#I just have strong feelings about linen

[the-busy-ghost]

Is laundrycore a thing? It should be

[too-deviant]

ray bans.

with…ART DONALDSON!

contains…fem!reader, 18+ CONTENT!, handjob, p in v, public sex, this was written b4 the movie came out so excuse any discrepancies!

You blame the tequila.

Strong and sharp in your glass at the tennis luncheon your boss had invited you to, swishing around with every movement you made as you told an overexaggerated story to Art Donaldson. He didn’t pay a lot of attention, you could tell, but his eyes were so firm on yours that you needed to talk to get the nerves out. 

It was the tequila, not his eyes, that got you cornered in a bathroom too fancy to be anywhere but this cushy hotel, legs pushed back so far you felt a burn in the crease of your groin. Those dusty blonde curls buried between your thighs, perfectly calloused hands holding them apart so he could lap at you with perfect fervour. 

Your eyes were watering, and he gazed at you as you came down, rubbing up and down your legs until you were ready to push yourself down and onto your feet. You wiped the runoff mascara as best you could, but huffed at the stains around your eyes.

Art had grinned, slid his sunglasses from his collar and placed them perfectly over your eyes. You’d asked him when he wanted them back, and he’d just smirked. 

Which was how you found yourself scooting past old people in linen suits and straw hats, expensive bags and designer shades on their noses. Yours weren’t designer, but they were Art Donaldson’s, so you won. 

In this life you took your seat in the rows at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Centre — a doozy of a sentence to tell your Uber driver. In this life you slid Art Donaldson’s sunglasses over your eyes and waited patiently for him to sidle onto the court, slam himself a win, and meet you in the bar to take them back. 

His hits were precise, hard, fast. The muscles in his arms and neck pulled beautifully. You pulled the plush of your lip between your teeth, letting it go when he hit another, his grunt louder to you know. Clearer. 

But as your eyes pivoted back and forth across the court, his opponents moves much more confident and fluid than his, the life changed. Now this life was a tense strain in your neck, your fingers tight around the dress you wore just for today. In this life, Art Donaldson lost, and when everyone else was cheering for the winner, you were watching him storm away. 

It was quicker to manoeuvre through the crowds now that everyone else was leaving. You didn’t have to worry about bumping into people, because they were all bumping into you and there was a collective agreement that any and all shoulder shoving slash toe-stepping was okay for now. So you slid your way through, sidestepping through the rows of seats and going down a row every time you got to some stairs — ensuring that it wasn’t completely obvious where you were going. 

You made awkward eye contact with the ball boy but your confident smile put him at ease and he dismissed you completely, allowing you to slip around the back of the stands and into the locker room. 

It was much quieter in there, the noise of the crowd fading into nothing when the door closed behind you. Now you could focus on your surroundings, the sound of water dripping and heavy breaths. 

You parted your lips gently, “Art?”

Footsteps, and then the blonde man was rounding a row of lockers and meeting your sly gaze. His own was shrouded in barely covered anger and light confusion, the latter crowing over a bit more when you took steps to invade his personal space. 

“You came.” 

“Well…” You shrugged, lifting the glasses off your head and tucking them into the collar of his polo. Letting your hand linger on the planes of his collarbones, feeling the heat radiating from the skin beneath the cotton. “That was quite some game.” 

Art huffed, “I was in walkabout. Shit luck.” 

You leaned ever so slightly closer, running your hand down his chest to just above the waistband of his shorts. You admired the way he looked under the lights — the beads of sweat on his jugular, the happy trail you could feel peek out from under the hem of the shirt. Your other hand stayed propped against the locker, and he was quick to run his own down your wrist, cupping your elbow. 

“Well…I say we pick up where we left off, no? That make you feel better?”

You narrowed your brows at him in a silent question. His minute nod was enough. Then your hand was sliding beneath his waistband, dipping into his underwear — Tommy Hilfiger — and wrapping around the base of his cock. 

He sucked in a breath, fingers tightening around your other arm, jaw ticking and eyes firmly on yours. You didn’t break contact even when you squeezed him a bit and he let out a shaky groan. 

You dropped your other hand, hooked your fingers around this waistband. Pulled it back so you could lean forward, eyes glaring at where your other hand sat. Then, with a noise so sweet he might have exploded, you let a string of spit slide from between your lips. Art watched it fall, achingly slow, onto his shaft, and then held back a cry when you started to slide your hand up and down his dick. Wetting it just right. 

You looked back up at him, made him look back at you. You pumped your fist slowly, thumbing his tip and adding his precum to your saliva. The sounds were erotic on their own, and even you had to tense your thighs together. Art’s own legs shook from his standing position, but before he could drop his head onto your shoulder you were removing both hands from his body and smirking at his painful moan. 

With your right hand still wet from his cock, you printed a perfect print on the front of his polo and pushed him gently back. He walked, transfixed on your gaze, until his calves were hitting the wooden bench and he was being sat down. He stared up at you, pleadingly so, and you lifted the hem of your dress just enough so you could slide onto your knees on either side of his hips. 

With your crotches pressed together, Art couldn’t stop his hands from flying to your ass and squeezing. You grinned, and his smirk returned in full force. 

“Should lose more often.” He murmured, leaning forward and pressing his nose against your chest, the low cut of your dress feeding his carnal desire to completely devour you. 

You hushed him gently, pushing yourself up so you could slide his shorts and boxers down to his thighs. His dick sprung out beautifully, making another wet patch where it hit the bottom of his shirt. You used your hand, brought one of his around so he could pump himself while you reached under your dress and pushed your underwear to the side. Then you were shuffling forward and letting Art align the tip of his cock with the wet of your folds.

You didn’t waste a moment, bracing yourself on his shoulders and rolling your hips along his own. Your breathy moans accumulated to the steam you had now registered coming from the shower he had abandoned in favour of letting you take him like this. His huffs and puffs only increased as he began to control your movements, rutting into you from below. 

The creaky hinges of the bench cried with every hurried thrust, but the shower muffled most of your sounds. You gave into your urges and licked a stripe up the plane of his neck, bringing your hands around to grip hard at his back, creasing his already ruined shirt. His own mouth was suckling and nipping at your chest, hitting that sweet sweet spot just in time for your movements to get a little sloppy. 

Smacks of skin on skin fuelled the fire in your gut, and your fingers coiled around his blonde curls. His own movements stuttered, and you let out a guttural groan into the humidity of the room when you finally reached your peak, Art following not far behind you. 

You stood with effort, fixing your underwear and patting your dress down while Art panted beneath you. Then you patted him on the cheek, took his sunglasses back from his shirt and put them right back on your face.

“I’ll see you at the mixer next month.”

divider by @bunnysrph 🫶

[notmyneighbor]

Let Me In ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 5

Word Count ~5k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ sexual content, mild body horror and violence

Also available on AO3

taglist @luthien-elvenia-asher

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

The power is restored later that evening.

You are still sitting on the living room sofa before it happens, still tucked against the doppelgänger. Listening to the death of the storm outside. Watching the gray light oozing through the windows grow dimmer.

“How far did you walk to get here?”

“Not far. The delivery truck broke down about a mile from your house.”

“I’ll give you a ride back into town tomorrow, then. You’ll need to get it repaired as soon as possible.” It was strange, planning things with the imposter like this. As if you were truly allies and not sworn enemies. “What are you going to do once you move back?”

“I haven’t decided my next course of action yet.” His thumb is caressing the line he’d carved on your arm. Gentle, absent strokes.

A blossom of light suddenly illuminates the room. Electricity. You sigh with relief, straightening. You notice your panties still lying on the floor where he’s discarded them. The things that had seemed forgiveable in the darkness now feel indecent under the lighting. Like you’re being judged for your transgressions.

You look at what had once been Francis Mosses and your heart turns over again. And this is why you’ve done it; all of it. Because the sight of him instantly weakens you. You can’t help yourself.

His clothing, still in a state of half-on, half-off, is rumpled, still dirt stained from his trek to your house.

“I’ll draw you a bath,” you say. “While I make dinner.”

He rises, hastily fastening the button of his fly so the work pants don’t drop to the floor. The belt buckle he leaves as it is, the end with the metal piece jingling as he walks, following you up the stairs. The farmhouse squeaks in protest with each step. A heavy tred, though the milkman had never seemed anything but lean. Perhaps what was dwelling inside lent the extra weight.

