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cursedyuri · 7 months ago

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thinking about vi + praise kink, but its you praising her for how good she’s fucking you ahhhhhh and the way she’d get breathier with each pretty word you say, her thrusts getting sloppier and less coordinated <3

vi’s love language is words of affirmation, and it’s not up for debate. when she’s pumping into you, reveling in the slick, lewd noises of her strap splitting you open, it just takes one soft spoken praise to get her breathless.

“you’re doing so well for me, vi,” you coo, gasping when she pushes her hips forward to fill you up again. “f-fuck—you fuck me so good.”

you comb your fingers through her scarlet locks, damp from sweat, and scratch her scalp in the way you know she likes. you swear you see her eyes roll back for a second as she chews the inside of her cheek, arm muscles straining as they cage your frame between them. your eyes move down her body - strong, tense shoulders inked in geometrical black shapes. ample tits, nipples hard and almost red from your teeth earlier, when you’d bitten and sucked at them until she’d lost patience for foreplay. her lean abdomen, angular hips that rock back and forth with practiced precision to fuck her girl just right. you curl your thighs around her waist, encouraging her further, deeper.

when she obliges, red-faced and panting, you grin.

“nobody’s ever made me feel so good,” you admit, voice low. “you—mm, vi—you feel so good.”

vi answers with a breathy grunt, moving one hand to squeeze at your hip. her blunt nails dig into your supple skin, leaving crescent moons in their wake.

“shit, princess,” she rasps. her thrusts have quickened, and you notice a kind of inconsistency in her movements that makes you warm with self-satisfaction—you’ve got her wrapped around your finger.

“hmm? you like being praised, babe?” you curl your legs tighter around her, gasping when she hits a spot inside you that feels blindingly good.

“just like making you feel good,” vi responds, breathless. you’d notice the shaky, almost whiny way she says it if you weren’t so distracted by how well she’s fucking you.

eyes fluttering shut, you let out a sinful moan as vi keeps rutting into that spot - pushing you closer to your orgasm with every thrust of her hips.

“gods, yes—don’t stop, vi, you’re doing so well.” every word that leaves your lips is slurred, syrupy sweet to vi’s ears. you peer up into her eyes and find her slack-jawed and blushing, blue eyes half-lidded with pleasure. she’s looking at you like you’re a revelation.

“wanna be good for you,” she pants, “wanna make you come.”

her thrusts have lost all coordination, but she still manages to prod at your sweet spot with her strap—it doesn’t take long for you to see stars, vision growing blurry as you stutter praise after praise for your red-headed, bruise-knuckled lover. you come for what feels like an eternity, but when you finally re-center yourself, there��s vi.

she kisses your nose, brushing your hair out of your face. there’s a nervous look in her eyes. something hesitant there.

“i liked that,” she says, finally.

thank the fucking gods.

#switch!vi save me #vi x reader #vi smut #vi arcane #vi arcane x reader #vi arcane headcanon #vi headcanon #stella’s asks

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gr4cier4cie · 2 months ago

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♡ pretty in pink (amore mio) ♡

or: kimi didn't think he'd be all for ballet dancing. turns out he is, especially when the dancer in question ends up being the love of his life. ballet dancer!reader x kimi antonelli

warnings: none just fluff hehe thank you SO much to @ferrarisstrategy for this ask omg this concept is the absolute cutest xoxo from gracie always!!

♡

if there was one thing kimi antonelli understood, it was a car. he understood the perfect balance of a racing line. he understood downforce (and lateral force, and longitudinal drag, and tyre rolling resistance, and tractive effort). he understood how to maneuver his car around angular corners sharper than the serrated edge of his mother's worn bread knife.

what he did not understand, however, was the systematic way you seemed to single-handedly destroy the poinsettia-pink satin pointe shoes he'd spent three hours browsing through the unwieldy world of google for (well, that, and two trips to the store along with a facetime call to his mother, in which the older woman clicked her tongue and berated him for being unaware of your shoe size. "eight, tesoro. she mentioned it at dinner last week.").

"they're beautiful," you gasp, fingers tracing the satin with reverence in your gaze. "are these freed classics? oh, kimi, they're my favorite, how did you know?" you crook a brow. "your mom helped you pick them, didn't she? i-"

"amore mio," he interrupts, distress written in the furrow of his chin. "what are... what are you doing to them?" your heel twists the box of the right then the left shoe as you laugh, the sound echoing through your apartment like music. (his heartbeat mirrors the orchestral thrum, akin to a first-chair violinist professing his love for a ballerina on the grand stage above him.)

