "And you will scream my name as I claim you."

You had no choice but to comply, your body responding to his command even as your mind rebelled. He positioned you, your legs wrapped around his waist, and with one powerful thrust, he filled you completely. The pain was exquisite, a scream ripping from your throat as he pushed deeper, stretching you beyond what you thought possible.

His movements were relentless, his hips pistoning into you as his claws raked down your back. The demon's teeth grazed your neck, the promise of a bite that would seal your fate hanging in the air. The pleasure and pain melded together, creating a symphony of sensation that had you begging for more.

With each thrust, you felt yourself slipping further into the abyss, the boundaries between reality and the supernatural blurring. The whispers of the woods grew louder, echoing the chant of your name on Aizawa's lips.

And as he claimed you, as his teeth sank into your flesh, you felt a transformation begin. Your vision swam with the taste of iron as your blood mingled with his saliva. Your nails grew sharp, your skin prickling with the beginnings of a furious power that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath you. The demon's cock filled you to the brim, each movement sending shockwaves through your body. You could feel yourself changing, evolving into something more, something primal and dark.

The bite grew deeper, and the pain subsided, replaced by a white-hot need that consumed every part of your being. You bucked against him, desperate for more, for the release that only he could give you. His hips met yours with a ferocity that had you seeing stars, his claws digging into your skin as he held you in place. The demon's breath was hot and ragged in your ear, his voice a snarl as he whispered sweet, dark promises of eternal pleasure and power.

The ground beneath you trembled as your climax approached, the trees around you seeming to lean in closer as if to witness your fall from grace. The creature inside of you grew stronger, its hunger matching that of the demon who claimed you. Your body was no longer your own, a mere vessel for the dark desires that now ruled you.

With a final, brutal thrust, Aizawa came within you, his seed mixing with the power of the bite. You felt it, a fire spreading through your veins, setting your very soul alight. You howled, the sound echoing through the woods, a declaration of your new allegiance. The demon pulled away, his teeth releasing your skin, and you slumped in his arms, panting and trembling with the aftershocks of your transformation.

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uhbambii · 7 months ago

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A Quiet Morning in the Dellamorte Villa

The dawn light crept through the gauzy curtains of the Dellamorte villa, painting the bedroom in soft golds and shadows. Rook stirred beneath the weight of the silk sheets, her hair spilling across the pillow. Her eyes opened slowly, the remnants of a rare, peaceful sleep fading as her gaze landed on the man beside her.

Lucanis Dellamorte, famed heir to one of the most dangerous families and a Crow through and through, lay sprawled on his back, his sharp features softened by sleep. His dark hair framed his face in messy strands, and his angular jaw was shadowed with faint stubble. Despite the peaceful scene, there was something distinctly Lucanis about the way he lay there—an awareness in his stillness, a subtle control even in his rest. He was never really unguarded.

Rook allowed herself a moment to admire him, a rare indulgence. The two of them were not exactly the sort of people who could enjoy idle comforts. But here, in the quiet of his villa, with no one watching and no knives in the dark, she felt safe enough to linger.

Sliding out of bed carefully, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Lucanis didn’t stir. Her lips curled into a faint smirk as her eyes caught sight of his discarded shirt from the night before. Why not?

She slipped the oversized button-up over her shoulders. The fabric hung loosely on her frame, brushing her thighs. It smelled like him—spiced wine and gourmand, danger wrapped in charm. She rolled the sleeves up her arms and padded silently toward the kitchen, a thought forming in her mind.

Muffins.

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The Dellamorte villa’s kitchen was absurdly lavish and well-stocked, for someone who rarely ventured home. Rook found the ingredients she needed with minimal fuss. She worked quickly, her Crow training making her as silent in a kitchen as she was in the shadows.

Rook stirred the flour in a bowl, humming softly under her breath, when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

She jumped slightly, spinning to see Lucanis leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He was shirtless, his dark eyes glittering with lazy amusement, his hair still mussed from sleep.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have a knife in my hand,” she said, her tone dry but her lips curving into a smile.

“And here I thought nothing could catch a Crow by surprise,” he replied, pushing off the doorway to saunter toward her. “But this… cara mia, this is a sight I wasn’t expecting to wake up to.”

His gaze slid pointedly down to the shirt she wore, his shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal just enough to make his smirk deepen. “Is this your way of staking a claim? I didn’t realize you were so territorial.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, turning back to the bowl. “I was cold. And you’re lucky I’m feeling generous. I was going to make muffins.”

“Muffins,” he repeated, the word dripping with exaggerated disbelief. “I must still be dreaming. Rook, the infamous Crow, is baking muffins in my kitchen? What’s next—embroidering handkerchiefs?”

“Keep talking, and I won’t save you any.”

Lucanis laughed softly, his voice low and rich as he stepped closer. His hands settled on her waist from behind, his presence warm and undeniably distracting. “You know,” he murmured near her ear, his breath brushing her neck, “you’re whisking that flour like it’s a target, you’ve received contract on. If you want these muffins to be edible, you’ll need to be gentler.”

Rook tried to focus on her task, but the way his hands slid along her hips wasn’t helping. “And what would you know about baking?”

“More than you’d think,” he said, his tone smug. “The Dellamorte name didn’t always keep me well-fed, you know. I had to learn a few things back when I was going through training.”

She snorted. “You? Starving? Hard to imagine.”

“Hard to imagine you in a kitchen, cara mia. Yet here we are.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. Lucanis always had this way of disarming her, slipping past her defenses with that wicked grin and sharp wit.

He leaned closer, his hands tightening slightly on her waist as he teased, “Though I must say, this shirt looks far better on you than it ever did on me.”

“Are you going to help, or just stand there and flirt?”

“Why not both?” His voice was low, and before she could respond, he turned her to face him, lifting her effortlessly onto the cool marble countertop.

“Lucanis—”

He silenced her with a kiss, slow and deliberate, his lips brushing hers with maddening precision. One of his hands trailed up to tangle in her hair, the other remaining firm on her waist. The kiss deepened, his usual charm giving way to something more intent, more real.

When he finally pulled back, Lucanis lingered, his dark eyes locked on hers, warm and brimming with a familiar, maddening confidence. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down her arm, and a crooked smile played on his lips. "You know," he murmured, his voice low and rich, "you don't have to sneak off in the morning to make muffins. You could just wake me up. Though I can't promise we'd get out of bed anytime soon."

Rook raised an eyebrow, fighting the flush that crept into her cheeks. "And what exactly would you do, Lucanis mio, if I did?"

His grin widened, the kind of grin that usually preceded trouble. He leaned in closer, watching her carefully. "Oh, I can think of plenty of ways to make it worth your while. None of them involve flour."

Her lips twitched into a smirk, but she turned her face before he could see the warmth blooming across her face. "You're trouble, you know that?"

"I've heard rumors," he replied, stepping back just enough to grab the whisk from her hands. "But if you're sneaking around in my shirt to bake muffins, I must be doing something right." His eyes roved over her, slow and deliberate, lingering just a little too long. "It's a good look, by the way.”

Before she could reply, he stepped between her legs, settling his hands on her bare thighs. His lips hovered just above hers, close enough that her breath caught. "You could have stayed in bed," he murmured, his voice a velvet promise. "And I could've kept you... busy."

"Some of us like to start our mornings productively," she managed, though her voice was softer than she intended.

"Productive?" he teased, his eyes scanning hers as he spoke. "You're in my shirt, with no pants, making muffins in my kitchen. And here I was thinking you just wanted to drive me insane."

She smirked, leaning in just enough to brush her lips against his in a quick, teasing kiss. “Maybe I did,” she murmured, her tone as sweetly provocative as the look in her eyes.

Lucanis let out a low groan, his hands tightening briefly on her thighs before sliding up to rest on her hips. His forehead came to rest against hers, his voice a husky whisper laced with amusement. “Strega mia, one day you’re going to be the death of me.”

Her smirk widened, her hands slipping to his shoulders as she tilted her head playfully. “Is that a complaint?”

“Far from it,” he replied, his lips brushing against the corner of her mouth in a maddeningly light touch. “If I go, at least I’ll die happy—and very, very distracted.”

Rook laughed softly, pushing against his chest just enough to make him step back. “Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive Treviso of its most charming Crow just yet.”

“Il più affascinante, per favore,” he laughed with a wink, retreating only far enough to grab the whisk again. His gaze swept over her once more, lingering on her bare legs and the way his shirt clung to her. “Though if you keep parading around my kitchen like this, amore mio, I might be tempted to retire early.”

“Tempted?” she shot back, sliding off the counter and standing toe-to-toe with him. “I’d think you’d have better self-control than that, Amorino.”

He leaned in, close enough that their noses nearly touched, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. “With you? Self-control doesn’t stand a chance.”

She arched an eyebrow, fighting the grin threatening to break free. “You’re full of it, you know.”

“And yet, you tolerate it,” he quipped with a grin, echoing her earlier words as he turned back to the mixing bowl.

Rook leaned against the counter, watching him work, her smirk softening. Despite all his bravado and charm, there was something grounding about the way Lucanis moved in his own space, so at ease yet so attuned to her presence. She could feel it—the way he made her a part of his world without ever saying a word.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence as he gave her a sly glance. “Breakfast today, cara mia. Tomorrow… dinner?”

“Tomorrow?” she asked, feigning surprise. “You’re awfully confident I’ll still be here.”

Lucanis grinned, setting the whisk down and stepping closer to her again. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him as he murmured against her ear, “Oh, I’m very confident. After all, tesoro, I always get what I want.”

Her heart gave an unsteady flip, but she kept her smirk in place as she leaned back to meet his gaze. “And what is it you want, Lucanis?”

“You,” he said simply, his voice low and unguarded as his dark eyes held hers. Then, just as quickly, his lips curved into a devilish smile. “But I’ll settle for muffins… for now.”

Rook let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she pushed him toward the stove. “You really are trouble.”

“And you love it,” he tossed over his shoulder as he turned back to the batter.

She didn’t respond, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than she intended. Because, damn him, she did.

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Is it possible to fall in love with my own writing???

IM EATING IT UPPPP!!!

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xo2dee · 11 months ago

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🗨️ ROMANTIC DREAMS

PAIRING: Nanami Kento/(Fem)Reader. WARNINGS: MDNI/18+ Only. Post Shibuya AU, Post Shibuya!Nanami, Manga Spoilers, Mentions of Body Harm, Body Worship, Handjobs, Thigh Riding, Slight Angst. WORD COUNT: 9,833. SUMMARY: In time, in sync, tonight the stage is yours.

A/N: i wrote this like two years ago for nanami's bday and was supposed to post it again on his bday but im late for everything :/ but pls enjoy!

JJK MASTERLIST

Violet clouds tumbling about in various shapes and sizes and an orange sky waning to something cooler took the time to bathe Tokyo in its glory for the evening. And as gorgeous as it looked, you could not find the means to take in the beautiful sight outside your balcony window since you were too busy keeping all your attention on your surly lover and his disgruntled attitude from the moment he had woke up that morning.

“No peeking,” you reminded him, your hands still covering his eyes regardless before you placed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Kento sighed, his shoulders drooping and leaning his back from where he sat in the dining room to brush the crown of his head against your chest, “I’m not, and I told you this wasn’t necessary. You didn’t have to go out of your way to do anything for me.” His voice remained in that low grumble (tired, quiet, and nearly monotone), but you could vaguely hear the briefest bit of anticipation in way his vocal cords slightly shook. From the element of surprise or your clingy behavior? You weren’t sure.

You pulled your hands away after resting your chin on his shoulder, glancing over to make sure he still wasn’t peeking before you hummed and rubbed your hands along his upper arms, “So you say, but you of all people should know me.”

“I do, and I had a feeling from the moment you left this morning that you were up to something.”

You looked away from his long eyelashes brushing across his skin, noting the faintest shade of red coloring his cheek in the process, and looked in front of you both onto the dinner table where sat his ‘birthday cake’ and the polka-dotted candles lit up with the number 32 spread out. You moved your hands onto his shoulders and massaged them, your own sigh falling out of your mouth and kissed his temple at his ragged tone. “It’s nothing bad… And it’s not like I pulled a Gojo and nearly planned a whole surprise party; just a little of something to show my appreciation and love for you.”

“You already did this morning and gave me my gift. And you’ve told me, ‘Happy Birthday’ at least three times already today too.”

You squeezed his shoulders and rolled your eyes, remembering his sleepy grumbling when you had woken him up at three in the morning to tell him, when you had kissed his scarred cheek from behind as he stood in front of the mirror brushing his teeth and told him, and when you had texted him around lunch time with an excessive amount of emojis and letters full of caps lock and received a thumbs up emoji in response and just a, ‘Thank you, I love you’.

(Kento sucked at texting and it only seemed to be getting worse as he grew older, but you weren’t about to tell him that.)

But he could blush and sigh in exasperation all he wanted, you knew he liked attention from you. “So what? It’s like a national holiday to me today… Anyway, you can open your eyes now,” you combed your fingers through his hair, the undercut long since grown out as he had gotten older before throwing your arms around his shoulders once more as you pressed your cheek into his and smiled from the warmth it emitted, “I hope you like it.”

You could feel him sigh before you heard him, peeking in your peripheral vision as you watched his one eye open to give sight to the lone umber iris you treasured as it settled on the table in front of him. You bit the inside of your cheek as he took it in, the usual taut furrow in his brow lessening, his lips slightly parting as you watched the amber candlelight flicker across his sharp, angular features, and a glimmer of surprise taking over his expression altogether as he took in what was in front of him while remaining speechless. It made you giddy, a giggle bubbling out of your lungs from his apparent awe as you angled your mouth onto his jawline and kissed him there as well, leaving behind yet another lipstick stain in your wake.

“Happy Birthday, handsome. You said you weren’t up for a cake this year, so I had to compromise and I think I did pretty good.”

You folded your hands atop his chest (his steady heartbeat ricocheting off your palms setting itself as a reminder of what you nearly lost, and how it remained beating despite the rough exterior of his skin on the outside and the failed lung the doctors did their best to help causing him to have breathing problems still after four years) and embraced him from your stance behind him, basking yourself in his warmth as you heard his breathing pick up and his hand coming up to curl around your wrist.

“This is… I haven’t had this in –”

“Nearly ten years? I know,” you cheekily replied, tucking your face in his neck and curling yourself into his scent, “Would’ve been a hassle trying to find the place if it wasn’t for you telling me about it all the time.”

Kento made a noise in the back of his throat, releasing his hold on your wrist and turning his head as you removed your face from his neck so that your noses brushed across one and another, “You… Is that what you were scribbling on that piece of paper this morning…?” He hadn’t removed his eyepatch for the day, nor had he ever seemed to stop dressing down since the accident, but you knew it was more of a small insecurity he held within himself to remain looking as normal as he could. Not that he was particularly vain, but you knew he hated looking in the mirror sometimes thinking he was disfigured beyond being recognized and often it showed when it came to you regardless.

Nevertheless you felt your cheeks warm, realizing he had seen you doing that and casted a small glance to your purse that laid on the couch from when you came home and he took it from you. Kento’s own near indistinguishable glint in his eye brightened, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you into his lap and securing you there when you threw your legs across his own as you got ready for all the teasing you knew was to come. However, he seemingly spared you for the night, taking your hand to press a warm kiss to the inside of your wrist and murmuring against your skin so quietly and softly you nearly didn’t hear him.

“Tell me about your day.”

He wanted to know your thought process on why you did it and truly what you had done the entire day away from him.

The dreaded piece of paper with your destination scrabbled on it like chicken scratch had been crumbled and folded up in your purse as you had left your shared apartment in a haste, nearly your shoes on the wrong feet and almost forgetting your wallet in the process to race against the clock to get to work and to perhaps keep your husband under wraps for the surprise. However, going to the store and getting all the other supplies you needed was a walk in the park, but trying to find the exact location of… Hell, you weren’t even able read the damn name anymore by the time 4 P.M. rolled around, as the ink had blotted and the shitty pen you kept in your purse barely worked anyway, so you were left with squinting at it standing on the sidewalk trying to remember where in the fuck you were supposed to go in smack dab the middle of the Summer.

And, fuck, was it hot.

Unbearably and unbelievably hot.

July was seemingly always scalding in the Summer of Tokyo, and it didn’t really matter that the sun was only beginning to set for the temperature to remain the same as it was from noon until at least nine at night. Perspiration clung to your body with every step you took, your thighs beginning to chafe from how they had been rubbing together while you walked and you were then wondering if the sun had fried your brain from where it had been beating down on your scalp all day. You had lost count of the many times you had accidentally licked your upper lip free of any sweat, hoping to anyone above that your eyelash glue wasn’t melting off your fucking eyelid and your eyeliner wasn’t running and smudged underneath your eye with the amount times you had fiddled with your face, but more importantly you hoped that whatever you were doing worked out in the end and you didn’t look like an idiot.

It was July 3rd, and you had trotted out around on one of the world’s hottest, and most special days in desperation for a gift you had somehow thought of on your own to get.

It was July 3rd, and it was your husband’s – Nanami Kento – birthday, and you were trying your damnedest to find that little, nook-and-cranny, locally owned (because Kento really preferred local businesses more than anything) bakery that he used to frequent constantly, and maybe beg for the recipe for his favorite sandwich so that you could make it for him for his birthday and any other day he wanted for the rest of his life.

Perhaps it was an oddball gift, as you had already asked Kento what he wanted –

(“What do you want for your birthday?”

“You don’t have to get me anything. Spending time with you that day is enough for me.”

“Corny. And you say that every year, and you still get me things for my birthday.”

“And I mean it every year. The greatest gift you have given me was when you agreed to marry me, so you’ve already given me everything I could have ever wanted.”

Okay, you’d admit, you giggled, squealed, and kicked your feet like a girl with a crush at that, the corny, dork of a man always one-upping you and making you feel like a Goddess, but God for once you wanted to make him feel the same way.)

– and he had said nothing despite the fact that whenever you gifted him that book he had been eyeballing in the book store he had literally sighed like he was fantasizing about getting home to watch his favorite cooking show, and it was then the lightbulb in your head went off when you remembered Kento only really sighed over very few things.

One: the crisp smell of a new book and the tightly wounded spine nearly making him bust in his pants whenever he got his hands on it.

Two: you.

And three: food. Not just any old food either; sandwiches that made him gush and launch into a detailed explanation about whenever the bread was baked just right, and the vegetables looked like edible art, and the meat to it was laid and folded just perfectly with the right amount of sauce and any seasoning, was really what could get Kento going and make him literal putty.

So, you thought, why not find that bakery he used to go to (and for some reason won’t go back, you weren’t about to ask why either) and get the little recipe of the sandwich he sometimes would whisper in your ear about like he was dirty talking to you again, and just make it for him? It was a perfect idea to you, and for once Kento wouldn’t practically kick you out of the kitchen whenever you offered to make something for him whenever you had the Holy Grail in your hands and could hover it over his head.