You turn the lights on as you go, making sure every corner is devoid of shadows. There’s a tiny linen closet in the hall you retrieve a bath towel from. You’re considering what clothing you might have that he could wear while you wash his. Something a former boyfriend had left behind, maybe. You lean and turn the faucets of the claw foot tub on, testing the water temperature and adjusting accordingly.

“I have to find something for you to wear. Just leave everything on the sink and I’ll wash it for you.” You’re about to exit the room when he halts you, fingers lightly closing over your forearm. The previously injured one.

His lips touch yours. Just once. Just for the feel of it, to place a reminder there. You were his.

The deceiver releases you, working on the buttons of his work shirt’s cuffs. You duck out of the bathroom, making your way to your dresser. Nearly every piece of furniture in the home is hand made, built to last. Solid pine, the scent of it still strong after all these years as you begin rummaging inside. There, at the bottom. Shoved way back. Undershirt, briefs.

You snatch at them and return to the other room. Finding the imposter nude, standing beside the tub. You blush, not looking directly at him as you shut off the faucets. You test the temperature a final time and decide it’s safe.

“Soap, shampoo. Here’s a wash cloth.” You point out the items. Wondering if these creatures ever bathed. If cleansing their true form was ever a concern.

One foot sinks into the water. The other follows. He sits down slowly. A little sigh escaping at the feeling of soaking in the warmth.

“I’m going to go start supper.” You close the door softly behind you, descending the stairs. Considering your options for a meal. You’d never gotten a chance to check the garden earlier, so fresh vegetables were out. Canned ones, then. Green beans and instant mashed potatoes from the box. Leftover meatloaf from the previous evening. A quick, easy meal to prepare. Your eyes linger on the bottle of milk in the refrigerator. Not from Francis’ company, but a reminder nonetheless. You shut the fridge again after grabbing the necessary ingredients, then preheat the oven.

It doesn’t take long to get things ready. How strange to see two place settings on the oak kitchen table. You hadn’t had company over in a long time.

Still no appearance from your current guest. You walk to the foot of the stairs. “Francis! Dinner is ready.” You were still unsure how else to address him. It just seemed easier to call him that. If it bothered him, he didn’t reveal it.

The pretender returns just as you’re pouring two glasses of iced tea. You’ve never seen Francis with wet hair; it lies so dark and flat when it’s wet. The clothing you’ve lent doesn’t quite fit right, a little loose on the shirt and tighter on the material clinging to his hips.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything better to offer you. I wasn’t expecting…”

“It’s fine.” He holds out a hand, turning it over to stare curiously at new wrinkles along each digit.

“You pruned up. Spent too long in the water,” you explain. “How was the bath?”

“Enjoyable.”

“Good. Have a seat.” You drag the chair out slightly and he finishes the task, settling at the table about to be laden with food.

The dark eyes follow your movements around the kitchen. Potholders in hand as you remove the reheated dish from the oven. It seems too quiet in the house. You wish you had switched on the radio in the living room. Just for the comforting sound of background noise. Something to soothe your frayed nerves.

You sit across from your guest after you’ve filled both your plates. He still hasn’t touched anything. Hesitant. Waiting. And then you realize it. Francis would have said grace. You close your eyes and bow your head, reciting the words. “Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts that we're about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

A soft echo of the last word. You wonder if it would be considered blasphemy, what you’ve just done. The invader participating in it. You’ve never been overly religious yourself. You suppose you’ve committed far worse transgressions than this one over the course of the day.

The dark haired creature lifts a spoon and takes a tentative scoop of the white mixture, bringing it to his mouth. Considering the taste. “Good.”

You realize you’re starving and you dig in. Stabbing the loaf and cutting off a piece, blowing on it to make sure it’s cooled enough before taking a bite. Still moist. Your grandmother’s recipe. The figure on the opposite side of the table mimics your actions. “Careful. Don’t burn yourself. It’s still hot.” You hate burning your tongue. That awful soreness, the awkward numb feeling.

It doesn’t take long for the imposter to clear his plate. “Seconds?” He nods and you push back your chair, lifting his plate and returning to the counter. The glass he refills himself from the pitcher on the table. “Have you eaten before this?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t…” He pauses. “Different than this.” He seems reluctant to elaborate and you’re not sure you want him to, so you let the subject matter drop, setting another helping before him and retaking your seat.

You struggle for a safe topic of conversation. Everything you think of, each query you seek answers for, seem anything but. This domestic peace between you feels fragile. You’re not sure how long it will last.

After the meal concludes you bring your dishes to the counter and the false milkman copies your actions, piling them next to yours beside the sink. You let the water run hot and then plug the drain, filling the sink halfway. You squeeze a generous dollop of dish soap from the bottle tucked on the rim of the porcelain basin. A little too generous, maybe. There are a few little iridescent bubbles that drift through the air in front of you.

One arm tucks around your waist from behind. Lips beside your ear. You struggle to scrub the plate in your hands, your heart pounding. A throbbing further down. Still hungry for him.

He hums Francis’ song. You feel tears welling in your eyes again. The dish you set in the drying rack nearly falls, your wet fingers clumsy.

“Did he suffer?”

The humming stops. “What?”

“Francis. When you took him over. Was it quick, at least?”

“Yes.” He could be lying, of course. But why would the alien care about your own comfort?

You pull the drainer from the sink and the water level begins descending, the last of it suctioned inside with a loud squelching noise. He’s still holding you. His breath warm by your cheek.

You can see nothing through the window above the sink. You stare at that void, blinking away the tears.

***

You’d forgotten about the bloodstains on Francis’ work shirt.

You’ve just begun lathering the fabric with soap in the bathroom sink upstairs when you notice the incriminating flecks.

Hydrogen peroxide will remove them. Erase those traces of the milkman’s lifeforce that had spattered upon his surrender.

It makes you want to weep again.

Once your chores are completed you take your own bath.

You don’t linger. You’re thinking of the doppelgänger resting in the chair in the corner of your bedroom. Trying to figure out where he’ll spend the night. The living room couch, maybe.

The mirrored medicine cabinet is clouded when you emerge. You swipe at it ineffectually with your towel, still damp from your body. The one the creature had used lying in a pile on the floor by the tub. You toss it into the hamper before dragging a comb through your hair and brushing your teeth. Hastily sliding into a sleeveless nightgown. Tiny lilacs printed on the fabric. You have them growing in the side yard, the perfumed scent when they’re in bloom wafting over you when you walk by. You touch the purple satin bow at the scooped neckline. A delicate little detail.

Those dark eyes watching you as you begin to strip the bed. He moves to assist you in stretching a fresh fitted sheet over the mattress. You can hear the drip of the water from Francis’ clothes hung to dry over the tub in the next room.

He sits on the side of the bed while you rub moisturizing lotion into your elbows, over your hands and arms. Legs once you’re seated on the opposite side. He’s moved so that he’s propped upright against the carved headboard, lower limbs stretching out along the length of the bed. Inviting himself in. Maybe it was better this way. At least you could keep an eye on him. Not worrying and wondering what he was doing downstairs all evening.

You switch off the lamp on the nightstand and lie down. Hear him scoot lower until he’s resting next to you. There’s just a top sheet at the foot of the bed. It’s really too warm for more than that. Through the cracked bedroom window you can hear the crickets chirping near the foundation outside. You turn away from him, reclining on your side, facing the wall. Willing your eyes to shut, to get some rest.

Succeeding.

You awaken and it’s still dark in the room. There is a hand on your bare shoulder, stroking circles along your deltoid muscle, grazing the path where your neck meets your shoulder, dipping into the hollow above your collarbone.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you hold your breath. Wondering again over how fast your body reacts to his touch, to his voice, to everything. “What are you doing to me?” As if you are the one caressing him in the middle of the night and not the other way around. “What is this feeling…this ache…”

You turn onto your back. He reaches blindly for your face. Following the angle of your jaw. His thumb seats in the dip in the edge below your bottom lip and he tugs gently, your mouth opening. His mouth finds yours. Tongue slithering between. You whimper. Your fingers seed in his hair. Still slightly damp. Refusing to dry in this humidity. He reaches for the hem of your nightgown, sliding the cotton material upward. Immediately at your panties, eagerly working inside. A heavy sigh of satisfaction from him. You gasp, your legs falling open. So wet already. Your body not caring if this isn’t really the man you love. It wants this. It craves this forbidden touch.

He’s so, so good at the touching. Retaining everything you’d showed him previously. Expertly manipulating your clit. Thrusting inside of you. You moan into his mouth. The side of his throat. You lap at that skin. Rough now. The first pricks of new growth of facial hair coarse against you.