"i'm breaking them in," you respond with mirth dancing in your irises, leaning forward to drop your heels flat onto the floor. you repeat the motion once, then twice, and kimi watches the defined muscles of your calves flex and relax methodically.

"breaking..." he trails off, genuine horror etched across his features. his gift couldn't be just any pair of pointe shoes - no, you deserved better than that. these were freed classics, the ones his mother had insisted were your favorite, the ones that cost nearly half his paycheck. (well, not really.) "but why, amour?"

"come here," you beckon, patting the hardwood beside you. "let me show you." and kimi - who can calculate the physics of brake force in seconds but is completely and utterly undone by the timely force of your smile - finds himself hesitantly lowering to sit cross-legged with his thigh molded to yours, watching as your hands work the shoes with practiced precision. you bend the shank (which has nothing to do with cooking, he learns), score the soles (which feels lightly criminal), and bang both shoes against the door-frame for what you call "good luck" (but makes him wince).

"it's engineering," he breathes in wonder. you dance with the same fidelity he exercises on the steering wheel, breathe the air of your passion the same way gasoline seems to run in his veins. two sides of the same coin. "like in the car."

you beam at him, and kimi swears he can feel his chest caving in. "exactly. though i don't think toto would appreciate the idea of me banging your car against the garage door for luck, y'know."

"please never say that where he can hear you. he'd probably cry."

your laugh is gentler this time, barely a whisper. the other shoe dangles from your fingertips like an offering as you press it into his palms. "help me?"

his eyes go wide, hands hovering uncertainly over the pristine satin. "i'll ruin it, amour."

"impossible," you whisper, shuffling closer. "i'll teach you." (it is at that exact moment that kimi antonelli realizes he is hopelessly in love with you. he wants to buy you flowers for every performance for the rest of your life, wants to hold your hand on a barre bar or under the table at the fia gala. he even wants to learn the ancient art of breaking in pointe shoes.)

♡

note: this was sooooo cute thank you again to @ferrarisstrategy for this ask i LOVED writing it!! let me know if there's anything else you want to see!!! xoxo always from gracie!!!

#kimi antonelli #formula 1 #formula racing #smau #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli x you #ki12 #mercedes #toto wolff #drabble #f1 fanfiction #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #fluff #f1 fluff #f1 x female reader #f1 x you

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comatosebunny09 · 4 months ago

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serve & protect [ prologue ] | sylus

— summary: you’ve stood dutifully by his side for years. seen him at his worst, not once letting that side of him deter you. can you blame him for craving more than your loyalty? — cw: royalty au, king sylus, femme reader, knight/bodyguard reader, mutual pining, brief mention of injury, marking, tension, jealousy, kind of a slow burn, will get steamier — notes: a reimagining of something i wrote a few years ago. heavily inspired by final fantasy xv & the beast within (2024) movie. tysm for reading! — now playing: waltz no.2 - cihat aşkın

You would feel bad for badgering him if he wasn’t prone to disappearing like this.

Prone to shirking off his duties like an entire kingdom didn’t rely on his guidance.

You sigh for the umpteenth time amid the night-blooming jasmines. Fingers tighten around the strapped leather grip of your sword, fastened to your hip. Your feet move on autopilot, carrying you through the garden on a path you’re all too familiar with, the grass shining with dew and crunching beneath your feet.

Your shift just began after a grueling week of training. Yet, you’ve already been tasked by his royal advisor with locating your charge before even shrugging into your coat. You’ve become something of a glorified babysitter these days, practically telling your liege when to eat.

If not for his advisor threatening to lop your head off—he could very well try—you would leave the king be. He hasn’t found much reprieve these days, what with neighboring countries pushing for peace treaties, reformation efforts to rebuild the outlying cities, and distant kingdoms shoving their daughters at him for marriage, amongst a slew of other issues.

It isn’t uncommon for your charge to slip away when the weight of the world is too much to shoulder. For him to retire to his private garden to catch his breath. He’ll never admit it aloud, but shouldering an entire kingdom on his own deepens the violet bags hanging beneath his eyes. The sleepless nights. The impending anxiety stewing in his gut.

Only you know of the secret passageways that lead to his most favored spots in the garden, where his servants get lost trying to navigate the network of rose bushes arranged like a labyrinth to keep them out.

It’s often your responsibility to fetch him since you work more intimately with him than anyone else. You know His Majesty’s habits like they were mapped on the back of your hand. You wouldn’t have it any other way; it’s nice to be the only person allowed into these private quadrants of his life.

A shock of white stains your peripheral, peacefully nestled between swaying hydrangeas.