Yeah, it was a good gift, and you only had nonchalantly asked him the name of the place so you were all set the moment he spoke them without a thought in the world. Kento would be ecstatic, and it’d make you feel at ease if you got see that genuine smile spread across his face because he had looked miserable when you went to work that morning and lingered by the front door longer than usual and kissed you goodbye a little harder than normal before you left. Then he’d be less miserable having his favorite sandwich made out for him and sleep like a baby that night with one hand holding your boob like always.

Yeah, everything would work out perfectly.

And considering his reaction and how he was staring at you perched atop his lap embarrassed as you rambled on about everything, you assumed you hit the nail on the head.

Kento had propped an elbow up onto the table, his cheek resting against his knuckles and his thumb rubbing into your hipbone as you finished talking as he had listened so intently with a twinkle in his half-lidded eye and small, smile on his face. “Even when I think I know you, you still continue to surprise me.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, thoroughly smug that you had managed to surprise him in the end and batted your eyelashes at him, “It’s my charm. And it’s not a fun marriage unless we still continue to surprise each other like this.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily know, this is my first marriage.”

“And it better be your only.”

He rolled his eye back, tapping his index finger against his temple and flexing his thighs beneath your body as he stretched them out, as he knew you were only teasing him ever since you laughed in his ear at the old grannies down at Farmer’s Market with hearts in their eyes every time he went and grocery shopped. “I took my vows to heart that day –”

“I know, it was like two pages long –”

“ – Regardless,” he shot you a look, but his reddening cheeks spoke for the most of him, “I’m a monogamous man… for the rest of my life.”

“Like a penguin.”

Kento’s lips twisted into a curl, like he was trying to hold himself back from laughing, “You say my animal documentaries are boring, yet you remember things like that?”

You shrugged and brought yourself closer to him, locking your fingers behind his neck and bringing his cheek in for another kiss, “I think it’s sweet… Anyway, I take it you like your gifts?” you asked with a tilt of uncertainty in your voice, something he caught up on with his intuitive sixth sense when it came to all things regarding you.

Kento moved meticulously, removing his hand from his cheek and to yours as his other slid up to rest on your back with his fingers spread, and it took you a long moment to realize he was touching you with his left hand. All remnants of nearly flawless skin that was once there, and you nearly couldn’t even feel the callousness of it spread out to his fingertips as you had grown so used to it. Kento’s left hand was the hand that held the wedding band, and it was the hand you always took to hold, to kiss, to rub your cheek across in a semblance of your love whenever you couldn’t find the words to tell him and he was going through a bout and your actions spoke louder than your words ever could.

He still looked at you the same way he had whenever you were the first face he saw whenever he woke up from the hospital and the day he saw you at your wedding. And you still had trouble not shying away from his intense gaze like the days you could barely look him in eyes in the beginning of your relationship, but it was all worth it in the end whenever he spoke his affirmations to you.

Kento was not a man of many words per say, more showing his emotions through his actions, but when he did take the time to formulate words of comfort on his tongue to mouth into your skin, you knew he meant every word.

“Of course, anything and everything you given me I cherish, beloved. Getting my favorite sandwich, however…” he trailed off, and you could distinctly hear his stomach grumble in a sign that he had not yet ate. He took that time to drop his hand to rub at your arm, a sigh leaving him that sounded nearly forlorn and you just knew he was already calculating all the parts of the sandwich and critiquing them to his liking. And from what you could see (nearly the damn reflection of the sandwich shining in his eye with sparkles around it), he liked what he saw.

(Honestly, if he had never went into being a salaryman those short years or made his way back into Jujutsu Sorcery, Kento could’ve easily have became a chef if he so wanted. You could vouch for that for the many nights Kento cooked for you and sent you off to work with a packed lunch.)

Though looking at Kento reminded of you of part two for what you wanted to tell him, the corner of the receipt paper it was written on digging into your breast (and probably a little sweaty) as you straightened back up and pulled your face away from his.

“Ah – that reminds me –” you dropped your arms from around his neck before you began unbuttoning your shirt, discreetly eyeing Kento as you did and creasing your lips so that you didn’t laugh whenever you saw his eye widen and face turn that lovely shade of rose when you figured he was thinking you were turning to a more carnal side. Silly, cute, little man, he had seen you naked countless times, but still got slightly embarrassed and would start sweating whenever you started to show him your boobs, and it always fun to tease at him. You didn’t keep him on the edge, afraid he’d combust if you started undressing, and only unbuttoned two to reach into your bra and pull out the folded piece of paper, “Got another little surprise.”

Kento regarded you amused (possibly wondering what else you kept in your bra) before picking the paper up between two fingers and inspecting it with dubious concern. “…It’s wet.”

“I was sweating, okay? It’s hot, now just open it.” You could’ve done without his commentary.

He obliged you, unfolding the receipt carefully before he let his eye roll over the numerous words written down in a row with instructions written next to each one of them, with precise quantities and times because you knew it had to be just perfect. He blinked as he read over them fast, an eyebrow quirking up before looking at you curious to what it all meant, “Ingredients and instructions?”

You leant into him, pressing your forehead against the side of his head and toying with the top two buttons of his shirt, “To your favorite sandwich. Now you or I can make it anytime you want, and be forever grateful to the girl working for giving it to me without an argument.”

His looked somewhat excited as he inspected the paper in his hand, yet the drone of his voice nearly made it sound like he couldn’t bring himself to care. You knew better though, he was just too embarrassed to show his obvious happiness to what you had got him, but the little sigh he let out before speaking was the same one he made whenever you gave him that book. “And how did you manage this?”

“I’m the master of ass-kissing.” (Read: you begged and promised you’d come back with him if she had given it to you.)

“True.”

You slapped his chest lightly and nearly squealed at his little smile, situating yourself in his lap as you turned to look at his favorite sandwich topped off with the gaudy candles that was slowly beginning to wither away before snatching the birthday hat you bought and slapping it atop his head. He looked cute whenever he was disgruntled, especially when the elastic to the hat slapped his chin, but it was even funnier watching his expression wither when you sat the kazoo on your tongue and blew into it right in his face and ear while expressing your excitement, yet again.

“Happy Birthday, Kento! Now blow out your candles and make a wish, birthday boy.”

A few moments passed, and you watched the gears in his head turn as he sat the paper down onto the table, and you nearly wanted to groan when you realized where he was going with his idea.

“Stop. Before you say anything else corny. You have to keep your wish to yourself and maybe it’ll come true.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but did as you asked and blew them out without a second thought. The amber glow of the day fading away as the sky outside turned to dusky purple and left you and Kento alone to enjoy it together, yet you watched curiously as he tore off a part on one half of the sandwich, his arm curling around you to keep you sat snugly in his lap before he brought up the piece and held it against your lips. His voice but yet another warm, soft murmur, mouthed into your cheek and his tongue nearly swiping along your skin.

“Wanna help me eat it?”

The moment you got done eating with him and moved to cleaning (to which you had to ban Kento from the kitchen whenever he tried to even think about helping) and while you had been cleaning, the faintest scent of cigarette smoke and Kento’s preferred cologne reached your nostrils, a thin trail of the smog wiggling into the living from the open balcony door letting you know that Kento had been outside on the balcony where he usually smoked. If there was one thing about him, it was that he was pristine about not letting any smoke come into contact with anything inside, wanting to smoke outside as he did it very rarely before, but after the accident Kento had taken up smoking more than usual. You had told him it wasn’t too good for his lungs, but you couldn’t do much when you remembered he mainly did it as a form of an anxiety reliever and whenever he was stressed… Besides, where he wasn’t too worried about his own health, he constantly fretted over your own and refused to smoke anywhere near where you could secondhand do it.

He never smoked long and when you walked out of the kitchen it wasn’t an odd sight to see him on the couch by then, one hand swirling a glass of whiskey from the bottle that sat on your centerfold table with the blue bow around the neck (courtesy of Mr. Satoru, even adding a little note that said, “Happy Birthday! With Love, Gojo <3” combined with his own chibi drawing of himself throwing up peace signs) with the ice cubes clinking against the rim and his nose already buried in the book you had bought him. He was a sight to behold as well, his bright hair pushed back onto his head with the very small telling sign of a five o’clock shadow growing along his jawline that would be gone as soon as the morning came, his shirt having been deftly unbuttoned to grow accustomed to the heat coming from outside and his skin beginning to finally wane away from that sunburn he had gotten from the trip you two had gone on to Milan two weeks before.

He truly was beautiful, inside and outside, but it was heartbreaking to see him sometimes avoid mirrors or from going out into public on the days he was feeling particularly bad.

You didn’t take long to join him, the soft music he had put on soothing your ears as you eyed the sharpness of his jawline sculpted and shadowed from the sky outside and sat down on your side of couch. You stretched your legs out and toed at his thigh, appreciating his loose slacks on his figure while grabbing his attention, “You like the book?”

“Mm, very much. Thank you again.”

“I’m glad, you had been eyeing it for a while so I knew I just had to buy whenever you wouldn’t…” you reclined back into the many throw pillows on the couch (something was your doing as Kento had been the one to pick out the style and layout of the apartment, but you were giving the reigns to decorations as you seemed fit – especially if the fuzzy throw rug beneath you two spoke for anything) watching his eye move over every word and wondering if he was truly content to stay inside with you for the night. You bit the bullet in the end, knowing you’d only worry yourself to death over him if you didn’t ask. “You sure you don’t wanna go out anywhere else? Gojo and Shoko did invite us to that restaurant you like.”

He peered at you for a long moment before sighing, closing his book and set both it and his drink onto the end table next to him and grabbing your ankles to pull your feet into his lap to rub at them, “I’m more than glad to stay here and spend the night with you. Knowing Gojo he’ll tell the waiters it’s my birthday and I’ll have to sit there and endure that God awful singing… Besides,” he threw his back onto the edge of the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the hard swallow he took as he massaged a particular knotted spot in your foot, “I’m not really one for attention like that.”

Kento never was one for going out into public for celebrations, sure he would occasionally go out to eat and take you out on a date for your anniversary, and he also always made sure to have plans for your birthday, but never was one really for his celebrating his own. You had learned even as a child his mother normally baked him a cake on the day as he and his family celebrated it at their home; a quiet and mundane tradition he seemed to want to carry on into his adult life, and you had no problem obliging that. Kento never minded if only a few people gave him birthday wishes, but a part of you wondered if his newfound insistence to remain home on certain days was still the effect to what had happened to him in Shibuya. He had not seen Gojo in over a year, and the rest that remained even less, but you knew retirement meant usually staying away from all things that were work.

Sure you could hear Gojo’s voice over the phone at times, and you could hear Ijichi asking how he was at times in the night, and it was even better whenever you watched his phone light up with the name Itadori Yuji with text messages, but you knew only talking to them over the phone could only last so long and Kento had to at least go and see them when they all worried over him and constantly asked you about him. Not that you were annoyed over it, but more-so worried Kento was starting to shut himself out again from everyone and keeping his distance from everyone. You supposed he thought his birthday would come and go once more, just another day on the calendar to him and he could continue living out as the years passed and he was at peace with himself.

You weren’t going to dally on it, instead taking in his form that looked more taut with tension than it had been in a while as you preyed upon the slight sheen resting atop his collarbones. It had been awhile since you and Kento had been intimate, something that took some time to open him up to again and something that was still a hit-or-miss situation when it came down to him wanting to indulge in carnal desire, but you never pressed him for it to just instead opting to wait it out whenever he was ready. Though sex had been somewhat different from Kento at times taking you from behind as much as he could, to him not even thinking of himself as he buried his face into you and ate your pussy until you were crying from overstimulation and couldn’t take it anymore, you never really got the chance to worship him much like he did you.

Kento needed to relax, take all worry off his shoulders if just for the time being and enjoy life as he could in the moment. You weren’t about to let that opportunity pass up either whenever you had the chance on a day you were dead-set on showing him all the appreciation and love.

“Then –” you broke the silence, watching him reopen his eye to peek at you first before you wiggled your feet out of his grasp and spread your legs apart as an invitation, “something else for the night?” you asked coyly, refraining from biting your lip when you watched his chest rise and fall from the heavy exhale he took once the skin of your inner thighs came into his view.

You had thought he’d perhaps politely decline again, telling you he’s not feeling up to it for the night, but you were mildly surprised when he moved for you, his body rolling off from his position as he found himself lowered down in-between your legs. You blinked at how fluidly he moved, having little to no time to even react yourself when he was already there, one on your legs hoisted up over his shoulder as he pressed the other one down into the sofa cushion. He was still gentle as ever; his hand skimming along your inner thighs, his cheeks brushing along your skin as you felt the roughness from the light facial hair and burnt remains on the left side of his face, and of course his lips finding their way to kiss every single inch of you he could until he got to where he wanted to be most.

You were nearly ready to just let him have it that way, your clit already throbbing in anticipation when you remembered just how good Kento was at eating you out and how good it felt when he knew just how to bob his nose along your clit, but you remembered that it wasn’t about you that night and you were set on a mission to make him feel the most good instead of his usual lenience to cater to you most of all. Kento kissed and sucked at a spot on your inner thigh for a brief moment, his fingers creeping up to find the edge of your panties before your hands shot down and one curled around his wrist and the other tangled into the locks of his hair in a gentle squeeze. You had done it in the heat of the moment to keep yourself from drowning into him; a knee-jerk reaction that made Kento balk and nearly push himself away from you if you hadn’t spoke for your intentions.

“Wait – not like this.”

Sneaking a peak down to him you almost wanted to reassure him from the slightly cautious look in his eye, his chin dipping back into his chest nearly like he was afraid to get to close to you again without knowing exactly what you wanted from him as he spoke slowly and so quietly you wanted to sigh at his brief relapse of insecurity.

“You don’t want me to eat you out?”

This man… It wasn’t that at all. You frowned, cheeks warm despite your annoyance to completely ignore himself and swatted at him from between your legs, “Are you forgetting today isn’t about me?”

Kento had the gall to look confused, brow knitted and cheeks turning pink as his lips fell into a thin line, “I always eat your pussy when we have sex.” Why did he have to say it like he was droning on about workplace harassment to Gojo again? Not only that, he nearly looked like he was ready to pout he couldn’t face dive into your pussy and drown himself in there like he was drinking from the scared rivers of Eden.

You leant back on your elbows and rolled your eyes, your skirt sliding up as you did and leaving you reeling in the slight satisfaction you got watching his eyes dart down for brief second to catch a glimpse of the panties you put on for him, and slid your leg off of his shoulder, “Yes, I know, and I do brag about it to my friends a lot –” He nearly looked mortified before rolling his eye. “ – but that’s not the point. Today I just wanna give you the appreciation you deserve…”

Kento only blinked at your words, his eye glazing over for a moment before he looked damn near ashamed and shy from his spot in-between your legs and released his hold on your thighs to sit back upright on the couch. He kept his body open however, legs spread and arms open to invite you into him, but you could still see the slight stiffness present in his shoulders as he sat there awaiting you into his arms. He swallowed once, looking unsure for but a brief moment, before he gave you his verbal consent that he wanted to continue, knowing you weren’t going to move unless you knew he wanted you to.

“Come here.”

You offered him a small smile in return before crawling over to him, not finding yourself in his lap just then as you gave him yet another kiss to cheek and trailed on over to his ear lobe, whispering into his ear in a churning murmur to let him know your true thoughts. “Something else for the night?” Only a rumbling hum was your answer, the heat behind your naval already burning with unbridled want as he leaned back fully and let you straddle his lap, your knees digging into the cushions of the couch and you breasts pushed up against the broadness of his own as you snuck your fingers up to his face once more. You were tracing over his brow bone when he answered you, a mumble as soft as the sheets felt whenever he took you on your wedding night and you fully became husband and wife with the kiss that you had dreamt of for years.

“Okay… Something else this time.”

Kento’s breath stuttered the moment you moved over to his eyepatch, meeting that one umber iris for a second before you got the approval and were able to remove it with his permission. You discarded it next to the both of you as you leaned in to place a soft kiss to where his left eye used to sit, his chest heaving with a hiccupping sigh as you moved a hand to comb through his hair and trailing down to trace his jawline with only but your fingertips. You didn’t waste any time to move your lips down to his own, planting a slow kiss there with as much passion as you always did because the scars never really did bother you, nor did the mismatched feeling of his mouth on your own or sucking along your skin turn you off to him in anyway whatsoever. It was a slow song you teetered to, opening up your arms to him as you swayed in front of him gently opening him up to the idea until he got comfortable to get up and join you.

When his hand landed on your lower back to knead in your skin and muscle with his knuckles, you knew he was complying to let you take control for the night and cater to him much like he did you all those times. Though he was still somewhat unsure as his sigh shakily and ran a finger up your spine while speaking into your kiss, “Can… can we just go slow… Just be easy tonight; no rush. And nothing too intense.”

You leant up to kiss his forehead, a sheen of light sweat making itself known on his skin there, and pushed his hair behind his ear as you answered, “Of course. Anything you want.”

You could smell the smoke and whiskey as he blew a breath of relief into your face, his mouth finding yours again for another kiss, “Thank you.”

You pulled away from his lips and cupped his cheeks, smiling against his lips as you whispered against them just what you thought about him, “You’re pretty.”

Within your palms you could feel his cheeks warm and watched his eyebrow tick upwards at the compliment, the evidence of his embarrassment there despite how steady his voice remained when he answered you, “I don’t think that word suits someone like me.”

“Don’t deflect,” you sighed, kissing the corner of his mouth as you knew good and well that he knew why you were saying it, “You’re handsome; beautiful; other-worldly… How about those?”

Kento’s face was visibly turning redder as you named off every word that you could to describe him, his fingers knotting in the back of your shirt as he balled it up and you felt his jaw shake to formulate a response. When he seemed unresponsive you settled for a kiss you placed onto his jawline to ease him, your fingers sliding down along his neck and collarbones until you found the buttons of his shirt and began plucking them free as his hands returned to smoothing out along your back. Sometimes it was better to play into Kento’s body language with your own, as he was a man of very few words at times and it was an easier route to show him your comfort through actions pertaining towards your delicate nature towards him instead of words that would only fluster and overstimulate him.

He let you map out his body as you pulled his shirt apart, fingertips gentle as they ran over the more predominate area of his skin covered in scars and lost skin. You could feel the uncertainty in his taut muscles, the desire to perhaps cover himself back up from the way you were following the moments of your fingers along his skin with your eyes, and you had to stop yourself for a moment as when you skimmed his abdomen it flexed harshly as you brushed across a long wounded scar from a fight years before the accident. You looked back up to him from underneath you eyelashes, his head having tipped back a fraction as you eased him back to look at you and to only admire his features in the violet dusk from outside for a moment before you remembered you had to keep up the reassurance.

“Is this okay?” you asked, running a thumb underneath the eye and enjoying the feeling of his eyelashes kissing your skin whenever he blinked.