“My sweet girl. Mine. You’re mine.” You do not protest. Your hips are lifting, grinding you against his fingers. It doesn’t take long to find your release. Your nails rake his back. The praise spills from his lips. The claims that you belong to him continue. His possession. His. To do with as he wishes. “Touch me, love. I need you.”

You find his cock leaking against the tight fitting underwear. You shove at the elastic top, releasing it partially from its confines. Stroking. He shifts positions, resting on one forearm. Fucking into the tight ring of your fingers. “Francis.” He’s not him, he never will be, but it’s so easy to pretend when it’s like this. In the dark and the heat of the summer weather, from the exchange between your bodies.

“I want to be inside of you. I want…I want…”

His breath shudders and his hips stutter as his orgasm rocks through him. Spilling hot seed over your fingers. The mattress dipping and creaking as he drops his full weight down onto it. You slip out of bed, padding barefoot into the hallway to retrieve a wash cloth. Washing your hands at the sink in the bathroom before bringing the dampened material back to the imposter in your bed, dragging it over his skin until you’re satisfied he’s clean.

You leave the soiled cloth on the nightstand, lying back down with your back to him again. He pulls you against him. The curves of your bodies fit together like spoons resting stacked in a silverware drawer. Your hands rest on the forearms curled around your torso. Feeling the threads of his body hair. He breathes your name into your neck and you shiver. There are still so many hours before dawn.

***

The week of your suspension passes quickly.

Francis’ doppel has already moved back into the apartments. Calls made. To the milkman’s employer. To the DDD director. He says he seemed placated, but you know better. They’ve been alerted. They’re going to be watching him closely. Both of you.

You like having him visit your home far more than you should.

It’s beginning to feel comfortable. A routine developing. He helps you sand and repaint the front porch once the weather is no longer humid. Tending to the garden. Mending the fence bordering the side yard. Replacing the broken bracket for one of the pantry shelves. Tightening the gasket under the kitchen sink when you hear water dripping during dinner one evening. There are endless repairs when one owns a home. Especially one of this age. It’s strange to see the imposter working so diligently to maintain it.

Stranger still how much you enjoy him in your bed.

There are many kisses and touches. Moments of taking each apart with hands and mouths. You learn each other’s bodies. You know he wants even more of you. You want it, too. But you’re reluctant. For so many reasons. Fearing an accidental pregnancy not the least of them.

The guilt of betraying the real Francis that still haunts you.

***

Your replacement as doorman had not been very tidy.

The desk is cluttered with papers, confiscated entry requests and identification cards. Pens no longer in their cup beside the phone. The day’s listing taped sloppily to the wall beside the window so it hangs at an angle.

You spend some time rearranging things. Restoring order. Internally, you’re trying to get yourself back into the right frame of mind. You have a duty to protect the residents. The replicants are not welcome. Never to be trusted. Francis’ copy is the only exception.

You shouldn’t be making it.

He’s there at your window later that day. Looking tired. Thrusting his ID and paperwork through the narrow slot at the base of the glass. Merely for show, of course. There is a security camera inside the office now. That video feed being constantly monitored by a DDD member. You’ve already warned him about it.

There’s an extra piece of paper beneath the entry request form. A small scrap with a torn edge. You tuck it into your palm quickly before reviewing his documents, then handing them back with a smile before pressing the door to allow him to enter.

You make a show of shifting some papers, your back to the camera as you quickly unfold the secret message. An invitation to come to his apartment once your shift is over. It wasn’t wise to draw attention to him. But you find yourself unable to resist the offer. You see the pilot that lives near Francis leaning in the open doorway of his residence as you exit the elevator after your workday ends, smoking a cigarette.

“Mr. Rudboys,” you greet him, nodding. “I’m just dropping off some paperwork for Mr. Mosses.”

He grunts, a smirk twitching his thin lips. “Sure you are, doll.”

Your spine stiffens in embarrassment, your neck warm beneath your shirt collar as you knock on the apartment door.

Your lover opens it and you hastily bid farewell to his neighbor before you enter, closing the door behind you with a little sigh of relief. “I think he might suspect—” You don’t get a chance to finish as his mouth covers yours. “Francis,” you gasp.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, planting kisses along your throat, unbuttoning the top of your blouse and seating his lips in the hollow there. “This tedious work routine is unbearable.”

“I did warn you. You have to earn a living. Pay bills. I still don’t understand why you wanted this.”

“It’s not the mundane work ethic you devote yourselves to that we’re interested in, I assure you.” He nibbles your ear.

“So why do it, then?”

He sighs, his affectionate gestures ceasing. “Do you really want to talk about this right now? I had envisioned a rather different evening for us. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“I found something I know you’ll like. Come here.” He leads you into the living room. There’s a tan object resting on the coffee table. The length is too short to be a suitcase, the height making you realize what it is a heartbeat before he lifts the lid. A portable record player. Beside it, a shallow stack of vinyl albums. “Saw it in a shop window on my route downtown. I’ve no idea if you like those artists, but…”

“Francis.” You cover your mouth with your hand. You can hardly believe it. Such a thoughtful gesture. From the intruder or some sentiment of the man he’d taken over. You don’t know which is which. You never have.

“Try it out,” he invites.

You already know which record you’re going to play. At the very top of the pile you see Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s collaboration. You slide it from the sleeve and place it on the turntable. Setting the needle down gently on the ebony disc, you grin when it starts to play.

“Turn the volume up. It’s only fair, considering.” He nods towards the direction of the apartment where Mia Stone and her fiancé reside, a mischievous smirk on his features.

You comply, still uncomfortable with making it too loud. “Dance with me?” You’re not certain if he knows how. But the memory is there for him, plucked from the depths at this hour of need. His hands rest on your waist. You twine your arms behind his neck.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you

Birds singin' in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me

He turns, lifting you easily. You smile again, allowing him to pull one of your hands free to clasp beside you as you rest the other one on his shoulder, swaying gently as your bodies move in a tight circle.

Say nighty-night and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

The doppel leans suddenly and you gasp, but his hand is strong against your lower spine, the other holding your hand tightly. The throaty male singer’s voice begins the next verse as you’re lifted upright again.

Stars fading but I linger on dear

Still craving your kiss

Now I'm longin' to linger till dawn dear

Just saying this

“I thought you didn’t like music,” you murmur against his ear, lifting slightly on your toes.

“It’s growing on me.” You draw back to find him smiling. Francis’ smile. Your heart lurching in your chest again as the artists’ voices join together.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Leave the worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever may be

You've gotta make me a promise, promise to me

You'll dream, dream a little dream of me

The song ends. His hands cup your face. “Sweetheart.” His mouth hungry on yours. “Come to bed with me, love.”

You nod, following him to the bedroom. Undressing each other. Practiced at this now, clothing quickly shed. Not stopping to move the comforter, pressing your naked body down on top of it.

“I want to be inside of you.” He says this often, and it frightens you as much as it thrills you.

“Francis…”

“Let me in, love, please. My special, sweet girl…” His hand wedges between your thighs. Never once has he forced you. Never once have you denied him. You open your legs and he straightens, kneeling between that v shaped space. Running his erection along your pink flesh, parting your nether lips, spreading the slick from your core through them. Massaging your hooded button. Pausing outside your entrance. Waiting for your permission.

“Please,” he says, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him say the word.

“Okay.”

Pressure as the fattened dome violates your canal. You gasp and his hands instantly reach to soothe you, caressing your thigh as he thrusts inside gradually. He leans his weight forward in small increments, bringing your legs up as he goes. Pressing deeper inside of you. Still more than you’re used to. There’s a burn accompanying the stretch as his prick fills your pussy. A kind of raw ache when he is fully sheathed, bumping against the edge of your cervix. Lifting his hips, the shaft sliding back. Thrust in again. A slow rhythm that you know belies what he really wants. His arms tremor with the tension on either side of you. Your knees hug his ribs. He kisses you and you rock against him. The movements become easier. A wet sound every time he bottoms out, his cock fully buried, the base of his groin tapping your own.

“So perfect, love. So tight around me.” He’s already perspiring. He hadn’t opened the window. The air in the room is stale and warm. You taste the salt of his leaking sweat when he kisses you.

“Francis. You feel so good…” The discomfort has subsided. Now, every motion brings nothing but pleasure. Your nails dig into his shoulders. The warning your mind attempts to deliver is ignored. You want this. You want him. You’ll worry about the consequences later.