You near him, noting that he’s propped up on an ironwood bench. His head is lowered and crooked to one side, arms folded over a broad chest, lips slightly parted. A book rests open and forgotten on his thigh, legs crossed. You tamp down a smile when you realize he’s fast asleep.

“Your Majesty,” you beckon with a hidden fondness as your steps slow to a stop before him.

He doesn’t stir. Of course, you don’t expect him to. When sleep claims him, it’s hard to free him from its ivy-like crawl.

You kneel dutifully, bowing your head, your sword scrawling a thick line in the dirt. You caution his name again, the sound of your voice competing with that of the breeze threading through the leaves.

Still nothing. Just the steady rhythm of his breaths and distant morning birds singing their symphony around you.

With a sigh, you incline your head to look up. And what a mistake that proves to be, traitorous butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

He’s a beautiful contradiction amid the soft stir of pastel flowers. A dark cutout of regality, slumbering like a dragon guarding its treasure.

His hair is reminiscent of a thick blanket of snow, piling itself amongst the treetops. He wears summer skin in the midst of spring. Stretched taut over a pretty Roman nose, angular features, full lips. He’s ethereal, limned in the sun’s amber glow, a sight that could bring the end of days or sink ships to the bottom of the sea. Thick, furled lashes dance with dreams beneath furrowed brows. A gruff sound escapes his mouth as he lightly stirs before falling still again.

Even in sleep, he maintains the intensity with which he’s known to rule.

A quaint smile touches your lips. You quell an impulse to soothe the divot between his brows with your thumb. To smooth out the hard press of his lips together. A well-timed gust of wind kicks in, rustling the velvet-soft hair framing his face.

Your fingers twitch with an impulse to touch. To tuck those unruly locks behind his ear. You instead curl them into a loose fist on the ground, quietly chiding yourself for allowing such thoughts to trickle in.

He is your charge—your king. Affectionate gestures like that are forbidden. A conflict of interest, no matter how harmless they may seem.

Besides, you’re unworthy of touching him. There’s dirt caked beneath your nails and an ever-present film of grime adorning your cheeks. He should have someone of equal stature smiling at his side. A pretty, glittering doll in flowery dresses, well-versed in the tongue of nobility. In the art of being poised and prim.

You’re a mere servant. A shield to be used at his disposal, your hands battle-worn and skin sun-kissed. You threw away all hope for love when you took an oath, binding your life to his and pledging your fealty to him.

He handpicked you to serve as his personal bodyguard, a decision you still grapple with several years later. Many seasoned knights served in the royal guard longer than you’ve held a sword. You would never do anything to jeopardize his trust, to betray his kindness.

The affection that unfurls like lotus petals in your chest for him is deep-rooted. However, it results from serving under him for so long and nothing more.

At least…

That’s what you tell yourself whenever his gaze lingers a little too long, pilfering the air from your lungs.

Or when his dexterous fingers brush over your wrist under the guise of reaching for something in front of you.

When he presses a warm and possessive hand at the small of your back whenever you tour the citadel’s grounds with him, or he requests your input on something at his desk.

When he flashes a rare quirk of lips that’s boyish and dimpled and disarming when he thinks no one else is the wiser.

You clear your throat, remembering yourself. Your voice is more assertive this time, dispelling the nebulous haze of your musings.

“Your Majesty, please. You have to get up.” The urge to stroke his cheek returns. You squeeze your thigh to curb it.

As if the Gods grant you mercy, that does the trick.

His lashes flutter, and his voice is thick and raspy, rolling like thunder over the horizon in his chest. You watch him blink away the bleariness, the scarlet wash of his irises causing your heart to pull.

Your king studies you as if making out the colors and texture of your face. You try not to shiver under his scrutiny, instead looking away as warmth inhabits your face. You’ve always found his eyes to be one of his most devastating features. They could easily glean through the mist of your mind, your guise, reading you like the yellowed pages of a book, even without tapping into the power residing in his right eye.

Heat permeates through the thickness of your uniform when, after setting his book aside, he suddenly pitches himself forward, elbows digging into the pockets of his knees. He rests his chin atop his folded together fingers, and you don’t need to fully look at him to see the smirk crooking his lips. The scent of unfettered energy and stripped sandalwood rolls off his skin, curling around your senses, threatening to root your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

The air between you is rife with tension. So thick, you can cleave through it with your blade. Your king watches you amusedly, and you do everything within your power to resist the bewitching pull of his gaze. The comfort and strength he exudes.

When he speaks, you nearly jump fifty feet out of your skin. His voice is as devastating as his eyes, puddling in your stomach, turning your brain to smog.

“I knew you were there all along. That’s why I didn’t bother opening my eyes. I was merely resting them.”