You gauged his reaction as he held your gaze, something glimmering in the lonely iris as his pupil dilated when he stared for seconds longer and sighed shakily before finally answering, “It’s okay.”

It was the reassurance and encouragement you needed, keeping your touch light as you wiggled back onto his lap but a few inches and your hand on his hip trailed down to his pants, enough to reach and see what you had been easing him into already showing through his loose slacks. You spread your fingers across his pectoral, his heartbeat steady against your palm as you cupped him through his pants, running a finger along what you knew what the tip and switching to full on rubbing him through the cloth when you heard the sigh leave him as you touched him.

“Still okay?” you repeated once more, experimentally wrapping your fingers around what you could of his cock and squeezing him. Your skin prickled whenever he groaned softly, a pant on the edge of his tongue as your stomach twisted with phantom butterflies when you remembered all the breathy noises he would make in your ear and neck when he was losing himself to your touch or inside of you.

“Still okay,” he answered, his head falling back onto the back of the couch again and causing your hand to drift up towards the waistband of his pants when you took it as a sign to continue further and take the next step. You hummed as you leaned into him, pressing a kiss in the middle of his pectorals as you slid your hand into his pants and briefs fully to touch him.

His low sighs encouraged you, peppering kisses along his torso much like he did your own before in your own form of body worship. Once you got closer to his nipple and you allowed your lips to close around it for you to suck on, a higher-pitched noise sounding like a whine leaving him as he gave a full body jerk. You latched off his hardened nipple and blinked coyly up at him, watching as he kept his eyes on the ceiling and his parted, pink lips continuing to match the coloring on his cheeks while your hand finally pulled his cock free from his pants into the open air and for your eyes to see.

It was already deepening into a red, his veins engorged as it throbbed in your hand and you traced a finger along the vein protruding from the underside of him. You only watched with an inward sigh as precum began to leak from his head, feather-light touches you kept along the sensitive region as he jerked his hips underneath you while you lubed your hand up with his fluids, and whines disguised as hisses escaped through his clenched his teeth when you swirled your thumb along his tip the way you knew he liked it.

His tone was slightly shaky when he spoke again, chest heaving and his fingers digging into your shirt, “Don’t tease. Please – just touch me.” He was perhaps a bit too whiney for his own liking as his breathing began to speed up when you dipped back down to kiss along his chest and fully wrap your hand around his cock to jerk him off, but you realized he was in no place to necessarily to care when you were easing into comforted euphoria once more.

You hummed against his hot skin, amping up your ministrations a bit as you closed your teeth around the nipple you had in your mouth in a playful bite and only letting up when you heard the soft groan he gave while hips lifted marginally off the couch. You pressed a kiss to it afterwards before beginning to slide your lips down to kiss sweetly along the rest of his scars, and letting your hand fondle at his nipple instead, squeezing, tugging and all around fondling it as you kissed and sucked around rest of his body while your hand kept up a steady rhythm up and down his cock.

With Kento’s soft groans, slight whining, pants egging you on, you kissed some of the old, fading scars tenderly only knowing they existed in the times you spent tracing a finger around his skin those nights you spent cuddling. You kissed them with an overwhelming amount of affection, a reminder that he was still gorgeous with them and a reminder that he was strong enduring even the harshest of battles and coming out from them alive. He blew air through his mouth then again, a sigh so soft and full of longing it made you realize he had never been given attention towards his body like that without it being blatant ogling at his chest straining against his shirts.

Each kiss you placed onto his warm skin made you sigh afterwards, discreetly inhaling his scent each time you did so for how good he smelled and how his natural scent brought you comfort more than you could imagine. As you felt along his body, you began to feel the jittery nerves he had before slowly begin crawl back into the depths of his mind to be forgotten for the time and to be replaced with the carnal lust and the burning affection you both held for each other.

A grunt fell out of him and his hand flew up to grip your nape when you felt him twitch from the all the overwhelming attention, pulling your body closer to him than you thought was possible as he maneuvered your head back up to him so that his breath sifted across and into your ear. You squirmed from the sensation as it made you rock your hips onto his lap when you remembered all the dampness present in your underwear and it was something he caught onto as it was beginning to seep through your panties and onto his pants.

Kento’s thumb rubbed at your nape, his lips pressing a kiss to ear lobe before he spoke, “You can’t sit here and only think about me,” his fingers left your back and you felt them dance along your inner thigh, creeping up your skirt and towards your panties as you kissed at his jaw once more, “Do you want me to touch you?”

You latched off of his skin and moved to slightly bite his earlobe, hotly whispering into his ear while your hand slowly picked up a pace, “It’s not about me.”

He was ever persistent though – a blessing to have a man like him more worried about your pleasure than his own in some cases, but also terribly inconvenient in situations like you were in then when you wanted to be the one in charge and making him feel good before yourself. His hand moved to grip your hip, his breaths falling from parted lips by then and his hips rocking upwards the follow the way you pumped his cock, “But –” he started off, a whine barely there hidden underneath his wavering voice of reason.

“It’s okay. Just relax,” you cut him off, reassuring him as you lifted up on your knees a fraction to maneuver your body to have his one thigh trapped between your legs. Kento only watched you as you slowly plopped down onto his thigh, your panties all but soaked by then and your clit tingling for attention as you leisurely rocked once and sighed whenever you felt your nerves calm down a fraction from the heated pleasure. It didn’t take long for you to build up a lethargic pace, and Kento only groaned in approval when he watched you start to ride his thigh, his arm wrapping around you to cage you closer into him and tensing and flexing his thigh whenever rolled down and back up atop him.

One of your hands slid up to his shoulder, gripping him there as you nuzzled into his neck and followed the moments of your hand pumping his cock to the way your hips were rolling against his thigh. Your body moved in alternate pivots, long deep strokes around that taut, muscular appendage, or just circling your hips around so that your clothed clit was given the friction it so desired. He was burning in your hand, the veins throbbing and his lips pushing out every noise he could muster as you knew he wouldn’t last long; it had been far too long since you got Kento in that position and it had been far too long since had allowed himself to be laid upon a bed of pleasure. It made you sigh, legs closing around his thigh tighter as you rubbed your knee oh-so gently in a circle along his balls and had to bite your lip from moaning whenever that fucking whimper left him and made your pussy clench around nothing.

Your words drew another one of those damnable whimpers out of him, his chest all but heaving and his hips rocking desperately faster up into your hand as a silent plea for you to go faster. You only hummed in delight at his keening, peppering kisses across every inch of his face that you could and massaging your hand into the tautness along his shoulder when he seemed to melt into your touch. You could feel another thick trickle of precum ooze free from his cock, and you moved your face back into his to bring your foreheads together, a flutter erupting free inside of your pussy whenever Kento kept his eye locked onto yours, following each mouthwatering movement you gave to him and onto him and the look inside of his pupil was enough to set your entire soul ablaze from all the hues of passion bursting free like a kaleidoscope the longer he kept your gaze.

Your eyelashes fluttered when you took in his expression; kiss-swelled parted lips, his eye bright, clouded, and dilated, flustered cheeks, brow scrunched in an attractive crease, and the heavy sighs leaving his mouth as he bored his gaze over every inch of your face. It shouldn’t have turned you on as much as did knowing that he was glad to have you pleasing him like you were, but seeing his face really careened you down the path of your impending release that was growing oh-so close.

You could feel the patch of wetness you were leaving on his thigh, and you knew then that you weren’t going to last long – especially having Kento in your palm and riding off the thrill of you being in charge that time around in the throes of desire.

Kento sighed your name onto your lips, another whimper drawing free of him as his cock throbbed into his hand and his hand fell off of your nape to grip your hip and following in on your lascivious movements atop his thigh. “Please – Don’t stop.”

You kissed him before nibbling onto his bottom lip, nails beginning to dig through his shirt when each roll of your clit sent an electrifying pulse towards that knot steadily growing to its head just behind your naval. He groaned again whenever you pumped your hand faster, your knee gently caressing his balls still as you rocked yourself on his thigh before you sighed and breathily asked what you knew would tip him over the edge, “Are you gonna cum for me, Kento?”

A garbled variation of your name left him, fingers digging harder into your hip as his hips jerked up quicker in your hand and he tried his damnedest to get you to move faster – harder against his thigh, but you were giving no game for that. His Adam’s apple bobbed with the audible hard swallow he took, his eye fluttering with the heavy blinks from everything happening as his eye glazed over with the full emotion that was close to his release. “Oh, fuck – please. Please keep going.

“I know you can cum like this,” you moaned into his face, kissing him as you swallowed that whimper once more and rolled your hips harder along his tensed thigh, moving your mouth to suck at his jaw whenever his noises grew louder, “God, I know you want to, Kento. Let me see you cum like this.”

Your voice had tapered off at the end, a high-pitched moan leaving you when you pussy throbbed and clenched around nothing as you felt that ball begin to reach in end of spinning and slowly begin to unravel for a piece of nirvana you could find with him. His grunts you swallowed with your tongue, a kiss full of unbridled passion you two engaged in that he greedily accepted as you two no longer had any words to say. You both knew what was to come, and neither of you were going to be deterred to stop it.

Your neediness you were sure had him reeling, his cock throbbing excessively in your hand as you squeezed him and pumped him faster to help him reach his edge. You could feel him whimper again, a suspicious noise that vaguely sounded like him telling you he loved you before he broke away from the kiss, head falling back against the couch once more and a pleased and strained groan breaking free from his lungs to let you know he had came first. You took to kissing and tonguing at his neck, moaning and sighing your praise for him as he finally released all the pent up tension into your hand.

It was a second and then you felt his cock pulsate in your hand before it was spurting out against your shirt and hand, leaving behind warm cum in its wake. You quickly removed your hand knowing he was probably sensitive, but kept yourself securely atop his thigh rocking as he caught his breath. Kento’s chest was heaving and in the low light of your living room you were able to make a slight sheen of sweat across his forehead with his hair tussled from all your ministrations. It was enough to send you over as well, a particular slow roll of your hips up his thigh that he flexed once more and you were shuddering and twitching around him with a whine of his name as you came all over his thigh whilst throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face into his shoulder.

A hard tremor of extreme satisfaction stung from your cranium down to the tips of your toes, leaving you squirming as your shaking thighs tried to close around his own while he continued only encouraging you until you were at your very end and sagging into his awaiting arms. You were well aware you had probably soaked through pants, but you were none too caring since he didn’t seem to mind at all and at times it was a regular occurrence between you two. The soft music from before was still playing as the room became humid from your conjoined bodies, the city skyline having waned away to dark as the touch of the full moon came into play and brightened Tokyo for yet another time.

You could feel your heart pound against your ribcage while you both seemed to finally come to rest after cumming, and he was dragging your body off his own to look over you and blinking down at you like he wasn’t seeing you clearly. It was one blink, two, three, then the cloud in his eye lifted and his gaze was skating down from your face and all over the expanse of your figure, awareness coming to them when he spied the mess on your shirt and remembered that he came all over your hand, then he was bristling.

Kento was shifting to sit up, taking precaution to not jostle you and his words coming out a low murmur, “Sorry… I’ll –”

You hushed him, placing a kiss to his lips and untangling yourself from his limbs and you stood somewhat wobbly and he reached forward to catch you by your hips to make sure you didn’t fall. You brushed out of his hands and pushed him back to sit into the couch, a soft smile on your lips before you straightened back up, “You’re okay, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Kento was generally the one who took to cleaning you both up afterwards, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to let him be the one to do so that time around when you were trying to make him feel the same way he usually did with you. He had complied you with staying put as you came back from the bathroom with a few sheets of tissues, eyeing you carefully as you wiped your hand off first before tending to him. You were meticulous in the way you catered to him, dabbing at some cum stains that had gotten onto his stomach, even some spots that had spattered against his chest before tending to the lipstick stains all over him as you watched his cheeks flush from all the attention you were giving him.

You nearly wanted to giggle at his embarrassment, but held it in to not ruin the gentle moment between you two as you finished up cleaning the both of you, discarded the tissues into the trash, and crawled your way back into his lap that he was awaiting for you once more with open arms. You curled into him as his hand stroked along your back, your own hands finding way to his scars again as you absentmindedly would do at night whenever he was tremoring from a long-lost memory. Kento shuddered when you passed by that one on his side again, curling his fingers around your wrist to bring it up his lips for kiss as you pulled yourself up into his face.

“Happy Birthday,” you reminded him again, kissing his hot cheek and relishing in the soft sigh he gave, “What’d you wish for?”

You were glad to see the humor return back to his expression, his lips quirking up at the edges and his eye sliding into yours as he reached for your cheek to pinch it, “Aren’t you the one who told me not to tell you my wish? That it’ll come true if I don’t say it aloud?”

A pout fell on your lips, “That’s never stopped you before… C’mon, please? For me?”

His eye rolled back at your whining, but he was never one not to cave into your begging as his hand smoothed out against your cheek while you toyed with a strand of his hair that had curled up from sweat. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone and he made a show to slowly move his mouth back to yours, lidding his eye almost suggestively as he kissed you so delicately and murmured against your mouth so silently you had to strain to hear him.

“I wished that I could spend the rest of my birthdays with you.”

You giggled into the kiss, corny as you expected, but also giddy with the intention behind his wish as you took your hand to place it back onto his chest, fingers spread and his heart beating in sync with your own. It was enough to let him know you wished for the same, but you confirmed it verbally with a playful bite to his lip and a sigh when you embraced him and tucked him into your neck, his lips pulled into a smile something you could feel burning along your throat.

“I think we can make that work.”

#{🩸} nee fics #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento x you #jjk nanami #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut

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ffiahh · 11 months ago

Text

PROJECT PLUTO

Protect and Serve.

Sevika did her duty as knight, a bit too well, perhaps.

Pairings: Knight!Top!Dom!Sevika x Lady!Bottom!Feminine!Fem! Reader

Content Warning: Swearing, unwanted/forced marriage, mention of kidnapping, mention of death, slight description of food, jealously, slight description of blood, attempted assassination. SMUT WARNING: Degradation, dirty talk, size kink (kind of), cocks were mentioned (not real), jealously, scratching/marking, spanking, choking, mentions of overstimulation, biting.

Word Count: 5.7K

☾*:･ﾟ✧. Finally, a full Sevika fic!! Only took nearly a year, pft. As of writing this, I don't really know how to feel about it; I like some bits, but other sections I keep rewriting and it doesn't seem to get better; it feels very rushed. I was going to add hatred toward men in the content warnings, but, you know. This is a chance for me to introduce Angie, if she's popular enough I may write a piece of just her only. (She ATE). If you squint real hard, there's suggestive implications between Reader and Angie. Angie is queen, because I say so. Reader is also a whore, and not shy about it.

SEVIKA only knew two things. To protect and serve. So, when she saw you; in all your gracefulness and powerful elegancy; she did what she knew; protect and serve. Sevika took her job as royal knight seriously, so it was no surprise when the Queen gave her an even better task. She took an oath to protect you; and she did so diligently. Sevika was always there; a stealthy frame lurking around your sweet figure, towering over you as a means to make your presence a little more intimidating. She’d be there when you spend your time in the gardens; she would take stance outside your bedchambers; she would be there for any gown fitting you would attend; and she most certainly didn’t miss any meetings with your potential suitors. Sevika was there when the Council and your parents forced you to marry a man for the ruse of political power. Sevika was everywhere, and you couldn’t complain.

Sevika was standing dutifully by the Queen when she first caught sight of you at a ball. And so, her dark, broody presence simmered down just slightly once she caught sight of your glittering form through the crowd. Her eyes never left you; the way your body danced across the floor, you looked like a ghost with the brightness of your dress and the sparkles in your hair. She admired the way your hair danced alongside you, the way your dress waved and billowed after you. She admired you the way she admired the art of skilful fighting. Sevika stared at you so much; her eyes almost teared up with her subtle wide-eyed stare, so much so she could only hope that the Queen didn’t catch on.

It was no shock for Sevika to see the Queen choosing you as her favourite; you were soft and short, with a bright face and mellow features. The Queen, however was a force to be reckoned with, sharp, angular; standing with an impassive face and an impressive build that even shocked Sevika at first. There are many rumours about the Queen; rumours that paint her as the Devil straight from the Bible; cruel, vicious. Yet, you seemed to hold a certain grace, a softness. It seemed rather odd for you to mingle so closely with the likes of the Queen. You were a pleasant surprise for Sevika and getting a glimpse of you for the first time; was getting the wonderful news of protecting you.

“I request you to protect Lady Estelle’s heiress.” Sevika turned to see Angeliki looking over the ballroom with her steely blue eyes, she looked calm; her breathing was steady, her body looked lax. Sevika knew her boss well enough to understand that moments like these kept Angeliki on edge; her eyes would never stay at one place, she bristled just the smallest amount when a Lady or Duke approached her but most of all; her stature bristled when she saw you interact with another. Angeliki hated it here, yet she stayed for you. Angeliki swallowed thickly. “She is fragile, and I am worried I am not doing enough to protect her.”

Sevika just tipped her head in response, choosing not to say anything. Angeliki knew Sevika wasn’t one for reassuring words, and Angeliki understood that. In the short few years Sevika worked for the Queen; they both found a sense of respect for each other. They both had an unattainable strength and power, and maybe the ability of attracting sweet, pretty things.

You weren’t very shy when your mother introduced you to Sevika, you still felt the thrill of dancing, your cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. You were out of breath, but Sevika’s presence tore it out of you; like inhaling hot steam. Sevika was every bit of tall, dark and handsome. She had a presence that made your knees knock, and your eyes flutter. It felt like déjà vu, because you remembered the way you nearly tripped on the steps when you were first introduced to the Queen. It seemed as though you were naturally drawn to women that enjoyed exuding their power.

You weren’t ashamed to seduce Sevika, that same night in fact. Your heart and your core stuttered at the realisation that Sevika was to be your personal knight. You were ecstatic. Just like you were ecstatic to found out the Queen took a liking to you.

You just battered your eyes at her, as you gracefully leaned against the doorframe of your bedchambers. “Could you perhaps… help me with my corset? It’s terribly tight, and we-” You just let out a small, quiet laugh. You stared at Sevika from the corner of your eye, your gaze turning to one of doe-eyed innocence when Sevika caught your subtle stare. “It’s quite embarrassing, really. I told my dresser to not tighten it too much, but-”

Sevika just stared at you, her eyes boring into you soft figure, the way your back arched softly, just pushing the soft mountains of your breasts against the doorframe; she knew not to let her face contort to compliment her feelings, so she stared at you blankly as you rambled. She was admiring you, enjoying the way the corset hugged your curves beautifully, the small intricate beads that fell around the curve of your shoulders. Sevika liked looking at you, she realised. She just merely let the corner of her mouth curl, before she gestures dismissively for you to turn. Sevika caught wind of what you were doing, seeing as your corset strings were already halfway done.