He moans loudly. “They’ll hear you next door,” you caution.

“I don’t give a fuck. You’re mine,” he growls, nipping at your throat. “I want to mark you again. Somewhere everyone will see.” Sucking kisses near your collarbone. Moving back to your neck.

“Oh, Francis, don’t.” You know how difficult it is to conceal a hickey. You can’t allow it. Imagining greeting the residents with a bloom of raspberry on your throat after the fragile vessels beneath had burst. It was too much.

“A different kind of mark, then. Like the one I made before. Somewhere they won’t see.” There is still an ache to the healing wound he’d previously left. The sutures have been removed, the edges knitting together nicely. “I like being able to feel you when you’re not with me.” He thrusts back inside you. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” His pelvis jerks faster, his passion building once more. A hand snakes between your bodies, thumb stroking your clit.

“Oh…” Your hips roll up, making that finger collide more firmly. The familiar sensation of release building inside of you. The coil tightening. “Francis…”

“Cum for me, love. Want to feel you around me.”

Your lower spine is on fire. You can’t hold back any longer. You climax, the walls of your canal spasming around him as the pleasure wracks through your body. Trying to milk your partner’s release. It’s working. You recognize the tell tale shudder. The way his breathing becomes ragged. “Please let me,” he says again, his voice full of need.

“Yes.”

A sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh escapes him. His mouth at the place where your neck and shoulder meet. An instant of heat and needle sharp pain. Something piercing you. Not Francis’ teeth, but belonging to the thing inside of him. The hurt vanishes, replaced by another sensation. You’re warm again. Your body ready for another release. The wave of a second orgasm dragging the doppel through his own. You feel the wet heat of his ejaculate filling you deep inside.

The damp skin you’re clutching ripples. That hazy shimmer visible when he draws back slightly to regard your features, still buried in your womb. You haven’t seen this struggle for many days now. Nearly forgetting its existence. Allowing yourself to be deluded.

Now reminded as the imposter fights for control. The hand that had been draped loosely against your throat tightens slightly, a sharp prick of claws digging into that soft skin, nearly enough to invade that barrier. Your eyes widen in alarm. “Francis,” you manage to choke out.

He abruptly releases you. Looking at his hand as if it’s foreign to him. The movement beneath his flesh stops, the halo fading. He is whole again.

“I’m sorry. I was overwhelmed, I…” His voice trails off. You struggle to move and he withdraws. You feel his cum dripping out of you, staining the blanket beneath you. “Sweetheart.” Worry in his eyes. Touching your cheek. Your force yourself not to flinch. Not to think about the unnatural seed he’s just filled you with. What that union could possibly result in.

The bite he’s left tingles. You reach for it absently, the flesh warm beneath your fingers. It’s slightly raised and firm. Like getting an insect bite, your body reacting to the venom injected.

“It will go away. I didn’t…it’s not deep.” His fingers nudging yours, feeling the injury. “Sweetheart. You’re so quiet. Talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling. What you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know.” There are so many of each, all competing to be heard and felt. “I think…I think I’d better go home now.”

“Stay,” he pleads. This sudden begging of his, you’re not sure what to make of it. “Even if not for the night, just stay with me.”

You shake your head. “I should go. It’s well past curfew.”

“I don’t care about your stupid government’s rules,” he snaps impatiently.

“I do. I have to live by them.” You move to sit on the side of the mattress, his hand reaching for you, settling on your scarred forearm.

“I thought about you all day. All I wanted was this. To be with you.”

“Francis. I can’t stay. Truly. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You bend to retrieve the nearest article of clothing you can reach.

“You’re upset with me.”

“I’m scared, Francis.”

“Of me?”

“Yes. No. Not just you. Everything. You guide his hand to your abdomen. “What will you do if there’s a baby?”

“Is that what you’re so concerned about?“ He sighs heavily, looking relieved. “I’ll protect it. Just like I’ll protect you.”

“They would never let us keep it. Not your species. Not the organization. The DDD would dispose of it. Your race…you wanted it for an experiment. You told me that.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“You know what.”

You swallow thickly. “This is so dangerous. And you act like it’s not. They’ll kill us, Francis.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. I won’t let that happen. Did you notice there were no doppels today?”

“I did. It’s unusual, but it does happen on occasion.”

“That’s because of me. Because they recognize this.” He caresses your marked arm. “No one would ever dare harm you.” His fingers now on the new puncture he’d created.

“Even if that’s true, it won’t stop the DDD.”

The imposter cups your cheek. “You’ve done something to me. Not something visually apparent. Something inside. I have to be with you.” He kisses you, the intially chaste gesture deepening and your hand relaxes, dropping the garment you’d retrieved back to the carpet. “Stay with me. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

You can’t refuse.

[toruro]

— ✧ to the brim

pairing. kim mingyu x reader

description. all your sweet husband wants is to put a baby into you—is that so bad?

↳ tags. smut (18+), breeding kink, husband!mingyu, filthy honestly

w/c. 2.9k

a/n. request .. i couldnt hold back

you shut your eyes tight, squirming against the soft linen sheets as your husband holds you down. mingyu’s thick, strong arm latches onto your hips, pushing them back down whenever you dig your heels into the mattress and lift them up.

his tongue is lapping at your cunt, the lower half of his face slowly turning into a slobbering, dripping mess. “gyu,” you cry out, as he brings up a single finger and plunges it into your gummy walls, rubbing against them relentlessly and moves his mouth to your clit.

this is mingyu’s treat, as he put it five minutes earlier when you rolled on top of him this morning. you’d spent a few peaceful minutes laying on his sheet as he stroked his fingers through your hair as you drowsily murmured something about enjoying this weekend. of course, mingyu being the loving, caring, giving husband that he is, he offered to go down on you to make sure your day started off a little extra sweet.

now, as mingyu promised, you’re on the verge of your likely first of many orgasms for the next two days, nearly having to grab a pillow to cover your mouth so you don’t get a noise complaint from your neighbors.

reaching down to pull his hair, mingyu moans against your core when you tug at the thick brown locks, the vibrations building up that knot that he’s been so carefully tying. he’s looking you right in the eyes and the way his eyelids are half closed, almost as if he’s enjoying this as much as you (he probably is), has that knot being pulled so tight that you can’t help but let tears prick at corner of your eyes when it finally snaps.

mingyu fucks his fingers into you so fast it has you seeing stars as you ride out your orgasm, his demanding grip on your waist finally being release so you can swivel your hips to meet the movements of his hands. coming down with cries of his name and heavy pants, mingyu finally frees your overstimulated cunt of his ministrations, not breaking his gaze on you.

“you liked that?” he asks jokingly, peeling himself away from your wet thighs, glistening chin on display under the morning glow. rolling your eyes as you finally catch your breath, you let your hiked up knees fall to the bed as mingyu crawls up to you, pressing a messy kiss on your lips.

wincing slightly at the feeling of your own wetness against your cheeks, you push his face away gently. “of course i liked that,” you mumble, face burning.

mingyu chuckles, rolling over and laying in his back next to you, legs intertwined with yours. “just making sure angel,” he replies, bringing up a finger to wipe away some of the wetness from his lips, watching you as you shimmy your panties back on. he pouts when he realizes you’re getting up, fisting and unfisting his hand as he reaches out for you in a grabbing motion. “want more, angel.”

you consider going along with whatever plans mingyu has, and although you are quite turned on, you also feel the need to be a little productive. “i thought this was my treat, was it not?” you retort, swinging your legs over the bed and standing up, making your way out the door.

mingyu huffs at your response, “you’re lame,” throwing his head back. he kicks his legs around in the bed with a faux tantrum, rolling over to your side—he insists it’s warmer—and reaches for your phone. “hey babe, what’s your password again?” he calls out to you in a teasing tone when you’re at the bedroom door.

“mingyu there’s no way you just asked me that,” you sigh, knowing where this is going. he looks up at you with a smug grin as he holds your phone in the air.

“i know,” he says smugly, ”i just want to hear you say it.”

warmth permeates your body at his honesty, and you ears burn as you turn away, embarrassed. “it’s your birthday…”

“aww, really?” he coos as if you haven’t repeated this a million times.

“yes babe,” you mumble, walking out the door. “don’t milk it, or i’ll change it.”

mingyu gasps from the bed. “you would never,” he yells in disbelief.

“would so!” you yell back, grinning to yourself knowing that it’s a damn lie. “what are you doing on my phone anyways?” you ask curiously from the kitchen.