You scoff despite the anxiety scorching your innards. Closing your eyes, you retort under your breath, though loud enough for him to hear, “Sure, Majesty. You were resting your eyes while snoring with drool running down your chin.”

Your charge releases an indignant sound from the back of his throat, reeling back to touch his face, mortified. Your shoulders shake with your quiet laughter, and you hide the round tug of your lips behind your fist.

“Funny,” he says, and he gives you a look. One he’s used to silence an entire court of hecklers, its sharpness boding danger.

You clear your throat, donning that straight-faced mask you’ve grown so accustomed to wearing. You’re friends—childhood companions—yet you know when to shift from candid to serious.

Recalling why you were initially sent to fetch him, you stand to full height, brushing the dust off your hands on your thighs before snapping to attention. Your king raises a brow as if sensing something on your mind.

“At ease,” he orders, his voice devoid of its usual sternness as he leans back against the bench, a long arm draped along the bench’s headrest.

You get a good look at the veins peering through the cuffed sleeve of his button-up, spilling down his forearm to puddle at the back of his hand. You swallow against the barbs forming in your throat, your mouth growing dry.

“Speak freely.”

You nod, your hands clasped together at the small of your back. “You have a brunch date with the Queen of Universum today, sir.”

He blinks as if this information is news to him before recollection forms between his brows. His Majesty scowls, drumming his fingers on the bench’s rim impatiently. “Of course. Another noble here to throw their daughter at my feet.”

Your shoulders slightly drop at the dejection in his tone. You wish people weren’t so insistent that he take a wife. His father ruled just fine without one following the death of his mother. Still, having been around His Majesty so long, you understand why it’s imperative he marry soon.

Your shoulder throbs dully, serving as your reminder.

You try to ignore how the thought of some pretty noble wrapped around his arm makes you bristle, green-eyed feelings stewing in your belly. It would never be you—never could be you. You’re content with being his handler, watching him mutter obscenities over paperwork from your position at his door.

“How does that make you feel?” His Majesty suddenly asks, a teasing edge to his voice.

You blink, caught off guard. “M-Me?”

His chuckle is rich and endearing, and you unconsciously step back when he stands, swaddling you in his warmth and imposing aura. Stuffing a hand into his pocket, he pokes your nose, and you go cross-eyed looking at his slender finger.

“Yes, you. How does it make you feel, knowing that so many women would kill to take my name?”

He’s trying to get a rise out of you. Trying to weasel something out of you you’ve tucked in the deepest regions of your mind. You don’t humor him; instead, you give him a haughty look, your chin defiantly jutting forward.

“I think anyone willing to marry you is clinically insane.”

He laughs at your brazenness, your teasing, full-bodied and soothing. Dimples crater his cheeks, and the softness washing over his eyes causes a smile to twitch your lips. Without warning, idle fingers scorch your skin through the fabric of your jacket, easing down your arm, past the crook of your elbow, further still…

You’re breathless as His Majesty coaxes a hand from behind your back, and you watch with slightly parted lips and through the wispy sweep of your lashes as he draws it to his mouth. His eyes drill into the hulls of your soul whilst his molten lips brush your knuckles. He kisses them with such tenderness, such reverence, as if you’re an idol forged from glass, meant to be preserved in a museum.

The sound of your pulse pounding like a war drum blots out every bit of noise around. Your throat thickens, tongue bolted to the roof of your mouth.

“Good morning, by the way,” he drawls as if ensnaring you in a secret, his warm breath ghosting your skin, limber fingers scorching your hand to the bone.

You snatch away quicker than you mean to. Smooth your palm down your thigh before pinching yourself, studying the blades of grass licking at your boots. You wish you hadn’t caught sight of the fleeting pain in his expression. Wish you hadn’t been the cause of it.

“W-We should get going, sir,” you divert, trying to hide the shakiness of your voice.

He pushes out a weighted breath, stuffing the hand once curled around yours into his opposing pocket. “Lead on, then, dear friend.”

“Right.” With a curt nod, you turn on your heel towards the patchwork of greenery you emerged from.

He follows wordlessly, closely, a towering presence at your back, footfalls weighted in the grass, swallowing up the sound of your smaller ones. Static charges between you, imbued with something potent. You practically feel his eyes boring holes into the space between your shoulder blades.

You try to no avail to quell your thundering heart. To ignore how your knuckles throb where his lips imprinted themselves on the rough stretch of skin.

You wince, inwardly warring with yourself, praying that His Majesty keeps his hands to himself long enough to get through his meal with the queen.

You could only dream he would behave.

His Majesty is as infuriating as he is handsome.

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#sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus qin #lads sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #king!sylus #royalty au #serve & protect series

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