Sevika let out a low chuckle, shaking her head before her fingers took a strong hold of your laces, not wasting another moment to push you into your bedchambers. If it weren’t for the strong hold Sevika had on your laces; you would have stumbled and fell but you could feel your stomach and chest pressing inwards as the corset tightened slightly from Sevika’s heavy tug on your strings. You could feel the cold touch of her metal fingers dragging along your thigh, the soft material of your skirt curling around her metal wrist, while her other hand – which oddly enough – was cold as well; shamelessly tucked themselves away into your undergarments, smirking when there already seemed to a puddle on her fingertips.

“Didn’t take a Lady to be such a whore.”

Your mother was adamant that you marry; you tried to protest but that seemed to speed up the process and before you could even catch your breath; you were already taken to a first meeting with your would-be husband. By the end of the week, Lady Estelle announced the news of your marriage to Angeliki. Nobody knew what the Queen wore on her face, she merely sat on her throne; barely sparing a glance at Lady Estelle before you felt your body straighten when Angeliki turned to you.

“This was your choice?” Angeliki spoke; her voice was steady and calm, but it echoed throughout the throne room. Sevika could see the guards straighten in alarm at the sound of her voice, fumbling to tighten their hold on their weapons or subtly straighten their uniform.

No, not really. You nodded, dipping your head in a slight tilt. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

You were meant to marry your husband; but your eyes kept drifting to the dark figure looming in the corner of the church. Sevika was meant to be working, making sure to keep you safe on such an important day; but her dark eyes always found you; the tightly bound, pink flowers in your hand; the delicate veil as it fell around your face. You were sparkling, you would have been beaming; if not for the hideous truth that you never wanted this marriage. How could Sevika protect you from any danger when it was standing right next to you?

The church held the same air well; thick and potent, maybe it was the eerie silence that followed the end of the organ playing when you stepped on the altar, or it might have been the way Angeliki wouldn’t keep her steely glare off of Lady Estelle. Sevika could feel it from her post, the way her broad shoulders were drawn back, the muscles in her back tightening the more and more officiant rambled on. Sevika felt sorry for the Queen’s advisor; who in her small stature; did everything she could to avoid Angeliki and her cold gaze.

You felt it as well, the officiator may have been the one talking, but you could feel and hear the steady, eery breathing of the Queen behind you; for you it felt as though her body expanded and hunched, almost creating a looming shadow and presence over your smaller stature. Oh, what eery eyes you have.

Sevika was also there at the night of your wedding, standing outside your bedchambers due diligently before any and all sense flew from her head, and not long after; it wasn’t your husband who consummated your marriage; it was her. You had quietly requested that you keep your husband out of your room, and Sevika obliged. She was admiring the way you gracefully undressed to your bridal negligee. It looked stunning on you; the soft fabric settled wonderfully on your curves. Sevika couldn’t keep her hands off you.

“You taste wonderful, My Lady.” You could hardly get a word out when Sevika shamelessly dove back in between your thighs; the tip of her large nose nudging against your swollen clit. You let out a quiet whimper; your thighs trembling in her large hands, when Sevika hummed; the sound so low; it heard and felt like a growl. “And you look absolutely stunning. Like a fairy.”

You tipped your head back, a low breathy moan slipping from your mouth; you squirmed when Sevika pressed herself further into you; the ravenous, needy shake of her head causing her hair to tickle your glittering thighs as another low grunt fell past her mouth. You didn’t hear it, you felt it; the sound vibrating through your core.

Sevika’s eyes ran over your trembling form; soft and delicate. She could see the way your nipples perked through the thin material of your negligee; she loved watching the way the nightgown tightened and hugged your curves. You were sparkling; a soft sheen of sweat along your skin; the glitter of your makeup; dotted across your face. It certainly didn’t help that your nightgown was adorned with sequins and beads, it looked like a shining puddle around your body. You looked every bit of the beautiful bride you were, soft, angelic, twinkling. You were all hers. All of you. Sevika felt a rush of pride at that thought; you married a man, yet you were here; your body open for her.

“Your lousy fucking husband couldn’t do this, could he?” Sevika asks, her dark lips curled in a vicious smirk. Sevika rose up to her full height, the creases of her large palm running over the expanse of your thighs, her thick fingers tightening around the delicate curve of your ankle; her thumb absentmindedly caressing the divot on the heel of your foot. You were too much in a drunken, pleasured haze, you didn’t realise Sevika’s fingers sneaking toward your entrance. “Fuck you like this?”

“I hope you don’t keep using crude language during our most intimate moments,” you scolded, a gasped moan escaping your mouth when Sevika’s thick finger pushed past your ring of muscle, jolting at the delicious burn.

A shiver ran through your body when Sevika chuckled, the dark sound rumbling from her chest and vibrating through her powerful body. “Apologies, my Lady.” Sevika rumbles, sliding the length of her fingers along your inner walls, marvelling at the sight of your entrance greedily taking her thick, calloused digits. Sevika leaned forward to taste the soft skin of your nape, sucking gently; it was almost as if she could taste the sweetness from your perfume, settling on her tongue like a thin mist; you tasted like vanilla and raspberry.

You muffled in a moan, sucking in your bottom lip when Sevika’s mouth wrapped around your pebbled nipple, sucking harshly until spit ran down the crevice of your breasts and down Sevika’s chin. You cried out when her teeth pulled and nicked your nipple, letting it stretch before letting go with an audible pop. You couldn’t help but flush when you felt the dark, heavy gaze from Sevika’s piercing eyes trace over the curves of your writhing body, a moan catching in your throat when her fingers picked up speed.

“Do you know how pretty you look? Laying like that? With you being so greedy, so greedy. You want more of my fingers, needy girl?” Sevika ground out, the dresser creaking dangerously under her thrusts. “My cock?” Sevika offered, her dark eyebrow arched before she smirked with a light scoff, seeing the way you slightly lifted your hips, a strangled sigh falling past your mouth. “Such a slut. Is that what you want? My cock filling your pussy and stretching you out?”

You cried out, your head falling backwards onto the mirror behind you. You could feel your nails almost break and peel as you clawed at the wood under you, the same way Sevika’s nails dug into your soft skin, keeping you to stay splayed out for her leisure. It was a delicious pain, it made your skin chill with pleasure, goosebumps trailing your skin. Your heart stuttered in your chest when you felt the familiar hold around your throat; Sevika easily guiding you to stand in front of her.

You felt and looked small against Sevika, you realised. You saw the way the rolls on your body almost wilted under Sevika’s wandering hands, your skin was tugged and pulled, the enticing curves of your breasts almost melting into Sevika’s metal palm, the thin barely-there negligee melted against your skin, before Sevika pulled off your body with a disgruntled mumble. Sevika seemed to enjoy it; the way your belly seemed to lift from the strength of her hand and fall with an inviting jiggle. For Sevika, it felt as though she was moulding putty in her hands, soft and inviting and so, so irresistible.

You gasped, your back arching as Sevika dove down; sucking your nipple into her hungry mouth, before trailing her mouth down the underside of your breast. Sevika was aching for a part of you, any part of you, grunting and groaning as she opened her mouth further around your breast. Sevika didn’t let go of your breast for a while, the large curve of her nose resting flush against the underside of your breast. Sevika’s skin was warm, and the tip of her nose was hard; digging into the doughy flesh and skimming across the soft skin.

Sevika’s hand was large as well, the palm heavy as it struck your core; her thick fingers eagerly and quickly finding its way through your folds and in your squelching cunt. It covered your cunt entirely; you could barely see the way your puffy lips wrapped around her fingers, and the way they rolled. Her prosthetic arm was much larger, the metal claws creeping around the curve of your belly before snatching up your disregarded breast, squeezing the tissue.

Sevika urgently ran her mouth up your arm, along the curve of your shoulder, over the pulse points on your neck, delivering half sent kisses on your skin as if she only had a few moments with you. “You are like ice cream. I’ve never fucked someone so soft,” Sevika whispered under your jaw, breathing your scent in deeply before wrapping her lips around your chin. “Look at the way you’re melting in my hands.”

It was embarrassing that Sevika was right; you couldn’t help but buck your hips into Sevika’s hands, letting out a breathy huff when her fingers– for whatever reason – wouldn’t reach the fleshy sponge nestled deep below your belly button. Yes, your skin may as well be considered a sort of dough, or ice cream; the fat in your breasts pooled and sunk through the spaces of Sevika’s metal fingers and over the bones and structure of her cool forearm. Yes, Sevika was right. And, yes, you enjoyed the way Sevika took your body and mind, and completely fucked out any thought from you.

“Bend over,” Sevika’s voice was gruff, desperate, and your gasp that followed was pathetic and rushed, because in a quick moment you found yourself arched over your makeup vanity. The soft globes of your breasts were moulded and shifted to press against the hardwood, and you could feel the way your belly stretched to rest on the surface without pulling your skin too much.

You squirmed, the rough curves and joints of Sevika’s metal fingers scarping across the slopes of your ass, before you let out a hushed gasp when Sevika’s claws dug into your skin, enough to cause a shiver to run through you. “I saw the way you looked at the Queen today. Did you want her cock as well?”

You couldn’t answer, because Sevika’s pointed claws were trailing across your slit. Sevika laughed, her brows drawing in at the amount of slick that painted her bronze fingers, she had half the mind to fuck you with your mechanical hand, but that meant the chance of internal injuries. You felt the vanity creak a little under your weight when Sevika grabbed a fistful of your ass, the metal of her fingers just barely piercing the skin; she didn’t give you a chance to react before you felt the familiar round tip of Sevika’s cock pushing past the ring of muscle.

You tried to squirm, but jumped and gasped when Sevika’s fleshed palm struck your ass, the sound thundering through the otherwise quiet room. You felt the vanity creak again when Sevika pulled your ass apart, revealing your puffy, wet lips. Sevika hummed, low and throaty when she moved her hips slowly, ogling as your lips dragged across the silicone shaft. She could almost feel it, the way your pussy sucked her in, the way it pulsed and quivered as though you were going to cum.

You had nothing to hold onto, your nails scratched against the grooves of the wood, moaning against the dark, red surface and before you could comprehend; your hands flew out to catch the mirror. Sevika’s was always rough, but today – you gasped again, a strangled moan lodged deep within your throat; the silicone cock nestled so snugly, you had no way of escaping. Every roll of your hip, an arch of your back or the way you tried to squeeze your thighs; urged Sevika on more.

You squirmed again and Sevika cupped your waist tightly, using your writhing, pathetic body as leverage to slide into you deeper. The second time you squirmed, and you felt the beautiful, suffocating weight of Sevika’s hand on your back; though it did little to keep you still. The third time and her patience was waning; the wooden surface shook and almost splintered when Sevika smacked her palms against the vanity; from the corner of your tearful, hazy eyes, Sevika’s claws were cutting through the paint, soon enough the wood would start to chip away.

You cried out, biting your lip in effort to keep your sounds muffled. Sevika didn’t bother to; huffs and grunts falling past her mouth over you. At this point the mirror was hitting the wall, and the legs were creaking, the drawers were threatening to open as they clanked and rattled. Were you about to fall? Maybe. Did you care? No. Definitely not. Your vision blurred and your thighs trembled from the onslaught of Sevika’s angry thrusts, and the pleasure that sizzled through you. “Vika-”

“Stop talking. Going to fuck you until your legs give out.” Sevika rasped out, her hips slapping against your reddening ass. You were too far in your daze to realise that Sevika shifted, the vanity creaking with her change in position. You breathed out a low, pleasured laugh, blinking your eyes; feeling the familiar tightness around your throat. Sevika’s metal hand had warmed up at this point, so it didn’t startle you when she held you firmly under your jaw; somehow keeping your body arched and poised.

Plap. Plap. Plap. Plap.

Breathing was difficult now, your heart raced, and your pulse along your neck followed, thumping wildly. You groaned; the sound garbled, whiny and Sevika would have felt it vibrate through her hand, but her metal fingers were incapable of feeling anything. Sevika could hear it though, and see it; the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your arousal seemed to drip down your thighs. Sevika seemed to go faster once she held you by your throat, the sound of squelching between your legs so loud.

It was humiliating that your orgasm came quickly; you hadn’t realised it until you felt some sort of dam breaking inside of you, causing you to writhe and pant, before you lifted yourself off the vanity, clawing blindly at Sevika’s thigh, feeling the muscles roll and tense as Sevika continued her thrusts. “Keep cumming on my cock. Fuck, you’re such a slut.” Sevika gritted out in your ear, her voice low and throaty, her hands were persistent, her fingers finding their way back to your hips, squeezing the skin, pulling and tugging almost off your bones. You cried out, your fingers clenching the edge of the vanity, your legs – which now were resting on the warm wooden surface – shuddered; goosebumps dusting your skin, and weirdly enough, the pleasure simmering slightly, creeping back up the more Sevika pummelled into you. “We’re going to do this again and you’re going to lay there and take it, you hear me?”

“I do not like your husband.” Angeliki states; her broad arm resting against the back of her chair. She was almost slouching; her legs spread out; the button of her shirt nearly popping and giving you an enticing view of the curves of her breasts. Table etiquette for her was long forgotten; as the Queen she had other pressing matters to stress over. You told her it was because people were far too intimidated to tell her off, but Angeliki believed it was because people were too tired to.

You just smiled sadly at her, buttering a small piece of bread. You delicately take a bite out of it; chewing slowly and swallowing it before you replied. “I don’t want you to feel bad, Your Grace. It’s the Council’s-”

“Yes. Who are they to tell me what I can and cannot do? They have no right.” Angeliki replies. “I will your end marriage. Believe me.” Angeliki’s nose twitches, as though she wanted to curl it in disgust, before her eyes drop to her small cup.

“And how are you going to do that, Your Grace?” You tried to keep your movements minimal, your back still ached, your throat burned slightly, your muscles felt tense and – to put it crudely – your pussy was still sore. You take another bite of your bread, swallowing and lightly grazing your neck, sending a quick glance to Sevika. You squirmed in your seat, wiping the corner of your mouth with your napkin. Angeliki’s stare had always been cold, calculating; it seemed as though she was analysing every bit of your soul and body, but today felt more meticulous. Maybe it was because you wore the guilt of warming the bed of your personal guard, or the fact that you didn’t warm hers last night.

“I suppose a shovel. People have told me I have a very heavy hand; one hit may be enough.”

You wait for her to monotonously tell you it was a joke, but the Queen seems too preoccupied with trying to use a dainty, demitasse spoon in her large fingers. “Your Grace. This may seem out of hand for what I am about to say, but you can’t kill my husband!” You exclaim in a hushed manner, sending a nervous smile to a castle worker who started to clear the table.

“Why not? He is a man.” Angeliki gives the spoon a look of contempt, before she reaches for a larger soup spoon. “All men are good for is to beat and fuck. You cannot do or will do neither to him. So, naturally he must go. Sevika agrees with me, no?”

You sneak a glance at Sevika; who is standing quietly by the wall; you wondered how she kept a straight face in this argument. Sevika merely tips her head; the corners of her mouth curled. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“See?” You don’t argue, knowing the Queen; it was like talking to a wall sometimes, tall, and stubborn. Angeliki carries on, taking a large gulp of her coffee, humming once. “Men are useless. They have horrid temperament, a fragile ego. They are pathetic, ingrates. Why do you think whoever works closely to me are women?”

You let a sigh, folding your hands in your lap. You can feel Sevika’s presence behind you; it was heavy and dark. It almost feels as though she’s closing in on your back. Like last night; when she fucked you in front of the mirror. “Surely, there must be another way.”

“Kidnapping? Your husband is small and dainty, so I can easily drag him or carry him over my shoulder.” Angeliki suggests, she turns to Sevika. “Kidnapping, no?”

Sevika tips her head again, this time her mouth curled further in amusement. “I suppose that is a better idea.”

Angeliki nods approvingly, a low grunt escaping her throat as she reaches up to flick back her short hair, only to find it in the same place by her ears; she didn’t try to fix it again. “I knew I did right by hiring you. A fine choice.”

You shake your head, leaning back on your chair. “You both are impossible. My husband is a Duke, he is in politics-”

“That is why he married into your family?” Angeliki asks, her confused gaze on the small crumpets, turning it over and over in her hands as if to make sure the crumpets were actually that small. Shaking her head as she reaches over to pile more on her plate. “He is not important enough, if he married you for a better title.”

You stay quiet, focusing on finishing the piece of bread that suddenly felt too thick and dry to travel down your throat, you held it between your fingers, squeezing the bread until it melded back into a dough. “I suppose…”

Angeliki hummed, nodding once at your agreement, she swallowed the last of her food, washing it down with a glass of water. “Stay close to me or Sevika for the ball tonight. Your husband has been skittish lately, I do not want you to get hurt.”

You didn’t normally listen when either the Queen or Sevika told you to do something, you liked to see the way their muscles would hunch at the realisation, or the way their eyebrows would draw in slightly. It was fun, and it always ended up with you satisfied one way or the other by the end of the night.

Yet, you were glad you listened today, the tension between your small circle was palpable. You felt it, it made your muscles tense, and your teeth grind. You didn’t give yourself the luxury at ogling at either women’s outfits. You only caught a glimpse of Angeliki’s golden and black suit and the intricate flower patterns on the bronze metal of Sevika’s uniform.

Angeliki drew her shoulders in when your husband approached your table, bowing deeply and dutifully to Angeliki; at that sight: Sevika straightened up, her hand tight around the hilt of her sword. You smiled lightly at him, forcing away the habit of squirming away from him when he leaned in for a performative, polite kiss on the cheek. He wouldn’t dare do anything more in Angeliki’s presence, or Sevika’s for that matter.

Your husband didn’t take a seat until Angeliki gestured toward the chair with a simple gaze toward it. Though the music was playing softly from the corner of the ballroom, it was quiet, you could hear the lazy, calm breathing of the Queen, and the pitiable, panicking breathing of your husband. Sevika shuffled behind you, a slight clearing of her throat as the bronze metal of her uniform clinked against each other. Quiet. Dead silence.

Your husband laughed, the sound rushed and garbled as he swallowed thickly, he waved down a waiter, his smile widening as the waiter closed in on their table, dutifully placing glasses of chilled water in front of each of them. You flickered your eyes to it, it was lemon water, judging by some curled rind sunk at the bottom and a lemon wedge hugging the lip of the glass. “U- ch-chilled lemon water, Your Majesty.”

You were right, but you raised a subtle eyebrow at your husband. He was acting skittish, his eyes kept darting to the glass and back up at Angeliki, he was barely sitting in his seat, his chest pressed so close to the table, you could see the tablecloth sag under his weight.

Angeliki’s gaze was as piercing as ever; the icy circles of her eyes trailing lazily across your husband’s form. She reaches for the glass, her fingers wrapping around it and lifting it slowly to her mouth. Angeliki hums, her stony orbs rising to meet the man across her, blinking once, twice before placing the glass back on the table.