“‘m checking your calendar,” he replies, and from the open door you can see him scrolling through what you can only assume is your period app. you, once again, have an idea of where this is going to go, except this time you aren’t sure if you’ll be able to control yourself—not with the way you instinctively press your thighs together as you remember that it’s that time of month.

no, not that time of month—the other time of month.

you don’t even have time to think about what you’re going to make for breakfast because mingyu is thudding down the hallway and circling his large hand around your wrist and dragging you back to the bedroom. you can’t even find it in you to protest at this point, the familiar pooling of heat at the base of your stomach reinforcing the fact that you want—no, need—this as much as him.

you stumble over your steps but mingyu’s grip on you is tight and steady and before you know it he has you in the air and thrown onto the mattress. “you’re already prepped right angel?” mingyu confirms as he pushes his boxers down before clambering on top of you, resting himself between your legs.

“i dunno,” you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him down into a fierce kiss. “you kind of did eat me out like five minutes ago, did you forget?”

“how could i?” mingyu grins, tugging at the hem of your (his) shirt as a signal to take it off. “you look so hot when you cum,” he adds, “wish i could take a picture and make it my wallpaper or something.” he yanks down your soiled panties once more, making it a personal goal for himself to make sure you don’t get the chance to put them back on this morning.

“you already have pictures,” you remind him, slipping off mingyu’s shirt from your body, falling back onto the sheets as he stares down at you, his painfully hard length pressing into your thigh.

“yeah but they aren’t my wallpaper,” mingyu whines, flicking your clit once and chuckling at the way your body jerks.

“maybe because i don’t want—i don’t know—dokyeom to see me naked every time you open your phone.”

“ugh, you’re right—i hate sharing,” he agrees, nudging his tip against your folds. “you ready angel?”

"uh-huh," you murmur, lifting your hips slightly so he can line himself up with your hole. his bulbous tip hardly pushes in an inch before you're whining out his name and pushing the side of your face into the mattress from the stretch.

not even years with mingyu can prepare you for the way his cock is always so thick and long—the initial stretch is always a challenge, but the sensation of being split in two by your one and only husband has become one that you cherish.

"fuck," mingyu grunts, letting his had fall to your shoulder as he eases his cock into your cunt. "you're fucking sucking me in babe," he continues as he finally bottoms out. pressing kissing onto your skin, you dig your nails into mingyu's back as he allows you to adjust.

when you start to involuntarily rock your hips into his, mingyu takes this as his chance to take control, pressing his arms into your pelvis to still your movements. looking up at him with confusion, his only response is a smirk as he roughly snaps his hips back, the harsh drag of his cock making your vision go hazy and your mind go dizzy. without warning, he ruts back into you, and he feels so close that you nearly feel his cock pulsing inside of your cunt.

the sound of your soaked pussy and mingyu's cock colliding echos through the room, a wet puddle forming beneath the area you connect. your body shakes on the mattress with every thrust, his hips sending you in a back and forth motion as you reach for his hand to stabilize yourself.

"fuck, how are you always this tight?" he moans, slick from your cunt running down his thigh as he angles himself higher above you.

"f-feels so good gyu," you manage to gasp, your legs weakening, their grip on his hips growing loose. "baby, your shoulders—fuck—ca-can you—can i—" you beg incandescently, not making much sense but it seems mingyu understands the message as he slows down his movements.

"god yes." grabbing your legs, he pushes them up so that your knees are pressing against your chest. you secure them in their spot by wrapping your hands under your knees, but the position doesn't last for long before mingyu throws each leg over his shoulder so your ankles touch behind his neck. mingyu latches his arms over your legs that are now pressed against his chest, before pulling his hips back and ramming back into you.

the sound of skin slapping against skin rings in your ears and with every batter of his cock against that one spot in your cunt, you feel closer and closer to white, hot release. you grapple at the sheets around you, not being able to hold your husband's hands, and squirm at the feeling of his cock twitch inside of you.

"you close gyu? 'm close," you moan.

"yeah—shit—i can tell babe, you're squeezing me so tight, so good. gonna milk me dry angel?" he grunts, pressing down further so you're nearly bent in half.

"i wanna," you babble mindlessly, "wanna cum with you—wanna have your cum gyu—"

even in your hazy state, you catch the way mingyu's eyes darken at your words. "fuck say that again," he orders.

"want your cum!" you cry out, feeling the hot coil in your stomach grow close to it's end. "fill me up gyu, 'm so close, 'm ready—please, please, please, gimme your cum gyu, please." your words are going through mingyu's ears and straight down to his cock and then he's slamming into you so hard you think you might fall off the face of the earth.

"fucking perfect pussy, 'm gonna fill you up, fill you up so good your tummy's gonna be all swollen with my baby," mingyu moans with thick spurts of his seed shooting through you, marking your cunt as his. the feeling has your back arching off the mattress, legs shaking over his shoulders as you shriek his name. "you like that?"

"mingyu—shit! love it, love your cum, love you!" you whine as pleasure slams through your body, legs giving out from the tension so they fall by mingyu's side so he can continue fucking into you despite his own overstimulation.

he watches the way you twitch at every movement, looking down at the part when his cock kisses your pussy, adoring the way he's able to fuck all his dripping seed back into you, muttering to himself about how he's gotta "make sure you don't waste a drop."

within a few moments you're both intertwined as an overstimulated mess, mingyu finally stilling inside of you as you pant for breath. "think it worked?" he murmurs, and you lift your head to look down at your core.

"it'd better," you reply, letting mingyu lean down to kiss you. then, against his lips, you continue, "we fucked up the sheets for this." you shift a little and then you feel the cool wet spot that has formed, cringing at how you already have to change the sheets.

"mm, we can just make use of the space…you know, since it's already so messy," mingyu suggest, pulling away from your lips and now that he's not kissing you, you're hyper aware of the way he's growing hard inside of you.

"mingyu—"

"c'mon angel, you know you want to. need to see you brimming with my cum," he eggs you on, grabbing your waist and turning you over on your stomach while he's still inside of you. you feel the stretch from inside of your pussy return, and mingyu's words are doing nothing but filthy things to you because you feel yourself growing warmer at the thought of his cum seeping out of you.

"please," you squeak out when he forcefully yanks your hips up so your ass is in the air, lined up with mingyu's pelvis.

"so needy," mingyu chuckles, pulling his length out halfway, placing a hand on your ass to steady himself. your whole core is covered in wetness, a mix of his saliva from earlier when he went down on you, his cum, and your own wetness. the sticky mixture coats both of your bodies now, and mingyu can't help but spiral at the idea that after this, you're going to be filled with even more of his cum.

he snaps his hips so his cock slamming back into you with such sheer force that you lurch forward, the only thing holding you in your spot being mingyu's grip on your lower half. "bet you wanted this—fuck—" he mutters out, each word punctuated with increasingly sharp thrusts, "—from the moment you woke up. wanted to be fucked raw. wanted me to dump my cum inside of your perfect fucking pussy."

"yes!" you agree without a thought to your head, arms giving out so your face is pressing into the mattress now. your moans are a bit muffled and mingyu is slightly annoyed that he can't hear you to your fullest, releasing his irritation by plunging his cock into your gaping cunt harder and harder, which has you crying out louder and louder.

"holy fuck, you're so tight—are you gonna cum already?" mingyu groans as you arch your back and push your ass back to meet his thrusts, chasing your third orgasm of the day.

"s-sorry gyu—it feels s-so so good," you blabber, tears springing at your eyes as a sob rips at your throat. you're so close already, your core squeezing and twitching uncontrollably at the immense stimulation and pleasure that's coming over you. you're tethering on to whatever last bit of self control you have as mingyu abuses your warm, wet walls with his cock.

"don't apologize angel," mingyu reminds you, but it's hard to believe him when his voice sounds so strained. you can tell he's refraining, holding himself back from letting loose and now you're mind is going blank at the thought of mingyu cumming inside you as tears begin to streak down your cheeks.

"oh my god, mingyu, 'm getting close," you warn, body growing limp as your thighs begin to cramp.

"fuck, my precious angel gonna cum on my cock? gonna make a mess?"

"yes, love your cock mingyu, love it, need it," you plead. "can i have your cum? wan' more of your cum gyu—feels so good." your vocabulary is reducing to that of a five-year olds (save for the repeated begging for mingyu's seed) and you can't help but hiccup over yourself.

"wan' my cum? fuck, i'll give you my cum—breeding you like the good fucking girl you are," mingyu spits out, jamming his cock into you with sloppy but determined thrusts. they're erratic and mindless but it has your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you cum for the third time this morning.

muffling your cries with the sheets underneath you, the way you're bawling out his name and pleading, "fill me up gyu, do it deep," has him letting go of all notions of self control.

he's cumming inside of you once more with one last thrust, murmuring, "gonna fuck a baby into you—you want that? wanna have my babies, angel?"

"yes gyu—fuck!" you moan at the feeling of his load being squirted inside of you, the hot ropes of cum seeming endless as the sensation helps you ride out the last of your orgasm.

"fuck, i've filled you to the brim," mingyu groans, looking down at the way his and your liquids cream the base of his cock and balls, the mess dripping down onto the linen. "what a mess," he mumbles to himself, more satisfied with himself than anything.

you're still slightly shaking, the past three orgasms fully catching up to you with a harsh wave of exhaustion that has your body falling forward flat onto the mattress, mingyu slipping out of you in the process. you let out a soft groan at the feeling of being empty, but have no time to dwell on the thought as mingyu flips you over again so you're lying on your back.

you're able to see the look on his face now, finally facing him, and the way his eyes sparkle down at you has your stomach tumbling in adoration. "i love you," mingyu states, eyes trailing down from your face back down to your cunt.

"i love you too," you chuckle before saying, "my eyes are up here lover boy." mingyu rolls his eyes, but doesn't peel his eyes away. "take a picture babe, it'll last longer." mingyu's eyes shoot up at that.

"can i?"

"only if you send it to me too."

a/n. hope you enjoyed! please like and reblog and let me know how u liked this c:

[forlix]

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?” 

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause. 

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path. 

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.” 

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there. 

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.” 

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour. 

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

 “Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?” 

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall. 

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze. 

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter. 

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds. 

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session. 

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete. 

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person. 

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe. 

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels. 

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you. 

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand. 

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system. 

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod. 

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?” 

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane. 

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[iwendix]

DO ME A FAVOR,

GIVE ME A TASTE

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: not proofreaded(there's probably misspellings and mistakes but rn I'm too tired to do anything about them😭). smut with just a little bit of a plot. a lot bit of manipulation. fingering, pussy licking, breasts play, teasing, dom!harin, sub!reader, praise kink, praise receiving!reader, good girl!reader, unnie!harin, strap using. reader innocent and harin loves to have control over such a gentle flower, it feels comforting for her.

𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: you always had been in A, but a few months ago this changed, and now on every vote you're a B. were you a perfectionist or did you just want more power and status? who knows. but one thing is clear: you want to become A again and harin can help you with this, and very opportunely, you notice harin’s constant glances at yourself.

you always get the same rank from the very first day that harin started the pyramid game, you never doubted what rank you would get, it was always obvious A. let's say, being the heiress of a rich family was a kind of guarantee of success in voting for you. your carefree life continued for a long time, but suddenly, during the 13th game when you opened the app you saw your name in column B. that's when your eyes widened and fists clenched in annoyance and kinda discomfort. harin, sitting nearby, saw your reaction and the corner of her lips slightly moved up, of course, you didn’t notice that cuz you were too busy with your first “failure” in game. B this is not at all bad for others and you thought the same until today, until for some reason you felt very strong discomfort from such a voting result. yes, it hurts your pride very deeply. you racked your brains for a long time trying to understand why suddenly everything changed so much and you couldn’t return to A. though, the answer was much closer than you could have imagined. knowing that you would be desperate to get the desired result, harin decided to take advantage of this. it was easy to get some people in the class not to vote for you so that you don't get higher than class B. you weren’t stupid, at least not stupid enough to don't understand that the solution to your problem — baek harin, and she’s clearly interested in you, judging by her gaze that linger on you for a little longer than it should.

well, the realization that apparently you're a little more stupid than you initially thought came precisely when you came to harin for "help" in getting back into A rank in game and offered a service in return. expecting harin to ask in return some help with homework or something like that. just how wrong you were...

"a favor in return, you say? I would like to have a taste." harin said as her eyes lingered on your face for a couple of moments before moving a little lower to your chest. her hand gently touches your belly through your shirt, smoothly moves and rises along your silk covered body to your tie. with one confident and decisive move she tugged the tie a little, pulling you towards herself forcing a quiet gasp out of you.

you find yourself in harin’s house, that same day after school she invited you, talking about how the house is empty today and is at their disposal because her parents are on a business trip for work. your unnie’s room was spacious, very simple, but cozy and luxurious. in the dimly light the king-size bed was covered with soft, silky bed linen.

you're on the bed, harin is sitting right behind you, your shirt is already unbuttoned and open enough to give access to your bra and breasts that were almost spilling out of lingerie. first you feel the gentle touch of harin's fingers on your ribs, and then her fingers easily crawl under the lace fabric, prying up the hooks of your bra and unfastening it. she touches your already bare breasts, massaging them and then plays with your nipples, pinching and squeezing them, enjoying the soft moan you let out.

"harin-ah...."

she pinched your nipples a little more now making you moan louder and unintentionally back away a little, causing you to feel her chest pressing to your back.

"yes? what is it, hm? do you want to ask unnie for something?" one of her hands continues to play with your breasts not stopping her relentless assault on your nipples and her second hand goes down to your hip bone, squeezing it a little. she leans closer causing a goosebumps to run through your body from how nice and pleasant her warm breath feels on the back of your neck. "do you want me to touch you more, princess?"

when harin squeezes your thigh bone and plays with your breasts, you feel something unfamiliar but almost painfully pleasant and uncomfortable at the same time. it's like a knot is tightening in your lower abdomen and you feel the heat between your legs as well as the wetness starts to seep through your panties.

"yes. i want you to touch me... please. i feel the heat spreading trough my body..." you mutter trying not to sound too inexperienced and eager but failing immediately.

harin changes position a little, lowering your back onto the bed and your head resting on the pillows. the girl sits next to you, lifts your skirt and pulls down your panties, revealing your wet folds to her gaze. harin humms in delight and lightly licks her own lips. harin's fingers lowered to your pussy, collect moisture and smear it over your entrance. just a moment and one of her fingers pushes inside, moving a little.

"oh god, you're so tight... such a perfect girl for me." soon two of her fingers are pushing into your wet cunt, she spreads her fingers and twists them inside, stretching you and making your legs tremble. your moans are so cute, they only arousing harin more, a wet spot soon appears on her own panties too.

"Harin-ah!..." you yelping when she enters you with a third finger and it becomes difficult for you to stay still. a new layer of fun added harin’s tongue that moves circles around your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves. her tongues licks your folds all over, while her fingers pounding into you and now her lips wrap around your clit, starting to suck on it. you arch your back and your whimpers become much more urgent, your voice trembling.

"Unnie... please... I can't... oh my god... I'm gonna... I'm-"

with a wet pop, her fingers leave your pussy, which for a few more seconds tightened around the air trying to return contact. suddenly her tongue probs inside, she alternates between tongue fucking you and sucking your already swollen clit, making slurping sounds, drinking in your juices until you cum undone on her tongue. harin raises her head, and her fingers come to your clit, massaging it and slightly prolonging your orgasm. your eyes met and pleased smirk tugged her lips, seeing how your cheeks have turned red, and beads of sweat appeared on your forehead.

"you're such a good girl, princess. though, we're not done yet. i want to try something else on you." harin's hand reaches to the bedside table from where she takes out a medium-sized strap. she quickly and easily attaches the strap to her hips and positioned herself about you.

"oh, maybe we won't?... I mean, maybe we’ll try another time..." you sound a little nervous and worrying clearly etched on your face.

harin sighs, and pat's your head gently. she speaks, her voice calming and gentle but still gives the feeling of her being in control of the situation. "you don't want to? mm, princess, we can try... It's up to you, hon, but we could try and stop if you want. if you try for me, you'll make me very happy. you want unnie to be happy, right?" her last words, of course, kinda manipulative, but still you can't help but nod a little just unable to say no. harin smirks and raised your legs, bending them at the knees and she positioned the tip of the strap near your pussy still glistening with cum. she takes your hand in her own, gently stroking it and comforting you like that. when you look distracted enough she pushes all the way inside with just one thrust. you whimper in slight pain and squeeze her hand, your breathe catches in your throat. harin doesn’t move her hips for a few seconds, let you get used to the feeling of fullness and stretchiness.