Angeliki arose from her seat, her suit crinkling before she uses her large hands to smooth down the silk velvet fabric. “Follow me.” Angeliki didn’t wait for an answer, or a refusal as she steps down from the table, her large form stalking to the exit of the ballroom. Your husband’s eyes widened slightly, but he scrambled to his full height, smoothing down his own suit before rushing down the steps to follow Angeliki. Sevika followed closely behind, her bulky form closing in on your husband from behind. You stood up as well, your glossed lips slightly apart as you rushed after them. What was going on?

You caught up to them after a few moments, it would have been quicker if not for the sheer weight of your dress. You stood by the doorframe, feeling your body jolt at the chilly night air. You saw Angeliki shrug off her suit jacket; your breath hitching at the way her muscles rolled as she handed the jacket to Sevika. Sevika wasted no moment to douse you in it, ensuring it covered your cold chest and arms, before standing stoically by your side. It was quiet here as well, the only rustle of Angeliki’s sleeves rolling up her forearms and the nervous splutter from your husband.

“Men are always stupid,” Angeliki states simply, her large forearms tensing as she sought herself comfortable, her steps were quiet, heavy as they trailed to your husband. “Poison? In my drink? It seems as though you were arrogant as well, considering you thought I would accept a drink from you.” You tensed, a soft gasp falling from your mouth, when Angeliki snapped her hand forward; her thick, burly fingers seizing around the man’s jaw, squeezing tightly until his lips puckered and his cheeks filled out.

Your husband clawed at Angeliki’s hand, trying his hardest to pull her fingers away, but it only made her hold on, shaking his head as if to scold him. You jumped when he cried out, his eyes almost bulging out of his head as he shook and writhed in Angeliki’s grip, before your eyes snapped to Angeliki when a sickening crack echoed through, and a shrill, panicked cry from your husband.

Angeliki merely blinked, her eyes averting to each of his eyes before they fell to his throat, it was starting to get pink, veins protruding from his skin as he struggled. Your husband managed to carve a few scratches into Angeliki’s skin, and soon enough had grasped enough of her forearm to pull her away. You heart thundered and sunk in your chest when your husband lurched his head forward with a determined cry, suddenly finding courage and smiling lopsidedly in triumphant when Angeliki’s head snapped back, a trickle of blood running from her nose and down her lip.

Angeliki sniffed, her lips curling in a snarl before her head knocked forward in retaliation, once, twice; before spitting the red, almost gelatinous blood onto his face, sending a swift, heavy punch to his throat. Your husband cried out, falling back against the grass as he choked on his blood. Angeliki loomed over him, the muscles under her shirt tensing, letting the weight of her shoe and body press into his groin, pressing harder when your husband flinched. “Do not come near me again, lest I pull the skin from your pathetic body and force you to feed on it. Sevika.” Angeliki commanded, standing to her full height and walking toward you.

You swallowed thickly, your eyes wide as they zeroed in on Angeliki, her height allowing her to tower over you. You let your eyes run over Angeliki, over her chest that rose and fell, over the way fabric squeezed along her broad shoulders, the deep, angry scratches on her rough forearm and hand, before your eyes snapped to Sevika. “She will not kill him. Merely warn him. He will do well to leave you alone as well.”

You wished you could see Sevika’s body under her uniform, you wanted to see the way her back rippled as she delivered punches toward your husband, the way her abs would tense. You felt foolish, gaping at the two women; you shouldn’t but you did. There was a tight coil in your lower belly, one that threatened to snap once Sevika rose to her full height, her armour clinking as she panted, before your eyes travelled back to Angeliki; who was already staring at you, before she nodded toward the ballroom, urging you forward.

Of course, you obeyed, especially if you were going to feel the prepotent presence of the women behind you.

#fiah: project pluto #sevika #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika x reader #arcane sevika x reader #sevika x reader fluff #sevika headcanon #sevika imagine #sevika x you #sevika smut #angeliki lasko #oc character #oc #my ocs #original character

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soulofapatrick · 2 years ago

Text

I Like Your Mind - Edward Cullen x female reader

Summary: As soon as you meet Edward, you're both drawn to each other with an intensity you never expected

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: None

Y/N’s POV

I step into the Cullen house, my heart racing in my chest, and my mind filled with a mixture of fear and fascination. Bella has brought me here, introducing me to the family of her new boyfriend - Jasper Hale - and I can hardly believe where I find myself. I know their secret, the one they’ve been hiding from the world, the fact they’re vampires. And I know Edward can read minds which makes the whole situation even more daunting. But, as Bella races off to find Jasper, I’m left alone I the living room, taking in the stunning surroundings.

The Cullens’ house is unlike any place I’ve ever seen. The air is heavy with an unspoken history, and everything within is both timeless and modern. A grand piano rests against one wall, a dark mahogany masterpiece, and the soft notes of a melody linger in the air, a testament to the musical talents of the family. On the opposite wall, a massive bookshelf houses an impressive collection of novels and ancient texts. Their spines form a spectrum of human knowledge, artfully arranged.

My gaze drifts to the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the room, offering a breathtaking view of the dense, ancient forest that surrounds the house. The trees stand tall and proud, their branches intertwined like guardians, protecting the Cullens from prying eyes. The afternoon sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that dance across the polished wooden floors.

As my eyes linger on the tranquil forest, my imagination takes flight. I envision myself running through the woods, feeling the cool, damp earth beneath my feet. The leaves would crunch softly with each step, and the intoxicating scent of pine and damp earth would fill my senses. My heart would race, and a rush of adrenaline would surge through me as I lose myself in the untamed beauty of the wilderness. But, what captivates me the most is the idea of running through the forest in the rain. The thought of raindrops falling like liquid diamonds from the heavens, pelting the leaves and creating a gentle, rhythmic melody, sends a shiver of delight down my spine. In my daydream, I am drenched, my clothes clinging to my skin as I twirl and leap through the woods, liberated and carefree.

The rain washes away all my worries and fears, leaving only the exhilaration of the moment. It's as if the world, with all its complexities and complications, has melted away, leaving only the simplicity and purity of the rain-soaked forest. It's a feeling of utter peace, a sense of being one with nature and the world, a sensation I've longed to experience again.

Lost in the serenity of my daydream, I sense a subtle presence to my right. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and a strange but not unwelcome shiver runs down my spine. Slowly, I turn my head to see one of the Cullen brothers standing there, a striking figure with sharp, chiseled features. He exudes an air of quiet strength and confidence, and I can't help but admire his physical appearance.

As I take in his feature, I quickly realise that this isn’t Jasper, as Bella would undoubtedly be with him if he were here. Besides, Jasper is known for his blond hair, which contrasts with the dark brunette locks of the Cullen brother beside me. His eyes, however, remain a shimmering gold, and their intensity is captivating.

Going over Bella’s description, I recall that she mentioned Emmett to be big and buff. Emmett is tall and muscular. He has dark curly hair and dimpled cheeks. Despite his intimidating appearance, he is light-hearted and carefree. This man in front of me is almost quite the opposite with perfect and angular high cheekbones, strong jawline, a straight nose, and full lips causing my heart to quicken with a sudden realisation. In a hushed voice, I tentatively ask, “Edward?”

The name hangs in the air between us, my uncertainty evident in the way I speak his name. The Cullen brother gives a small nod, his eyes holding a hint of amusement and there’s a small smile on his pretty lips as he says, “Hello.” His voice is a velvet whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. My cheeks heat up in response, and I can’t help but feel flustered by his presence. Turning my face away from him, I gaze out at the enchanting forest, using the breathtaking view to regain my composure.

But just as I start to calm my racing heart, I sense his movement. Edward is moving closer, somewhat hesitantly as if he’s scared to do so but he moves so close I can feel the coolness of his chest against my back. The physical proximity is both thrilling and nerve-wracking, and I can’t help but wonder what his intention are as I continue to look out at the tranquil forest.

The peaceful silence in the room is broken by Edward’s soft voice, barely above a whisper, “I like your mind,” he admits, his words sending a rush of warmth through me, “It’s quiet.”

His words wash over me like a gentle caress, and I can’t deny the intrigue of his interest in my mind. It’s a compliment I could never have anticipated, coming from a vampire who can hear the thoughts of others. The intimacy of this moment is palpable, and I can sense the internal struggle within him, as if he’s torn between his desire to touch me and the realisation that we’ve only just met.

Despite my rational thoughts screaming at me to maintain my distance, I surrender to the magnetic pull of Edward Cullen. My back leans into his cool, sculpted chest, and the sensation of his icy hands on my hips sends a shiver of anticipation coursing through me. It's as if the enchantment of the Cullen house, the breathtaking view of the forest, and Edward's irresistible presence have combined to create a spell that I am unable, and unwilling, to break.

Closing my eyes, I allow myself to become completely enveloped in everything Edward. I’m hyperaware of how he feels behind me, the firmness of his chest pressed against my back, the subtle rise and fall of his breath against my neck as if it’s a force of habit for him despite vampires lack of need to breathe. His scent, a delicate blend of lilac, honey and sunshine, fills my senses and intoxicates me, wrapping me in a warm, inviting embrace.

The moment feels intensely romantic, the air electric with the unspoken connection between us. I know that Edward can read my thoughts and perceive my view of him, and in this vulnerable instant, I choose not to resist. I grant him access tot he unfiltered depths of my desire, allowing him to see and feel the passion that simmers beneath the surface.

The tension in the room crackles, the rain outside intensifying as if mirroring the fervour building within us. It's a clandestine dance of two souls drawn together by an unexplainable force. In this silent, electrifying embrace, I become an open book for Edward, my thoughts and desires laid bare, and I can only wonder what he'll make of the desires that race through my mind like wildfire

With a slow and deliberate movement, Edward turns me to face him, his eyes open and unguarded. They flicker with a hint of vulnerability, as if he, too, is uncertain of the depth of this connection. His gaze drops to my lips, and I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin as he hovers close. His fingers twirl my hair around them, an intimate gesture that feels like an attempt to memorise every part of me that he can reach. The air crackles with anticipation as I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my chest, The world outside seems to fade away, leaving only the two of us in this electrifying moment.

Edward’s gaze remains locked on mine, a silent promise of the depths of emotions and desire that lie beneath the surface. In the hushed room, our shared anticipation and vulnerability create an electric tension that’s impossible to ignore. His lips are tantalisingly close, and I can feel the coolness of his breath as he hovers near. It’s as if he’s about to kiss me, his intentions clear in the smouldering depths of his golden eyes. But he hesitates, his voice barely a whisper as he mumbles something about not being able to stop once he starts, a confession laden with both longing and restraint.

Unable to resist any longer, I tangle my fingers in his tousled hair, an intimate gesture that communicates my desire and intent. With a gentle, yet urgent push, I guide his face the rest of the way down until his lips finally meet mine.

As our lips meet in a hesitant and guarded kiss, a complex swirl of emotions and desires floods the space between us. Edward, despite his initial restraint, can’t help but respond to the fiery connection we share. His lips, cool and soft, brush against mine with a caution born of a lifetime of self-control. The kiss begins with a tentative exploration, as if he’s testing the boundaries of this newfound intimacy.

The initial hesitancy slowly gives way to a growing intensity, and I can sense his need for more. His grip on me tightens ever so slightly, fingers digging into my hips, a delicate balance between desire and restraint. His response is careful, as if he’s constantly aware of his vampire strength, wary of causing any harm to me. The kiss deepens, his passion building, and the chemistry between us becomes an irresistible force that pushes us further into uncharted territory.

With a slow and deliberate movement, he begins to walk me backwards, his lips never leaving mine, until my back makes contact with the cool glass of the windows, drawing a gasp from me. It has Edward smiling softly, golden eyes a little glazed as if in a trance of disbelief this is happening before his cold nose bumps my neck, making my pulse jump. I should be scared by how close he is to my jugular but I don’t feel any fear or anything, especially when Edward places a soft kiss on my jugular, a silent acknowledgement of the temptation that throbs beneath my skin. His lips are cold, but their touch is gentle, sending shivers of desire coursing through me.

My hands tangle back in his soft locks, guiding his lips back to mine, their coldness a stark contrast to the burning passion that courses between us. In that moment, I am both vulnerable and empowered, willingly allowing myself to be drawn further into this intoxicating dance of desire.

Each kiss makes me feel more alive, more connected to a world I never knew existed. The world outside may be drenched in rain, but in this electrifying embrace, a different kind of storm rages, a tempest of emotions and desires that we can’t control. His lips, cool and velvety soft, meet mine over and over again in a symphony of fire and ice, a fusion of elements that ignite a burning desire deep within me.

His body presses against mine, a solid and unyielding presence that leaves me feeling both vulnerable and empowered. The contrast between his cool skin and the heat of my own sets my senses ablaze. As we deepen our connection, the room seems to spin around us, and I lose myself in the feeling of everything Edward.

The room is charged with our passion, and I can feel it deep in my core. Every kiss is like a secret, a stolen moment in a world that is entirely our own. We lose track of time and space, our lips locked in an intimate dance that only intensifies the fever that has drawn us together in the first place.

But then, like a bolt of lightning in our own private storm, I hear Bella’s joyful squeal. Edward pulling away from me, and I let my face fall into the warmth of his chest, overwhelmed by embarrassment. As I hide from the world, I can feel the soft rumble of amused laughter in Edward’s chest, a sound that both soothes and electrifies me in equal measure.

“Fuck yeah!” Bells shrieks with joy and I flip her off over Edward’s shoulder as he wraps his arms around me, stifling a laugh as he can probably hear all of my silent insults and embarrassed thoughts thrown Bella’s way.

“It’s okay.” He murmurs, fingers carding through my hair and I just hum, letting my eyes flutter closed in contentment. I don’t care how quick this is happening, all I know is I need Edward and no-one else so I’ll live with the embarrassment if it means I can have Edward.

“You have me.”

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

TAGS: New Tag List Form

Twilight Masterlist

#twilight #twilight x reader #twilight x you #twilight x y/n #twilight angst #twilight fluff #twilight smut #Edward cullen #Edward Cullen x reader #Edward cullen x you #Edward cullen smut #Edward cullen fluff #Edward cullen angst #edward cullen x y/n #edward cullen fanfiction #Robert pattinson

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babzz6 · 5 months ago

Text

Tomorrow's promise. - Caitlyn Kiramman x reader

Tw: slight angst, slight abuse, grief, sadness, fluff.

Song recommendation:

Say Yes To Heaven - Lana Del Rey

You were caught harshly by your hair, eyes flying wide open and on instinct, your hands flew out to try and pry the strong fist from pulling the strands out of your scalp. But every attempt is futile, you whine and whimper as the grip on you only tightens, slowly lifting you so your on your very tippy toes. But you're still trying to make sense of the situation feeling a bit dizzy and wobbly when a hand strikes your cheek harshly, your whole body convulsing and mouth suddenly tasting coppery, definitely awake now you sob, cupping your cheek as you meet his gaze.

"Wake up hellcat, you have a visitor." he spat, dropping you on the ground, knees thumping against the hard concrete, something definitely cracking.

"Was that really necessary?" a soft voice filled with authority whispered, carrying an accent only rich snobs on Piltover have. Her voice echoing though the empty corridor.

Massaging your scalp, you lift yourself from the ground despite the agonizing pain on your joints, plopping on an uncomfortable chair on the corner of your cell, staring at the woman who was having a conversation with one of your oppressors.

Observing her closely you watch the navy blue hair that cascaded from her roots all the way down to her collarbones. Tight posture that probably resulted from many high-class lessons and comfortable ergonomic chairs that only important houses of Piltover's château received. Thigh high boots that had matching accesories to her navy blue dress, decorated in gold finery. Her gaze intense and firm matching her features, sharp angular face adorned with slender upturned blue eyes, a pointed defined nose and pale thin downward-turned lips. She was attractive you'll give her that.

She cleared her throat and your attention was pulled back to present.

"Hello." she murmered, "Hello?" you said warily, spittting on the ground a glob of spit and blood.

"I'm terribly sorry about that, I didn't mean to cause a disturbance-"

"Well ya did lady, okay? So stop yapping and get to your point." you said, annoyance filtering every aspect of your voice. She nodded curtly, straightening her clothes and standing straight, more than she already was.

"I need your help."

"What for?"

"I need to locate someone."

"Oh fuck off lady, really-"

"Look I know! But if you just-"

"No no no!"

You said getting up from your chair turning around to lay back down before she shouted something that caught your attention.

"It's Powder!"

You turned around and she noticed your wide eyes and uncomfortable posture. "You know her right? She used to be someone you knew-" and then you approached her, angry and stood right infront of her face.

"Look lady, I don't know who the fuck you are and honestly, I don't give a shit. But don't you dare mention her around me." You spat angrily at her and she saw right through you,

an old wound that never healed properly.

Your eyes stared down at the floor overtaken by emotion and before you could stop them thick tears streamed down your cheeks, grief taking you all at once tearing you apart just as quickly as it built you up. Hands gentle and smooth like honey on velvety clouds brushed against your face, cupping it gently, as if scared that she might accidentally hurt you. She raised your face by your chin until her gaze met yours, you looked so weak and broken from an unforgiving world that only left wounds without soothing balms in their wake.

And surprisingly, you stayed like that for a moment, letting her hands soothe your soul like the water to the shoreline after a storm. You kissed her hands gently as she stroked your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in her wake and for a moment you felt safe, like nothing else mattered, just you and her.

But the moment ended soon enough, you pulled away feeling embarrassment creep up your spine and settle on the far corner of your mind and her hands stood there for a moment missing already the feel of your skin against them. Yet she said nothing, pulling them away reluctantly and straightening up.

"I can get you out of here, I just ask for a bit of cooperation." and you pretend to dwell on it, but you had already made up your mind from the moment you let her hands roam your face. Nodding faintly she smiled that's when you noticed her gap and for a moment you couldn't help but swoon.

"Let's get you out of here." she said, the keys jingling in her hand.

The ride back to her state was a blur, you were too paranoid to relax the only way you did was when her hand took ahold of yours, her look gentle, affirming that while she was there nothing could ever harm you. It was comforting and instantly you found yourself drifting away, eyes closing, exhaustion taking over.

You woke up in haze, eyes darting around not recognizing where you were, breathing uneven and ragged, <<this is what I get for trusting a pretty enforcer.>> you thought. Just when you were about to jump out of the bed to find a way to escape, a hand grabbed your bicep,

"I'm right here pretty girl." she mumbled and watched as you slowly loosened up and looked at her shepishly, slowly crawling back in bed, she drapped the covers over you and you felt cared for, for once never having to care for yourself, instead someone did. So you let her, let her cocoon you and brush your hair out of your face and push it behind your ear. Let her hand caress the scars on your face and the ones of your shoulders and arms. Watched her silently ask for permission before nestling closer to you, her warmth radiating off of her in waves, slowly melting the walls of ice you'd built around your heart.