"good girl... see, it wasn't that hard, right? I'm happy with you, princess. I'm so proud of you. such a gentle little flower... but still taking me so good." harin at first began to move her hips smoothly, later picking up speed, thrusting faster and harder. she pulled away and then slamms all the way back inside, hitting the sweet spot inside you. her thrusts were a little irregular but so good... she makes you moan, whimper and beg for more. in the end of the day you're becoming a breathless, blushing mess all hot and bothered, stretche and wet, just lying on the bed, your head on her chest while she plays with your hair

"by the way... as i said before, I'll help you return to A rank, princess."

[leonw4nter]

Holding Our Dreams As You Lie To Rest

Dad!RE4R!Leon x F!Reader

“Time of birth, 2:31 AM.”

“Time of death, 2:31 AM.”

The nurse lays his newborn daughter on her mother’s still chest, the first and final time his daughter would ever get to feel her mother. Her unbroken cries drowned out the beeping of the heart monitor, a stark contrast to the state of eternal peace her mom will forever be in. They kept their daughter on her chest for a few more moments before lifting her back up, her cries growing louder as her tiny hands stretched out to try and hold on to her mom as if she knew she would never see, feel, hear or be with her again. Leon felt as if he’d been killed twice, losing a life in the same moment he gained a new one; he wanted to cry, to scream, and gently rock your body back and forth but he can’t– he has to be a father. He has to. He bends down, taking her cold hand in his trembling ones and presses kisses as he looks up at you. Eyelids curtained your eyes that once held a brightness greater than a million suns, pale lips fixed into a straight line; lips that would never smile again. He moves over to your face; you’re still beautiful, even when death stole the color and life from your features. He hugs you tight and buries his face in the nook of her neck, softly sobbing and whispering apologies as he strokes your hair one last time; you always loved it when he did that. Doctors come in and unplug her from the machines, fixing her before draping white linen over her body and taking that bed out of the hospital room. A nurse approaches Leon with a small voice, her own eyes slightly glossy as she extends her arms and gently moves the baby to Leon. He takes her in his arms, a flurry of overwhelming emotions overriding his ability to process this moment.

“I’m sorry, my dearest daughter.” he whispers. “I’m sorry for robbing you of the chance to have a mother.”

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“She’s growing so fast, honey. She’s a strong girl just like her dad,” you softly say as you pat your growing belly. Leon is splayed out right on top of you, situating himself on your legs and nuzzling his cheek into the side of your belly.

“Yeah. 3 months more and I’ll have two girls in my life,” he softly says with a smile.

“Baby?”

“Hm?”

“Have you thought of names for her?”

“Hm… no. Not yet. I want you to be the one to name her. I mean– you’ll know her best. You’re going to be carrying her for nine months, it’s only right that you’ll get to name her.”

“Don’t you have any ideas for names?”

“I have some in mind.”

“Like what?”

“Araminta, but we can call her ‘Minty’ for short. It sounds cute, right? What about ‘Cassandra’? I was asking Hunnigan for some ideas and she offered that and I think it’s nice too. ‘Jewel’ sounds great too. Oh– what about ‘Stella’? I think it’s a very pretty name.”

A twinkling laughter escapes your lips as Leon lists out all the names he finds pretty, musing about possible combinations that sound prettiest. Another hand moves to the top of his head, gently ruffling white spun-sun strands in between your fingers, a pleased hum reverberating throughout Leon’s chest. The laughter stays short-lived when you feel a kick to your rib, causing you to jerk and yelp.

“You alright, Y/N?” Leon asks as he sits up, eyebrows creasing in concern.

“Yeah. The baby just kicked,” she says with a small smile. “Nothing too serious.”

Leon bends down as he places a kiss on the top of your bump, his hands resting on your waist as he draws small circle patterns with the rough pads of his fingers.

“My precious daughter, don’t kick your mom too much, okay? Don’t keep her up at night and give her some time to rest. Daddy’s going to be here for you, don’t worry. We can’t wait to meet you too.”

Leon would give up anything and everything if it means keeping his girls safe and sound. He’d hold the sky up if it meant providing a secure sense of safety and happiness for his wife and daughter.

“Oh? She stopped kicking.” you softly say with an amused lilt to your voice. “Guess all I needed was for you to speak for her.”

“She’s a smart girl, just like her mother. God, I’m too lucky to have you both in my life.”

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“Claire, can… can you come over? She won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do…” Leon hoarse at the other end of the line as he holds his daughter with one arm and his phone in the other. His daughter has been crying endlessly, depriving them both of sleep. He’s tried everything– soft singing, rocking her back and forth, feeding, checking her diapers, burping, readjusting the swaddling of her cloth but none would calm her down.

Oh, Y/N. I don’t know what to do. She needs you. I need you too. Can you come back to us? Please?

“Have you tried laying her near some of Y/N’s sweaters?” Claire suggests. “God you’re so stupid for not considering that. She might be missing her mom,” Leon thinks to himself. Placing the phone down, he rushes to his and Y/N’s room to find her favorite sweater. He lays the pastel lime-green sweater on her crib before placing her down, gently patting her belly and pressing kisses to her puffy cheeks.

“C’mon honey. Please… please stop crying. I-I don’t know what to do, I’m sorry that mom’s not here right now- Dad’s really sorry, sweetie.” Leon quietly says as he feels some of his own tears stream down his cheek.

Eventually, she stops crying and falls asleep. Leon looms over her, her tiny hand holding on to his thumb. He feels pity for her; he broke the promise of making sure she grows up in a perfect family. He feels as if he doesn’t deserve his daughter, he couldn’t even grant Y/N the dream of becoming a mother. She had long wished for a child of her own, to be able to be a mother and he couldn’t give her that. She carried his child for nine months, enduring morning sickness, swelling ankles, and every single bodily hysteric and he didn’t even give her a chance to see your daughter.

The faint noise of the doorbell from downstairs shakes Leon from his thoughts, putting on a shirt and going downstairs to pick up the door.

“Claire?”

“You just suddenly dropped the call after I suggested the sweater thing so I came down and went here. How’s she? Is she asleep?”

“Yeah. The sweater did just the trick.” he bitterly says. A silence lingers between the two for a bit before he speaks up. “I miss her, Claire. I miss Y/N. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know if–” his voice cracks. “I don’t know if I’m up for this without her.”

Claire moves to Leon and engulfs him in a tight hug, tears of her own flowing down her freckled cheeks. Y/N’s death was not easy for everyone who gracefully waltzed into her life– Chris, Claire, Rebecca, and Jill all hurting in their own way but not as profoundly deep and scarring as Leon.

“I know you do. We all miss her, Leon.”

Leon sobs into her shoulder, his body shaking as choked sobs leave him. Truly, he felt like the worst person in the world.

“Claire, look at me. Look at her– I took Y/N away from my own daughter. I stole her own mother away and she’s never fucking coming back! I’m lost and nothing without her, I don’t even know how to stop my daughter from crying. My daughter needs Y/N and I can’t give her that. All I can provide for her are pictures and her clothes because there’s no mother to sing and hold her.”

Claire holds him tighter, her hands gently patting Leon’s back as she stays silent and lets Leon spill all of his feelings.

“She wouldn’t be fucking dead had I brought her to the hospital two hours earlier. If only I listened to her and took her there when she started bleeding instead of choosing to mow the damn lawn I wouldn’t have ruined my daughter’s life from the start. Her heart would not have failed her– I wouldn’t have failed her if I was actually a decent man, Claire.”

“Leon, you’re more than decent. You’re doing everything you can for your daughter and that’s what matters–”

“But I’ll never fill in the Y/N shaped hole in her tiny heart. No one and nothing ever could, no matter how hard I try.”

Leon’s fought all kinds of monsters and abominations, barely making it back each time but it was worth it to see his Y/N’s brilliant face beaming at him everytime he stumbled home. If he could save someone from the horrors of bioterrorism, why couldn’t he save his own wife by simply sending her to the hospital two hours earlier than he should’ve?

Claire couldn’t say anything. It’s not that she agreed with whatever self depreciating fact Leon said but whatever words she would say won’t make anything feel better. Y/N shaped Leon into who he is now– changing and transforming him into a person no one knew Leon could be capable of becoming and her death simply left Leon a shattered and broken person; a shell of his former self. Leon would go through that fateful night in Raccoon City a hundred times again if it meant having her back– even if Y/N would fall out of love with him or be destined with someone else, as long as she was happy and alive. Happiness is the last thing Leon deserves right now. Standing at the doorway of his home, Claire held the shattered pieces of the blond and offered him a shoulder to cry his broken heart on.