"You're beautiful." she hummed, staring into your eyes as her finger twirled a strand of your hair and your eyes glazed over as you tried to look away, look somewhere where her strong gaze couldn't follow and see right through you, reading your soul as if it were a book.

She gently craddled your chin moving your face gently until it met her stare, she watched a singled tear escape your eye and God, she wanted to kiss it away.

So she did.

Leaning forward, kissing the place where the tear had ran its course, then making her way up until her lips meet your eyelid, giving it a languid kiss and pulling back. She watched your resolutions and walls crumble, watched how your lip trembled and how you chased her lips when she pulled away. Watched as you inched closer until your head nuzzled into the crook of her neck and kissed the skin there softly,

"Promise you'll take care of my heart, please." Your voice cracked and her heart broke in a million pieces, nodding and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

How could a fragile thing like you end in a place like that?

But right now she wouldn't push it, wouldn't ask anything, just pull you in impossibly closer and embrace you tightly as she thought of tomorrow's promise.

#caitlyn x reader #arcane frv #arcane smut #arcane x reader #arcane spoilers #arcane season 2 #arcane #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn arcane #league of legends caitlyn #caitlyn kirraman #caitlyn league of legends #piltovers finest

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aspenmissing · 5 months ago

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Firstly I adore how you write the arcane crew with kids ❤️ What if they have kids but the reader us a feline vastaya ? How mixed would they be ?

ᴋɪᴛᴛᴇɴꜱ?

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ/ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 8372 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅɪꜱᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴠᴀꜱᴛᴀʏᴀ'ꜱ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴀᴡᴡ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ! ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜᴏᴡ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ᴅ ᴀᴄᴛ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴄᴜᴛ ᴍɪx ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴠᴀꜱᴛᴀʏᴀ ɪꜱ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴀʙʟᴇ! ɪ ᴡʀᴏᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴍʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴠᴀꜱᴛᴀʏᴀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ! <3

JAYCE

Years after Jayce’s first encounter with Y/N, their bond had deepened, not just through shared interests, but through the way they balanced each other’s worlds—science and art, reason and magic. Their love had brought forth a daughter named Elena, a perfect blend of both their spirits. Elena inherited her father’s sharp, analytical mind and her mother’s free-spirited energy. In looks, she was a striking mix of both. She had her father’s deep, expressive brown eyes and tan skin, with a soft, angular face that reflected his features. From Y/N, she inherited a darker, more mysterious quality—her mother’s delicate pointed ears and long, flowing hair that shimmered with a hint of silver. Elena’s tail, inherited from Y/N’s Vastaya heritage, was an elegant and playful addition, often swishing with excitement as she moved.

Her childhood was filled with exploration, whether through the scientific marvels of Piltover or the ancient mysteries Y/N had whispered about while they crafted together.

One day, when Elena was around 10, she accompanied her parents through the bustling Piltover marketplace. The stalls were alive with vendors selling everything from mechanical parts to exotic herbs. Elena darted from one stall to the next, mesmerised by the intricate clockwork trinkets, the vivid fabrics, and the glittering jars of strange potions.

"Mom, look!" Elena tugged at Y/N’s sleeve, halting in front of a stall filled with coloured threads that shimmered like the paints her mother used in her art. Y/N crouched beside her daughter, smiling warmly.

"That's beautiful, Elena," Y/N said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just like your work."

Elena's eyes sparkled. "I want to make something with these. Maybe a new quilt for the house!" she said excitedly.

Jayce, overhearing them, smiled with amusement. “Already planning ahead, huh? You do know your mum’s quilts are legendary in Piltover, right?”

Y/N chuckled, eyes softening at the thought. "She has a good teacher."

Elena beamed with pride, her excitement growing as she skipped to another stall. Her eyes landed on a peculiar set of enchanted crystals that hummed with strange energy. Her fingers hovered over them, intrigued by their shimmer.

“Are you sure those are safe?” Jayce asked, his protective instincts flaring.

Elena turned with a cheeky grin. “Of course! They’re just… magical.”

Y/N and Jayce exchanged a glance, realising their daughter was a fascinating blend of both their worlds—the rational mind of a scientist and the wonder of an artist with an affinity for the mystical.

As the day wore on, Elena continued her exploration, picking up trinkets and curious finds along the way. She was their child through and through—always reaching for something new, whether in the mechanics of Piltover or the untold secrets of magic.

Jayce watched his daughter from a distance as she carefully examined a piece of clockwork, her brow furrowed in concentration, and smiled. He saw so much of himself in her—a mind that could never be contained within the bounds of tradition, always reaching for more.

And as Y/N walked beside him, their hands intertwined, they knew their daughter would continue to weave their worlds together in ways they had never imagined. From Piltover’s mechanical wonders to the untold mysteries of magic, Elena was destined to make her own mark.

Their life in Piltover wasn’t always easy—being a Vastaya in a city of high society meant stares and whispered comments, especially when they strolled together as a family. But Y/N stood tall, her tail swaying behind her as she held Jayce’s hand firmly. The occasional glance or whisper from a passerby didn’t faze her. She had learned to rise above it long ago. Jayce, ever the protector, offered her silent reassurance with his touch, the steady strength of his presence beside her.

"Careful, Elena!" Y/N called after their daughter, who had run ahead in excitement. "Don’t run off too far."

Elena turned with a wide grin, slowing her pace. "I’m just looking for something fun!" she replied, her voice filled with the wonder of a child exploring the world.

A few people glanced at Elena’s energetic enthusiasm, the contrast to the calm sophistication of Piltover’s streets. Y/N caught the looks and flicked her ears in amusement, but Jayce didn’t miss a beat, squeezing her hand as they walked side by side. "She’s got your spirit, doesn’t she?" he teased.

Y/N smiled, her tail flicking behind her as she watched Elena. "She’s got a bit of both of us in her. I just hope she doesn’t get into too much trouble."

"You two are a lot of trouble together," Jayce teased back, his lips curling into a smile.

The warmth of the moment was something Jayce cherished. When they first met, he could never have imagined a life like this—a life filled with love, family, and a deep connection to a woman so different from him. Y/N, with her vast knowledge of Zaun, her calming presence, and her fierce protectiveness, had swept him off his feet. She had her own strength, her own struggles, yet she had always supported him, as he had supported her.

And then there was Elena a living testament to the way they’d both changed and grown. Elena was a reminder that love could transcend all—whether it be between cities or species. She had inherited Jayce’s insatiable curiosity and Y/N’s ethereal presence, a calm and warmth that grounded everything. She was the perfect mix of their worlds, a child with a fierce mind and an open heart.

As they walked further through the market, Elena suddenly stopped in front of a stall brimming with art supplies—paints, brushes, and sketchbooks. Her eyes widened with excitement.

"Mum! Look!" she exclaimed, tugging at Y/N’s sleeve. "They’ve got paints and all the colours you use for your lessons! Can we get some?" Her fingers traced the vibrant shades, her imagination alight with possibilities.

Y/N chuckled and knelt down beside her daughter. "You’ve got a good eye, sweetheart. These would be perfect for some new artwork. Let’s pick out the colours we need, and we can work on something together."

As they lost themselves in the moment, a passerby lingered a bit too long, his eyes darting from Y/N’s tail to Elena’s pointed ears. Y/N noticed and smiled politely, but the man quickly averted his gaze, muttering something under his breath. Jayce didn’t miss it either. He shot the man a pointed look, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t say a word.

Elena, her tail flicking behind her in excitement, jumped up. "Can I make something for Dad too? Like you always do for him, Mum?" she asked eagerly, her face lighting up with the joy of creating something special for her father.

Y/N smiled softly, resting a hand on Elena’s shoulder. "Of course, darling. We’ll make something special. How about a painting for Dad to hang in the workshop?"

Jayce couldn’t help but laugh softly. "You two will have a whole gallery before the day’s out, won’t you?"

Y/N winked at him playfully. "Perhaps. But we’ll make it something extra special for you. A masterpiece from both of us."

Elena nodded enthusiastically, her bright eyes alight with excitement. "Yeah, Dad! You’ll love it!"

Jayce smiled, kneeling down to their level. "I can’t wait to see what you both come up with." His heart swelled at the thought of his daughter and Y/N creating something together—an expression of their love for him. It was moments like this that made everything worthwhile.

As the family continued their walk through Piltover, Jayce couldn’t help but feel a deep peace settle in his chest. He had never believed in destiny, but the life he had now felt right—right in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Y/N and Elena were his world, and he would do anything to protect them. The life they had built, the family they had created, was everything he had ever wanted, even if it had come in ways he hadn’t expected.

There was a perfect balance in their little family—Jayce’s determination and vision, Y/N’s wisdom and gentleness, and Elena’s playful energy and unyielding love for both her parents. Together, they were a testament to what could be built when two people from different worlds came together with understanding, compassion, and love. Elena had the best of both worlds in her, and that made her something rare, something special.

As they headed home, the sun setting behind them, Jayce whispered softly to Y/N, "Thank you for this... for everything."

Y/N’s eyes softened as she leaned into him. "It’s not just me, Jayce. It’s all of us—together."

With her head resting against his shoulder, they walked into the future hand in hand, ready to face whatever challenges came next. In that quiet moment, surrounded by the warmth of their love, Jayce knew that the future was theirs to shape, together. The stares, the whispers, the discomfort of others couldn’t touch what they had—what they had built. Nothing could.

VIKTOR

Years had passed since that fateful night in the alleyways of Zaun, when Viktor had first reached out to Y/N, guiding her away from the chaos of the streets. That moment had been the beginning of a journey neither of them could have predicted—a journey filled with both hardship and unexpected tenderness. As the years went by, their bond grew stronger, woven together by shared moments of quiet understanding, and an unspoken promise to never let go.

Viktor’s path had eventually led him to Piltover, a city of progress, knowledge, and endless possibility. The brilliant Heimerdinger had recognised Viktor’s genius and, after much persuasion, brought him to Piltover to become his assistant. It had been a turning point in Viktor’s life, a chance to leave Zaun behind and be recognised for his talents. But even in the gleaming towers of Piltover, Viktor had never left Y/N behind. She had been by his side through it all, as steadfast as ever, and it was in her presence that he found his peace.

Though Piltover was unfamiliar, even overwhelming at times, Y/N had adapted with grace. The city's bustling streets and towering structures felt a world apart from the alleys of Zaun, but Y/N’s ability to blend her Vastaya heritage with the world of Piltover’s scientific and artistic communities had made her a quiet but respected presence. Her talents—both as a healer and a seamstress—were highly valued, and over time, she had carved out a place for herself, always with Viktor’s unwavering support.

Their shared history, their differences, and their shared journey from the broken streets of Zaun to the polished city of Piltover were reflected in their daughter—Lira.

Lira had inherited both of her parents' qualities, yet she was truly a reflection of both their worlds. She had taken more after Y/N in many ways—her skin, the same faint greyish hue, her long, delicate ears, and her tail, which swished expressively behind her. But there was also something of Viktor in her, something sharp in her eyes—a quiet intelligence, an almost unnatural understanding of things. Lira was a blend of their two worlds, and in her, they saw the future—a new generation, capable of bridging the divide between science and nature.

They had named her Lira for a reason—a name that meant "song" in the old language of her mother’s people. Lira was a name that symbolised harmony, the blending of two very different worlds. It was also a tribute to her mother's Vastaya heritage, with the hope that, like the name itself, she would find a way to bring unity and understanding to the world, just as her parents had.

Viktor’s heart would swell with pride each time Lira came running into his arms. Her small hands would touch his cane, her eyes full of wonder as she asked him to explain the intricacies of his latest invention. Though Viktor had always been focused on logic, reason, and progress, the sight of his daughter’s curiosity, her hunger to understand the world, softened him in ways he never thought possible. Lira would sit beside him for hours, watching his work with wide eyes, absorbing every detail with an intensity that made Viktor realise that, perhaps, the future was more than just a series of equations. It was in the small moments—like the gleam in his daughter’s eyes when she solved a problem or the way her fingers danced across the pieces of his machines, as though she were already a part of his world.

But Lira also shared her mother’s creativity, her deep understanding of beauty in its many forms. While Viktor worked tirelessly at his projects, Lira would often be by Y/N’s side, learning the intricate arts of weaving, stitching, and crafting. Y/N would teach Lira how to create beauty from the raw, the imperfect—how to use her hands to shape something meaningful from the world around her. Whether it was repairing a tear in a favourite shirt or creating a new quilt from old scraps, Y/N would impart lessons that spoke not only of the skill of the craft but of the deeper understanding of the world’s rhythm—its delicate balance between nature and the manmade.

One evening, the soft glow of Piltover’s lights filtered through the windows of their home, casting long, gentle shadows across the room. Viktor was at his desk, lost in thought as he worked, his mind consumed by the details of a new project he was collaborating on with Heimerdinger. The familiar hum of machinery drifted in from the workshop, a constant companion in Viktor’s life. Yet, despite his mind’s focus, his thoughts kept drifting back to how much had changed since that first moment he had helped Y/N in the alley.

Behind him, Viktor heard the soft rhythm of Y/N’s sewing machine—a comforting sound that always brought him a sense of peace. Lira’s voice bubbled up with questions, her soft laughter filling the house as she worked with her mother. The scene was so familiar, so comforting, that Viktor couldn’t help but close his eyes for a moment, letting the peace of it wash over him. It was a far cry from the days of Zaun—no more threats lurking in the shadows, no more hunger or cold.

“Viktor?” Y/N’s voice, warm and calm, broke through his reverie. He turned in his chair to see her standing in the doorway, a soft smile on her face. Lira was perched on her mother’s shoulder, her small arms wrapped around Y/N’s neck as she gazed at her father with wide, eager eyes.

Viktor’s heart swelled with love at the sight of them. “Yes, lásko” he replied, his voice thick with affection. (Love)

Y/N crossed the room slowly, her movements as graceful as ever despite the tiredness that sometimes lingered in her body. She placed a gentle hand on Viktor’s shoulder, grounding him in the moment. “Lira’s been asking about your work again. She wants to understand how it all fits together.”

Viktor smiled, his eyes shifting to Lira, who was now standing at his side, her bright eyes fixed on him with an intensity that reminded him so much of himself as a child. “Does she now?” Viktor said with a chuckle. “She’s certainly persistent.”

Y/N smiled, a touch of amusement in her voice. “Just like you,” she teased. “She wants to know how things work, how they fit together.”

Lira’s golden eyes widened with excitement, and she hopped down from her mother’s shoulder to run to Viktor’s side. “Papa, how do you make the parts move like that?” she asked eagerly, her tiny finger pointing to the small mechanical model sitting on his desk.

Viktor’s heart swelled with pride and affection. He took a deep breath, then gestured for Lira to come closer. “Well, miláčku,” he began, bending down to her level, “it’s all about understanding the way the pieces fit together. It’s a bit like how your mother weaves her fabrics, you see?” (Sweetheart)

Lira tilted her head, processing the information, before repeating thoughtfully, “Like weaving?”

“Yes,” Viktor continued, his voice warm with encouragement. “Everything, whether it’s a machine or something more natural, is connected in some way. It’s just a matter of finding the right way to put it all together.”

Y/N watched the two of them, her heart full as she observed the bond that had flourished between Viktor and their daughter. Lira was a living testament to the way both of them had shaped her. The curiosity, the drive, the sense of wonder—all of it was there, in her.

The three of them stood together in that quiet moment, a family forged from the strength of their love, their shared creativity, and their unwavering belief in each other. The lights of Piltover shone brightly outside, but inside their home, there was a warmth that no machine could replicate. Together, they were a family—strong, united, and ready to face whatever the future held.

And as they stood there, Viktor couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. For the journey, for the lessons, for the love that had filled his life in ways he never thought possible. And for the tiny girl with the golden eyes, whose presence had made it all worthwhile.

“I’m glad we’re here,” Viktor whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N smiled softly, resting her head on his shoulder as Lira clung to his side, her golden eyes wide with curiosity. “So am I, Viktor,” she said, her voice filled with quiet contentment. “So am I.”

JAYVIK

Several years had passed since that long, weary day in the lab. Time had a way of softening the sharp edges of past pain, but for Y/N, some wounds still lingered, just beneath the surface, waiting for the world outside to remind her of its harshness. Yet, in spite of these lingering scars, brighter days had emerged—days filled with laughter, love, and the indescribable joy of watching her children grow, finding their own voices in the world that had once felt so unkind.

On this particular afternoon, Y/N strolled through the park, her twins—Elowen and Cassian—holding tightly onto her hands as they skipped beside her. Elowen, with her wild curls bouncing in the breeze, had inherited Viktor’s meticulous nature but also Y/N’s boundless curiosity and wild spirit. She was always the first to ask questions about the world around her, eager to uncover the mysteries of both magic and science. Cassian, on the other hand, with his mischievous grin and dark eyes that mirrored Jayce’s, thrived on adventure. His curiosity often led him into trouble, but his infectious joy in exploring made up for it. Together, they were a perfect blend of their parents—two little bundles of energy, wonder, and mischief.

Viktor, leaning on his cane as always, followed closely behind them. His faint but content smile revealed how deeply he cherished these moments—the ones where time seemed to slow down, where the world faded away, and only the people at his side mattered. He was proud of his children, proud of Y/N, and proud of the family they had built together. And there was Jayce, walking beside him, just as devoted, just as protective. Y/N could see the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at their children, his love for them as fierce and unconditional as her own. Together, the three of them made a home, one built on love, understanding, and a shared commitment to protect each other from the cruel realities of the world outside.

But as they walked through the park, something stirred in Y/N—an old discomfort, a prickle of awareness that she couldn’t shake off. At first, it was subtle—just a few sideways glances from passersby. But as they continued, the stares grew longer, the whispers more frequent. She could hear the hushed voices, barely masked by the rustling of leaves and the laughter of children. Some of the looks were filled with curiosity, some with disdain. The word "unnatural" caught her ear, and muttered remarks about her “strange” heritage reached her with painful clarity.

Her chest tightened, and she could feel the familiar weight of their gaze bearing down on her. The faces that looked upon her with suspicion, fear, and even hatred never failed to cut through her, no matter how much time had passed. The tightness in her chest grew as she glanced down at Elowen and Cassian, who were oblivious to the tension in the air. They were laughing, caught up in their joy, but Y/N saw the way the world would see them too. Her children—her precious children—were not exempt from the cruel judgment. Their innocence would never be enough protection from the harshness of the world.

Viktor noticed the shift in her posture before she realised it herself. Her grip on Elowen and Cassian’s hands tightened, and her tail, once relaxed behind her, now flicked anxiously. He could see the muscles in her back tense, her ears flattening slightly in response to the murmurs and stares. He knew her so well that he didn’t need to ask. But he did, anyway.

“Y/N?” Viktor’s voice, low and cautious, reached her. He stopped beside her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, his cane resting beside him. His other hand reached for hers, a quiet offering of support. “Is everything all right?”

Y/N blinked, pulling herself out of her thoughts. She gave him a tight smile, but it was weak, strained. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice faltering. “Let’s just go home.”

Viktor’s brows furrowed in concern. He knew her too well to be fooled by her words. He glanced around and saw what she saw—people still staring, still whispering. He could feel her anxiety, a tight knot in his chest as he struggled with the helplessness of not being able to shield her from it all. He said nothing, though, as they turned to leave, both of them guiding their children with quick, deliberate steps.

Cassian, sensing the shift in the mood, looked up at his mother with wide, innocent eyes. His gaze, full of concern, didn’t escape Y/N. “Mum? Why are we going home? We were having fun!”

Y/N forced a soft laugh, bending down to ruffle his dark hair, her heart aching with the weight of his words. “I know, sweetheart. We’ll come back another time, I promise.”

Elowen, always attuned to the emotions around her, glanced up at her mother with a furrowed brow. Her bright eyes, much like Viktor’s, narrowed with concern. “Are we going to be okay, Mama?”

Y/N’s heart clenched as she looked into her daughter’s earnest eyes, those same bright eyes that shone with curiosity and understanding. She kissed Elowen’s forehead gently, a soft whisper escaping her lips. “We’re always okay, Elowen. Always.”

Jayce, who had been walking slightly behind them, caught up and placed a hand on Y/N’s back. He had noticed the subtle shift in her mood, the change that always followed when the world became too much for her to bear. His voice, calm and steady, broke through her thoughts. “Don’t let them get to you, Y/N. They’re just ignorant.”

Y/N gave him a small smile, grateful for the support but not quite able to shake the lingering discomfort. “I know, Jayce. But it doesn’t make it easier.”

Jayce squeezed her shoulder gently. “We’ll make sure they never see the world the way we do,” he said, his tone filled with determination. “We’ll teach them how to rise above it. We’ll show them what true strength is. And they’ll grow up knowing that love and family are the most important things.”

Viktor nodded in agreement, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “They already know what matters, Y/N. They’re growing up surrounded by love. That’s what will guide them.”

They continued their walk home in silence, Viktor keeping a protective hand on Y/N’s back, Jayce walking beside her, a quiet but unwavering presence. His warm smile, though faint, was a silent reassurance that they were all in this together. Elowen was perched on his shoulders, giggling with delight as she tugged on his hair playfully, while Cassian swung from his hand, laughing with each swing. Jayce, as always, did his best to be the stabilising force, effortlessly balancing the responsibility of keeping them safe while maintaining the lightness in his step that made the children feel unburdened by the world outside.

Y/N’s tail flicked nervously behind her, her unease bubbling under the surface despite the joy in her children’s laughter. She could feel the stares, the muttered comments, and the weight of the world pressing against her chest again. Viktor noticed her tension immediately and slowed his pace, coming closer to her side, his hand brushing against hers in quiet comfort. He knew her well enough to recognise the signs of her discomfort, though she was trying her best to hold herself together for the sake of their children.

As they neared their home, the murmurs faded into the background, replaced by the warm comfort of familiar streets, the comforting sense of belonging within their own space. Y/N sighed, the tightness in her chest easing as they reached the door. When the latch clicked shut behind them, a sense of relief washed over her like a wave. Here, in the sanctuary of their home, she was safe. She was with Viktor, Jayce, and their children—where the world couldn’t touch them so easily.

Viktor, ever observant, placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle but steady. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice full of empathy. “I know it’s not easy.”

Y/N exhaled a shaky breath and leaned into him, her head resting against his chest for a brief moment. The steady thrum of his heartbeat soothed her, grounding her in the present, in the love they had built together. “I just… I just want to protect them. I don’t want them to see the world like I do. I want them to grow up free of fear.”

Viktor’s hand moved to the back of her head, fingers carding through her hair in a gesture of care. “They will,” he reassured her. “They have us. And we’ll teach them what matters—love, understanding, and the strength to rise above the ignorance around us.”

Jayce, having entered behind them, placed a hand on Y/N’s other shoulder. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, his voice low but filled with unshakable confidence. “They’ll never know the world like we do. They’re going to be better than that. And we’ll make sure of it.”

Y/N felt her heart swell with gratitude, her breath steadying as she looked at the men who stood beside her. Despite the world’s cruelty, she had this—she had Viktor, Jayce, and their children. Their family was her safe place, a foundation built on love, strength, and resilience. Together, they could weather any storm.

That night, as they settled in, Y/N tucked Elowen and Cassian into their beds, pressing gentle kisses to their foreheads. The twins were already drifting off to sleep, their innocent smiles and soft breaths reminding her of the purity of their hearts, untouched by the harshness of the world. “You’ll never have to carry the world’s burdens. We’ve got you. Always,” she whispered.

Her heart ached with love as she pulled the covers up around them, watching over them like a guardian, as Viktor and Jayce quietly stood by her side, sharing the weight of the moment. The world outside could be unforgiving, but within these walls, surrounded by their family, Y/N knew her children would always be safe. They had each other—and together, that was more than enough to face whatever the world threw their way.

With Viktor’s steady calm, Jayce’s boundless energy, and the love they shared, Y/N knew they would find a way through the darkest of times—together, stronger, united, and full of love. With their hearts intertwined, they were a force to be reckoned with, no matter what. And that made all the difference.

VANDER

As the months passed, life in the undercity settled into a familiar rhythm, but things were never quite the same after Y/N gave birth to Kael. The quiet, curious child brought with him a special kind of presence that seemed to resonate deeply within the walls of the Last Drop. From the moment he was born, Kael's appearance caught the eye of everyone in the bar. His features were a striking combination of Y/N and Vander—Vander's strong jawline and broad shoulders, but with Y/N's deep, almond-shaped eyes, shimmering with a mysterious wisdom far beyond his years. His small, cat-like nose and faint markings on his skin were unmistakable signs of his mother’s Vastaya heritage, marking him as something rare, something different in a world where differences were not always welcomed.

They named him Kael, meaning "mighty warrior" in an ancient tongue, as Vander had suggested. The name seemed fitting, not just for his appearance, but for the world he had been born into—one filled with struggle, hardship, and a need for strength. Y/N agreed, feeling the weight of the name as she held her son close. Vander, with his protective nature, already saw the resilience Kael carried, even as an infant, and he was proud to see that strength take root in his son. Y/N felt a similar bond, sensing that Kael was destined to carry a power that neither she nor Vander could fully comprehend.

In the meantime, the children of the Last Drop—Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—had grown especially fond of Kael. The little boy’s serene presence seemed to calm the chaos of the undercity, and the children couldn’t help but adore him. They took turns helping Y/N with him, vying for the opportunity to hold him, to make him laugh, or simply to spend time with him. Vi, ever the fierce protector, kept a close watch over her little brother, ensuring that nothing could harm him. Even in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the bar, she would often sit beside Y/N and Kael, offering a silent, watchful gaze over the newborn.

Powder, though usually lost in her own world, was particularly enamoured with Kael, often offering him her toys and coaxing a giggle or smile from him, her face lighting up with pure joy when he responded. Mylo, the prankster, joked that Kael would grow up to be a tough kid, always looking out for his sister, and while his words were playful, there was an undeniable truth to them—Kael already possessed a quiet strength that would make him stand tall when the time came. Vi, fiercely protective, always kept a watchful eye on him, whether he was peacefully napping or playing, and would stand guard, her instincts flaring if anything or anyone posed a threat. Claggor, the silent one, gravitated toward Kael, his usual quiet nature softening around the baby as he sat nearby, observing with a gentle, affectionate gaze. It was clear to everyone that, despite their differences, each of them held a deep, protective love for Kael, their bond as strong as family itself.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the way her children had embraced Kael. There was a tenderness in the way they interacted with him, a protective instinct that ran deep. Vander, too, found his heart swelling with pride every time he saw Kael surrounded by his "siblings," playing, laughing, and sharing in the simple joy of being together. In a world as harsh as Zaun, moments like these were rare, and Vander appreciated them more than anyone could know. He found peace in seeing Kael grow up in the warmth of his new family, surrounded by those who cared for him and would protect him fiercely.

However, as much as Kael was a light in their lives, the undercity was not without its shadows. Life here was brutal, and not everyone looked upon a Vastaya child with the same warmth that his "siblings" did. It was one thing for Vander and Y/N to protect him within the confines of the Last Drop, but outside, in the rough streets of Zaun, there were dangers lurking at every corner.

One day, when Y/N and Vander were busy tending to the bar, they decided to let the kids venture out to explore Zaun for a while. The air was thick with the usual mixture of industry, smoke, and the distant hum of machines. The kids roamed the streets, their laughter echoing off the walls of the narrow alleys, their boundless energy filling the cracks of the city. Vi kept an eye on Kael, who was nestled in her arms, his curious gaze taking in the world around him. Powder ran ahead, giggling as she chased after a small mechanical bird that had caught her eye. Mylo and Claggor wandered together, though Claggor’s eyes were always alert, and Mylo kept up his usual antics, cracking jokes and teasing the others.

It was during this outing that they encountered someone who would test their bond.

A man, clearly down on his luck, spotted Kael from across the street. His eyes narrowed when he saw the child’s markings, his lip curling in disgust. He had no love for the Vastaya, nor for anyone who didn’t belong fully to Zaun or Piltover. The sight of Kael, with his distinct features—a blend of Vander's sturdiness and Y/N’s exotic markings—filled the man with a deep sense of disdain. He muttered something under his breath, his hand gripping the edge of a nearby crate as he approached the group.

“You think you’re one of us?” the man sneered, his voice rough and threatening. “What, you think this little bastard belongs here? A freak like him don’t fit in, not with the city’s blood or with any of you.”

Vi’s protective instincts flared, and she stepped forward, her fists clenched. “Watch your mouth,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

The man, clearly not used to being challenged, took a step closer, his gaze now focused solely on Kael. “I’ve seen your kind before. You don’t belong here,” he spat, his words dripping with venom.

Powder, who had been playing nearby, immediately ran to Kael’s side, standing next to him with her fists raised in defiance. Mylo and Claggor moved in as well, standing shoulder to shoulder with Vi, their expressions serious. The playful antics had fallen away, replaced by the fierce loyalty they had for each other.

“We don’t let anyone talk about him like that,” Mylo said, his usual cheeky grin replaced by a determined scowl. “You need to get lost.”

The man, realising he was surrounded, hesitated for a moment. But his temper flared again, and he sneered. “You’re all freaks, then. What are you gonna do about it?”

But before the situation could escalate further, the unmistakable sound of Vander’s voice rang out, deep and commanding as he approached. "I don’t think you’ve been listening," he said, his presence alone enough to make the man hesitate. "You’ll apologise, or you’ll leave. Your choice."

The man looked around at the children, then at Vander, realising too late that he was outmatched. His bravado faltered as he took a step back. "Freaks," he muttered under his breath, his words weak and meaningless now.

But just as he was about to leave, Y/N stepped forward, her eyes narrowing with a fierce protectiveness. Her ears were pinned back, and she let out a low hiss, like a cat cornered in a threat, her stance poised to defend her family. The man paused, momentarily startled by her reaction.

With a final glare at the children, the man staggered off, grumbling to himself, but his bravado had crumbled in the face of Vander and Y/N’s unwavering stance.

The tension in the air evaporated the moment he left. Vi, still holding Kael, looked down at him with a reassuring smile. "See? Nothing to worry about," she said softly.

Powder clung to Kael, her face beaming with pride. "You’re safe, Kael," she whispered, her voice full of admiration.

Mylo chuckled lightly. "Told you you’d be tough, little guy."

Claggor nodded silently, his gaze steady as always, but his actions spoke volumes as he kept a watchful eye on Kael. He wasn’t about to let anything happen to his little brother.

Kael, still a baby, looked up at them all with wide eyes, sensing the love and protection surrounding him. He let out a soft giggle, the sound a reminder that, even in the harshest of places, there was always room for love and family.

Vander and Y/N watched the scene with pride and gratitude, their hearts swelling at the sight of the children’s bond. Despite the chaos of Zaun, there was a rare beauty in these moments—moments when love and loyalty triumphed over hate. Kael was part of something special, something worth protecting, and Vander would do everything in his power to ensure that his son would always know that, no matter how dark the world around them became, he would never be alone.

SILCO + JINX

Years had passed since that fateful moment in the alley, where Silco had broken the chains that bound Y/N, both physically and metaphorically. In those years, the two of them had built something together—an empire forged from shadows and ambition, yet tempered with a bond that neither could fully explain. The world they had shaped around them had grown even darker, but it had become a world that they controlled, one where their power and influence rippled through the streets of Zaun and Piltover.

Silco, ever the calculating figure, had changed in small but undeniable ways. Y/N’s presence, her quiet strength and the way she could bring peace to his otherwise turbulent soul, had carved a place in his heart that he had never imagined. There was still coldness to him, still the calculating mind of a man who would sacrifice anything for power, but Y/N’s unwavering loyalty, her warmth, and the strength of her love had brought a new dimension to him. Silco no longer saw the world only through the lens of domination and revenge. Y/N had taught him that there was a kind of strength in love, and that perhaps there was more to life than just ruling with an iron fist.

The change in Silco wasn’t immediately visible, not to everyone, but Y/N saw it in the way he would hold her hand in the quiet moments after a particularly brutal business deal, or the way his gaze softened when he watched her care for their children. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, something beyond the power plays and dangerous politics that had once consumed them both. They were building a future—not just for themselves, but for the little ones who depended on them.

And then, their daughter was born.

She came into the world with a quiet intensity that mirrored both her parents. Her eyes were Y/N’s—bright and full of life, but with a depth that seemed to carry the weight of both their worlds. Her skin, a soft blend of Silco’s smooth, darker tone and Y/N’s lighter, ethereal touch, held the markings of her mother’s Vastaya heritage—small yet distinct patterns that hinted at her mystical bloodline. Silco, who had always been distant and controlled, couldn’t help but gaze at his daughter in awe, as if she were the most precious thing he had ever seen. The first time she cried, it was as though the sound itself cracked open something in him—something that had been sealed off for years.

They named her Sira.

The name felt right—it was simple, yet carried an air of strength and beauty that seemed to fit their daughter perfectly. It was a name that bridged both of their worlds: Silco’s world of control and power, and Y/N’s world of magic and nature. Silco looked at her and saw a future—one where his legacy would live on, not in the empire he had built, but in the strength and intelligence of his child. Y/N looked at her and saw the blending of two worlds that had once seemed irreconcilable, but now came together in the form of their daughter.

As Sira grew, so did the complexities of her existence. To Silco, she was his blood—a living, breathing piece of his legacy, a future that could be molded into his image. To Y/N, she was a connection to her own heritage, a continuation of a line that stretched far beyond the borders of Zaun and Piltover. She was their hope, their love, and their proof that, despite the darkness around them, something good could come from it.

And to Jinx? Well, at first, it was something else entirely.

Jinx had always been fiercely protective of her adoptive parents. They were her family, her everything. She had grown up surrounded by chaos, and Silco and Y/N had been the constant, the ones who had taken her in and treated her as their own. The idea of sharing them, of giving her love and attention to someone else, felt like a betrayal. So when Sira entered the picture, Jinx’s first instinct was to keep her distance, to resent the little girl for stealing the attention that she had always received. To her, Sira was a threat, an intrusion into the fragile space she had carved out in her heart for Y/N and Silco.

But Sira, even as an infant, had an innate charm. It wasn’t just her appearance—a curious mix of the fierce and the gentle—but the way she would giggle and grasp at Jinx’s bright hair or the way her tiny hands would reach out, wanting to touch, to play, to explore. Slowly but surely, the walls Jinx had put up began to crack. The more time she spent around Sira, the more she realised that the little girl wasn’t trying to take anything from her. She wasn’t a threat. In fact, she had a way of drawing Jinx in, of making her feel needed, wanted, and loved in a way that she hadn’t expected.

Sira quickly became the centre of Jinx’s attention. When she was a toddler, Jinx was rarely seen without her, proudly parading her around, holding her outstretched in her arms like a trophy to Sevika, to the gang, to anyone who would look.

"Look at her!" Jinx would say with a mischievous grin, holding Sira up in front of her. "Isn't she just perfect?"

At first, Sira was just a quiet baby, taking in everything around her with wide eyes, but she grew into a toddler full of curiosity and joy. Her giggles and the sparkle in her eyes were contagious, slowly softening even the hardest of hearts around her. Even Sevika, who had always been tough and unflinching, couldn’t resist a smile when Sira reached out to her, or when Jinx spun the little girl around, her laugh ringing through the air.

In moments like these, the older woman could hardly resist. The tiny hand in hers, the way Sira’s tiny voice would giggle as Jinx spun her around, the way she proudly showed off the little one as though she were her own—Jinx had finally accepted her role as the big sister, the protector, the one who would teach Sira the ways of their world.

Silco watched all of this with an intensity that could only come from a father who was fiercely protective of his daughter and also quietly proud of how his ragtag family had come together, in spite of the violence, the chaos, and the unspoken tension that had once ruled their lives. His dark eyes tracked Sira as she giggled, her tiny hands reaching up for Jinx, who was already spinning her around with a wide grin plastered across her face.

"Jinx," Silco called out sharply, his voice laced with concern as his eyes narrowed. "Careful with her."

Jinx paused, looking over at Silco with mock innocence, but the mischievous glint in her eyes gave away her feigned innocence. "Oh, come on! She loves it," she teased, giving Sira one more quick spin before looking back at Silco.

Silco stepped forward, his protective instincts kicking in, and he held up a hand, his voice suddenly stern. "That’s enough, Jinx." He moved closer to Sira, his eyes softening as he took her from Jinx’s arms. "She’s still too little for that much, alright?"

Jinx raised her hands in mock surrender but couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at her lips. "Alright, alright. You’re such a softie, Silco."

Silco didn’t respond at first, his gaze lingering on his daughter’s small, trusting face as she nestled into his chest, her little hands clinging to him. The sound of Sira’s laughter, light and full of joy, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It was a reminder that, no matter how dark the world could get, there was still something pure—something worth protecting.

But now? Now, there was something more—something worth fighting for, worth living for. And that something was standing there, in the form of their daughter, who would one day inherit both their legacies, and who would grow up to be as formidable as her parents. Silco, who had always been a man of control, found himself utterly undone by the sight of his daughter smiling up at him. Her little hands reached for him, and his heart stuttered in his chest. This was no longer just about power and survival.

"Daddy," Sira whispered, her voice small and sweet, yet full of certainty as she held her arms out to him.

Silco’s expression softened, his usual cold mask slipping for just a moment. He reached down, lifting his daughter into his arms with a tenderness that only those closest to him would ever witness. "What is it, Sira?" he asked, his voice lower than usual, almost as though he was afraid she might break if he spoke too loudly.

Sira rested her head against his shoulder, her tiny fingers tracing the dark tattoos that marked his skin. "Love you, Daddy," she murmured, her words simple yet full of meaning.

His breath caught in his throat. Silco, the man who had controlled entire factions, who had torn through his enemies without hesitation, now found himself speechless, overcome by a feeling he had never quite understood until now. In Sira’s smile, in the way she clung to him as though he was her entire world, he realised that he wasn’t just a ruler. He was a father.

Y/N, always by his side, watched with a sense of contentment. Her gaze flickered between Silco and their daughter, her heart swelling with pride and love. The journey that had brought them here, to this moment, hadn’t been easy. Their family had been forged from the harshest of circumstances. Yet somehow, in spite of it all, they had found each other and built something stronger than anything Silco had ever set out to create.

"She’s growing up so fast," Y/N said softly, her voice full of affection as she approached, her hand brushing against Silco’s. "Can’t believe how much she’s learned already. She's just like you, Silco. Strong, determined, and fearless."

Silco’s expression darkened slightly at the thought of their daughter inheriting his dangerous traits. "I’d rather she take after you," he muttered, though the hint of affection in his tone was impossible to miss.

Y/N chuckled, her eyes filled with warmth. "Oh, I’m sure she will. She already has your wit. But she also has something more—something that neither of us can control." She smiled up at him, her hand slipping into his, a silent bond that spoke volumes between them.

The two stood there, side by side, with Sira nestled between them.

"You know," Y/N continued, her voice teasing now, "I used to think we would never get this moment. That everything would be consumed by the shadows we’ve built our lives in. But Sira, she’s proof that we can have more than just the fight. She’s proof that we can still live, Silco."

Silco looked down at their daughter, the quiet strength and warmth in her tiny form overwhelming him. The empire he had built, the countless battles he had fought—none of that mattered in the face of this small, innocent life that he and Y/N had brought into the world.

In the silence that followed, a rare peace settled between them. Silco, ever the calculating strategist, found himself no longer concerned with his empire. The life he had created with Y/N and Sira, with Jinx now fully integrated into their strange family, was more than any territory or wealth could ever offer.

And as the years went on, Y/N and Silco knew that no matter what the future held, they had built something unbreakable—a family united by blood, by choice, and by love. A family that, for once, wasn’t just about survival, but about living.

"She’s going to be a force," Jinx remarked from the background, watching as Sira tugged on Silco’s sleeve, her eyes bright with mischief. "Just like her parents." The words were both a promise and a challenge.

Silco glanced back at Jinx, his lips curving in a faint smile. "She’s already a force, Jinx. But she will also be something greater than either of us could ever have imagined."

Y/N nodded, leaning into Silco as Sira reached up once more, her tiny hands brushing against her parents. "Together, we’ve built this. And together, we’ll see it grow."

Sira’s smile was the brightest thing in the room, her hand reaching for Jinx, who immediately scooped her up and spun her around once again. The laughter that followed was full of life, full of love, and Silco found himself finally able to admit, for the first time, that this—this was the future he had always wanted.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #Vastaya!Reader

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that-one-ostrich-friend · 6 months ago

Text

stormy night

older!sirius black x reader - stormy night

word count: 3.5k

summary: sirius and y/n find themselves stranded in a town after a failed mission. one bed trope, only one room left at the inn trope (bc i’m a whore for those tropes so sue me)

warnings: shared bed, kissing, cuddling, shirtless sirius (he’s such a manwhore and i love him)

a/n: i went insane with this. did i make myself incredibly flustered while writing this? yes, yes i did… as i said, i am a slut for older sirius black

The rain came down in sheets, relentless and heavy, soaking through every layer of clothing until it was impossible to feel anything but cold. The cobblestone streets of the small, sleepy village were deserted, save for two figures trudging side by side beneath the dim glow of flickering street lamps.

Y/n clutched her cloak tighter around herself, the wet fabric clinging uselessly to her arms. Her boots splashed through puddles, water seeping in and chilling her feet. Beside her, Sirius Black walked with a determined stride, his long hair plastered to his face and neck, water dripping from the ends. His sharp, angular features were shadowed under the dim light, his expression unreadable.

They’d been walking for what felt like hours, though it had likely been less. The failed mission weighed heavily between them—a lingering frustration neither had voiced aloud. The people Sirius had hoped to recruit had been polite but dismissive, unwilling to take a stand against the growing threat of Voldemort.

“You’d think they’d care more about the world burning around them,” Y/n muttered, her voice cutting through the steady rhythm of rain.

Sirius glanced at her, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Cowards rarely think beyond their own doorsteps.”

The silence stretched on as they walked, the storm soaking them to the bone. Y/n shivered, trying to ignore the chill seeping into her limbs.

“We need to find shelter,” Sirius said, his voice low and firm.

She huffed a humorless laugh. “And where exactly do you suggest we find that? We’re stranded, and the portkey’s gone.”

“Have a little faith,” he said, his lips quirking into a faint smirk.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her own lips. Sirius had a way of making even the bleakest situations feel slightly less suffocating.

They turned a corner, and a flicker of light in the distance caught Y/n’s attention. A small inn stood at the end of the street, its sign swinging in the wind. Relief washed over her.

“There,” she said, quickening her pace.

Sirius followed without a word. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool and wood smoke. The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, shaking water from their cloaks. Behind the counter stood a balding man with a thick mustache, a book in his hands. He looked up as they approached, setting the book aside.

Sirius rested his hands on the counter. “We need rooms for the night.”

The man studied them for a moment before nodding. “You’re in luck. Last room just opened up.”

Sirius paused, his shoulders stiffening slightly as he absorbed the words. “One room?”

“One room,” the man repeated with a nod.

For a brief moment, Sirius hesitated, his expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet sigh, he fished a few coins from his pocket and slid them across the counter.

Y/n caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes as he took the key—an acknowledgment of the situation they were walking into, though he didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned and gestured for her to follow him up the creaky staircase.

━━━━━━━•✧°•°𓅦°•°✧•━━━━━━━

The room was modest, with a single bed pushed against the far wall and a small fireplace flickering weakly in the corner. The air was cool, the rain pattering softly against the window.

Y/n dropped her bag by the door, her eyes immediately landing on the bed. She swallowed hard. Of course. One bed.

Sirius surveyed the room with a neutral expression, though she didn’t miss the slight twitch of his lips—a smirk he was trying to suppress. “I’m going to shower,” he said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair.

He pulled his shirt, miraculously dry from being under his coat, over his head. His muscles flexed smoothly as his arms fell back to his sides. He held the shirt out to her.

“Yours is soaked,” he said simply.

She hesitated before taking it, her fingers brushing his briefly. “Thanks.”

Sirius disappeared into the bathroom, and the sound of running water followed moments later. Y/n stripped off her wet cloak and shirt, leaving herself in just her underwear before slipping his shirt over her head. It was soft and worn, the faint scent of something distinctly Sirius clinging to it.

━━━━━━━•✧°•°𓅦°•°✧•━━━━━━━

The bathroom door creaked open, and a wave of warm, humid air escaped into the room. Y/n glanced up from where she sat on the edge of the bed, and her breath caught in her throat.

Sirius stood in the doorway, his body backlit by the light from the bathroom. His dark, damp hair curled slightly at the ends, drops of water sliding down his sharp jawline and clinging to his collarbone before cascading down his chest.

And what a chest it was. His toned muscles were defined but not overly bulky—lean and honed, as if shaped by years of instinctive strength rather than deliberate effort. A faint scar slashed diagonally across his abdomen, a reminder of the life he had lived. The flickering light of the fireplace cast shadows over his skin, accentuating the ridges of his abs, where droplets of water gathered before slipping lower.

Her gaze followed the droplets, watching them trail down his torso, past the slight dip of his navel, to where the towel hung low on his hips. Too low. The rough fabric clung precariously, teasingly, to the sharp cut of his hipbones. The sight sent a wave of heat rushing to her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, her pulse racing.

Sirius ran a hand through his damp hair, dislodging more droplets that rolled down his shoulders and arms. His voice broke the tension in the air.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a comb in that bag of yours?” he asked, his tone casual, as if he didn’t look like a god carved from marble standing in front of her.

Y/n blinked, her brain taking a moment to catch up. “Uh… no. Sorry.”

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, his gray eyes locking on hers as if he were reading every thought in her head. He tilted his head slightly, the movement making a drop of water fall from his jaw to his chest.

“Like what you see?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, filled with teasing warmth.

Her breath caught. There was no denying the heat rushing to her cheeks or the way her heart thudded against her ribs. She should look away—say something, anything to deflect the question. But she couldn’t.

“I—” she started, then hesitated, her throat suddenly dry.

The corner of Sirius’s mouth twitched into a wider smile, a flicker of confidence lighting his expression. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement but softer now, as though he wanted to savor her reaction.

The room felt warmer, the tension between them humming in the air. For a moment, neither of them moved, and Y/n felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them—the unspoken words, the charged silence, and the undeniable pull that she had tried so hard to ignore.

After a moment, Sirius broke the silence, his voice still low. “Well, I’d hate to keep you distracted for too long.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “I should probably put something on.”

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

Y/n exhaled slowly, realizing only then that she’d been holding her breath. She was left to process the rapid beating of her heart.

Y/n sank back onto the edge of the bed, her fingers instinctively gripping the soft fabric of Sirius’s shirt where it hung loose against her frame. Her heart was still pounding, the sound thunderous in her ears as she stared down at the uneven grain of the wooden floor. But it wasn’t the rain outside or the long day weighing on her mind—it was him.

She bit her lip, heat rising to her cheeks. This was Sirius. Sirius Black, who she had spent the last year arguing with, working alongside, exchanging half-buried glances and stolen moments that she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on. And yet here she was, practically squirming at the memory of him dripping wet, grinning at her with that maddening confidence.

Like what you see?

The truth was, she didn’t just like it. She wanted more. More of him, more of the heat that seemed to follow him wherever he went, more of the way his voice dipped into something warmer, softer, when he spoke just to her.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the bed as she tried to steady herself. It didn’t help. Not when the image of him kept replaying in her mind, more vivid and tantalizing than before.

And Merlin, she hadn’t even seen him smile like that before—like he’d caught her off guard and liked it. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on her.

“Damn it,” she whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the storm outside. But the storm inside her was louder. Much louder.

Sirius stepped back into the room, the door to the bathroom creaking as it closed softly behind him. He was dressed now in nothing but a pair of black boxers, the fabric tight around his hips. The towel he had worn just moments ago was now gone, and the air in the room seemed to hum with the subtle tension that lingered in his absence. His damp hair clung to the back of his neck, a few errant strands curling slightly at the edges, a look that somehow made him seem both casual and impossibly alluring.

He cast a glance at y/n as he walked across the room, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment longer than necessary. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back straight, her hands resting in her lap, as if she hadn’t just been lost in thought about him a second ago.

Sirius grabbed the pillow from the bed, holding it in front of him as if it would serve as some sort of shield from the tension that hung between them.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said with a soft shrug, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked almost too at ease for someone who had just walked out of the shower in nothing but his boxers, as if he were used to making her heart race without even trying.

The words hit y/n like a splash of cold water. She shot him a glance, disbelief in her expression.

“What?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he repeated, this time with a more serious tone. His eyes met hers, the warmth from the shower still radiating off his skin. “I’m sure it’s more comfortable for you.”

“You can’t be serious.” Her voice was a little sharper than she intended. She couldn’t believe he was actually going to sleep on the floor after everything that had happened.

“I’m always Sirius.” Sirius’s tone was teasing, though there was a slight edge to it. “I’m sure you’d rather have your space.” He fluffed the pillow in his hands.

“Sirius, no. You don’t need to sleep on the floor.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable without me crowding you.”

“No, I mean it,” she insisted, meeting his gaze. “I’d be fine. Really, I wouldn’t mind sharing the bed.”

Sirius looked at her for a moment, a small, skeptical smile playing on his lips. His gaze lingered on her—on the way she was sitting there, wearing only his shirt and underwear. His eyes followed the shape of her legs, the way the fabric of the shirt barely hung off her shoulders. There was a quiet pause. He couldn’t help but notice the way the oversized shirt fit her—it seemed to frame her body perfectly. His eyes flickered to her collarbones, exposed and soft in the dim light, before traveling down her bare legs once more. There was something about her in his clothes that was utterly magnetic, and he found himself appreciating the sight more than he probably should.

Y/n caught his gaze lingering and cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious, though a part of her couldn’t ignore the way his look made her feel.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly soft, still watching her intently.

She nodded, her smile widening. “It’s fine, Sirius. Really. We’ve been through worse situations, haven’t we?”

Sirius chuckled lowly at that, a deep warmth in his chest. He wasn’t sure what was happening in this moment—whether it was the exhaustion from their trip or the quiet intensity of the night—but something was making it hard for him to look away. He glanced at the pillow in his hands, as though he could convince himself that sleeping on the floor was the more sensible option. But then he met her eyes again and found himself unable to deny the pull between them, the way her presence in his shirt, her bare skin, and the slight teasing smile on her lips all seemed to unsettle him. He finally sighed, tossing the pillow onto the bed with a soft thud.

“You’re making it really hard to resist you, you know that?” he said, his voice taking on a more serious note.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, but her grin was teasing. “I think you’ve already given in, Sirius.”

He smirked lightly as he moved closer to the bed and said, “You know, I think I like the shirt better on you.” His tone was teasing, but there was an undeniable sincerity to his words, and his gaze flickered briefly to her legs, then back to her face.

Y/n felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, but she fought it off, not wanting him to see just how much his compliment had affected her. “Is that so?” she replied with a raised eyebrow, her voice playful. “I’ll have to remember that.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Well, I’m sure you’d look good in anything, but...” He paused, “I guess it’s my fault for giving you my shirt.”

“I’m not complaining,” Y/n said quickly, her smile softening, but her heart was pounding.

Sirius finally settled into the bed beside her, the soft sheets rustling as he adjusted. He shifted, clearly still a little hesitant about this whole sharing-a-bed situation, but he didn’t object again. The bed, which had felt comfortably spacious when Y/n was alone, now felt considerably smaller with the two of them in it. Y/n glanced at the space between them, only to realize it was almost nonexistent.

“It feels smaller now that there’s two of us in here,” she commented, her voice light and easy, but with a hint of curiosity.

Sirius’s lips curved slightly at her words. He knew what she meant. The space between them felt suddenly much more intimate, closer than he would’ve thought—closer than he had ever expected it to be. He was barely inches away from her now.

Without thinking, Y/n shifted closer, moving in search of warmth. She found herself gravitating toward the heat emanating from his body. It was a natural pull, almost as if she couldn’t help it, and before she knew it, she was pressed up against him. The warmth of his body seemed to seep into her, chasing away the chill in the air.

Sirius couldn’t help but admire her in the stillness, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way she fit so perfectly against him. It was intoxicating. Before he even realized it, his hand moved on its own, sliding down to rest at her waist. It was an innocent gesture, but it was also something more. He pulled her a little closer, feeling the soft press of her body against his.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, his voice low and soft in the dimness of the room.

At the sound of his voice, Y/n couldn’t help it—she turned to face him. Her body instinctively moved as her eyes locked with his, the space between them almost electrified. Y/n’s hand found its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Her thumb traced small circles on his skin. The gesture was casual, almost absent, but she didn’t pull away.

Both of them were aware of the closeness, but neither of them had said anything—until Sirius did.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly, his voice a little hoarse, as though he had been waiting for this moment to finally arrive. The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and he didn’t regret it, even as his heart picked up its pace.

Y/n’s breath caught at the sound of his words, her pulse quickening. The question hung in the air between them like a spark. She met his gaze, and for a moment, neither of them moved, both searching for the answer in the other’s eyes. She didn’t want to hold back anymore.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but filled with certainty.

And with that, Sirius leaned in. His lips brushed hers softly at first, tentative, as if they were testing the waters. The kiss deepened almost immediately, the air between them thick with tension and anticipation. What had started as something gentle turned into something far more desperate, more desperate to feel the other, to finally let go of everything that had kept them apart. Their lips moved together in a seamless rhythm as if they had been kissing like this forever.

Sirius’s hand slid up her back, pulling her closer still, until their bodies were flush against each other. Y/n's hand moved to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as she kissed him back with the same intensity.

Time seemed to lose its meaning in that kiss. It felt like hours, but in truth, only moments had passed before they finally pulled apart. Their breaths were ragged, and both of them were flushed, eyes lingering on each other as they caught their breath.

Sirius stroked his thumb gently across her cheek, his eyes soft as he looked at her. His words were barely above a whisper.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his thumb caressing her skin as if to memorize it. His voice was thick with emotion, as though saying it aloud somehow made it more real.

Y/n’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment at his words, her heart swelling at the sincerity in his voice. She could feel the warmth spreading through her chest, and her own fingers brushed lightly against his skin, tracing the lines of his jaw.

“I... I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long,” Sirius continued, his voice soft but filled with a yearning that he had never dared to speak of before. “I never thought it would happen like this.”

Y/n looked up at him, her heart racing. She could feel the weight of his words, the truth behind them. There was no turning back now, and she didn’t want to. This moment, this kiss, had been waiting for both of them.

Sirius cupped her face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing her cheek as he looked at her, his expression soft and sincere.

“I mean it,” he said quietly. “You’re beautiful.”

Sirius kissed her again, slower this time, as if savoring the feeling of her lips on his.

After the kiss finally broke it left both of them breathless, their bodies still tangled in the heat of the moment, each kiss leaving them both hungrier for more. But when they finally separated, Sirius didn’t pull away far. Instead, he softly pushed Y/n onto her back, guiding her gently with one hand on her shoulder, his touch more possessive now, but with the tenderness of someone who didn’t want to rush.

Y/n’s head fell softly onto the pillow, her chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Sirius hovered over her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her lips, as if he still couldn’t quite get enough of her. His eyes traced the lines of her face.

Rather than kissing her again, he slid down, his body shifting closer until he was nearly on top of her, his hand curling around her waist. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent as if it was the air he needed to breathe.

Y/n instinctively reached up, her hands finding their place on his back, stroking absentmindedly as her body relaxed under the weight of the moment. It felt strangely comforting, the soft, needy way he curled into her.

Sirius nuzzled closer, a small sound of contentment escaping his lips as he settled himself in her arms. “This is nice,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin.

The vulnerability in his touch, the way he let himself completely soften, was new to her, and it made her heart flutter in ways she wasn’t ready to admit.

Sirius’s arm tightened around her waist, pulling her just a little closer. His breathing evened out, slow and steady. He sighed again, a peaceful, content sound. She couldn’t help but smile softly to herself. This was a different side of Sirius, one she didn’t expect but found herself drawn to.

“Good night,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Y/n didn’t answer at first. She let the silence fill the room, only the soft sound of their breathing filling the space. She felt a wave of warmth wash over her as she nestled closer, her hand still tracing gentle patterns on his back. He was right. This was nice.

“Good night,” she finally whispered back, her voice just as soft, and with that, they both drifted off to sleep, wrapped up in each other’s warmth.

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