Later that night, Leon laid down on his side of the bed whilst he moved his daughter to Y/N’s side so that she would be around her scent. He enjoyed silent nights with you, just laying in the same bed and smiling at the fact that he married the maker of all his dreams but now the silence was a painful reminder that a half of him perished forever. He left her things as they were before the two headed to the hospital, not wanting to wash the clothes she wore just to have some form of her around for just a little longer. He left the mug she drank from untouched as well and he didn’t bother to hide the bath products Y/N left behind in the shower. Her makeup products were still neatly lined up on the counter and he often wore her hair ties on his wrist but he avoided looking at the wedding band she took off. Y/N’s fingers have started swelling and on doctor’s advice, she took it off but kept it around her neck with a chain. The funeral was especially difficult, seeing her lie so stiffly with her features looking a little different. He didn’t have time to grieve because her parting gift needed him the most. Speaking of parting gift, he finds himself thinking that she left him a tiny version of herself to keep him company. She’d absolutely berate him if he gave up now so he hanged on with what little might he had left in him, giving his all for their daughter. He goes to sleep with the prayer that he’ll see Y/N, even for just a quick moment. Even if it’s just in his distant dreams.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

6 years later.

“Do you want more sandwiches or is that enough already?” Leon asks his now 6 year old daughter.

“Nuh-uh. I’m full already.” she responds. Leon moves from his place and inches towards his daughter, a wet wipe in hand to wipe some crumbs from the corner of her lips before pulling out another wipe to wipe her greasy fingers.

“Wanna know something, daddy?” she suddenly asks.

“Hm? What is it?” he responds.

“Auntie Claire told me that our loved ones in heaven send us signs sometimes. She says her own mom sends her and she says she feels a lot better when her mom does. Has mommy ever sent us a sign?”

The question takes Leon off-guard, his gaze drifting to your marble headstone before returning back to his daughter. With a pained grin, he responds to her question.

“Yeah. Mommy likes simple things that make us happy, so to me, she appears as a warm drink on a cold day. Sometimes she’s a particularly nice ray of sunlight. Sometimes, she’s the rain that waters plants. I guess those are signs she sends us.” and I hope you send some more, Y/N. I still miss you.

“So does that mean Mommy’s sign can be a good bedtime story?”

“Yeah.”

She thinks a little more, getting up and giving her mom’s headstone a small pat. With a tiny finger, she traces her name and date of birth.

“We saw a tiny kitten with blue eyes on the way here, right daddy?”

“Mhm. Why? Do you want a kitten?”

“Maybe. But Uncle Chris told me that mommy’s favorite color was blue. I found it weird at first because blue is a boy’s color but Aunt Jill said that it’s a color for anyone. She also said that blue is mommy’s favorite color because it’s the color of your eyes.”

Leon fights back tears, a surprised laugh making its way through his throat despite a lump forming. He nods, his heart fluttering at the fact.

“Yeah, it was, though a lot of her things weren’t blue. Mommy’s an interesting person that way.” he fondly remembers.

Y/N’s death anniversary doesn’t get easier any year, the unbearable pain of remembering her longer than he’s known her weighing on his tattered heart. His daughter finally comes back to him and sits beside him on the picnic blanket, a tiny hand reaching out to hold Leon’s. He can’t believe his own daughter would want to hold the same hand that gets dirty with the blood and muck of biological hellions.

“Auntie Ashley told me you also used to have a friend named Luis when you were in Spain. She said he was funny and smart and nice. Do you think Mommy and Luis are best friends in heaven? She needs someone there too because we’re both still here.”

“Yeah. I hope they’re friends.” Leon had to respond in a more hushed voice to keep his voice from cracking and his tears from spilling, his daughter’s innocence both warming and shattering his heart. “You have her eyes and her lips. Your eyes wrinkle the same way as hers when something makes her smile bright and you scrunch your nose when something makes you laugh. In your face, she is alive.”

NOTE - First angst on this blog!! Woooo!!!! I blasted Mitski while writing this and luckily I did NAWT cry (-> cried in the shower instead). If you're feeling a little sad now that I wrote this, feel free to check out my other fics that are NOT angst (shameless self-advertisement /j). That's all and thanks for reading!!!!! :) UPDATE: Leon photocards haven't arrived yet.

The wave dividers are made by @cafekitsune , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[tuesdayafterafriday]

to take care of you

dark!joel miller x f!reader

joel takes you in after you arrive all alone in jackson. he gains your trust and promises to take care of you, but that ends up being more than you bargained for. (4.6k words)

tags: ddne, dark, non con, dub con, explicit content, no minors allowed, age gap, power dynamics, perverted joel, vulnerable reader, breeding kink, virginity loss, non consensual somnophila

You were all alone when you got to Jackson. Shivering, starving, and scared. You didn’t make many friends fast, staying locked up inside of your house most of the time. It was Ellie who got through to you first. You latched onto her, and she quickly became the person you trusted the most.

So, when she suggested that you move into the empty room in the house that she lived in with Joel, you were quick to accept. Joel was annoyed at first, the thought of a stranger moving in.

“Does she know that you’re barely around these days.”

Ellie had just rolled her eyes, not in the mood to dig into the complexities of their relationship at the moment. “She’s too scared to live on her own. I think she’d feel safe with you around.”

“Hasn’t she heard the rumors of my past?”

“I told her she can trust you.”

You didn’t have much of a presence around the house at first. Usually, Joel forgot you were even there, until he’d hear the creaking of steps upstairs or a stray cough. You started to spend more time in the common areas after a while, though, and Joel found himself happy to get to know you.

And the more he got to know, the more beautiful he thought you to be.

The first time you touched him was a few months after moving in. It was innocent, but it changed everything for him. He had explained to you that, on his recent trip to see the town’s seamstress, he ended up bartering for a new dress for you. It was relatively plain, but when he saw it he remembered the stray comment you had made about the heat of early summer, having only a few winter garments at your disposal.

Just seeing you in the dress would’ve been enough motivation, but the smile on your face when you saw it and realized it was yours was even better. You tried it on immediately, stepping out of your room to show Joel how it looked with a shy smile.

“You woulda been a model, if you’d been an adult back in the day.”

The comment made you smile even more, gaze still on the floor as you approached Joel and slowly pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t long, but it took Joel completely by surprise. The smell of you, the feeling of your body pressed up against his, the small noise you made against his ear. It was the first time he realized just how much he needed to fuck you.

He didn’t want to do anything too fast; he didn’t want to scare you away. But he needed you. He needed a release. So, he started when you weren’t home. He went into your bedroom and looked through your meager possessions, trying to come up with a way to get to you.

Instead, he ended up in your bed, pants pulled down to his ankles, rutting his hips against the firm mattress—precome surely leaking on the linen—while he sniffed your scent that lingered. Joel knew it was wrong to act like this, so desperate and out of control, like a feral animal who had just caught a whiff of a particularly strong pheromone.

But the thought of your body having been wrapped in these sheets only hours earlier turned him on. The thought of your body in general turned him on. He imagined you, soft and aching, underneath him. He wondered if your body would twitch as he pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you, thumb never leaving your increasingly overstimulated clit.

He would make you come so many times you’d forget your own name.

As he grasped at the sheets—hand finally beginning to stroke his cock in time with his hip movements—he found something in the sheets, near the end of the bed. He almost came right there at the sight of them: a plain light pink pair of panties.

He could tell they were dirty, still a little damp in the center and smelling of you. He knew he was really gone when, without even a second thought, he immediately brought the panties to his nose, sniffing in as much of your scent as he could get. Just like the kind of pervert he used to hear people joke about: the nasty old man panty-sniffer. That’s what he’d become.

But he was fine with pushing down his shame in favor for his insatiable arousal.

Now he could imagine what you’d look like when he’d yank down your jeans, your pretty little pussy only covered by a thin piece of pink material. He squeezed his balls roughly as he wondered if you had a matching bra, made by one of the seamstresses in town.

His thoughts only got dirtier, and soon enough he had flipped himself to be on his back again. He took a moment to spit in his palm again before returning it to his cock, enjoying the feeling of the slight wetness.

He wanted more than anything for it to be your saliva on his cock, and lots more of it. He wanted to see you on your knees for him, looking up at him with labored breaths, his cock inching further and further towards the back of your throat. He knew you’d be such a good girl, eager to take as much of him as you could.

But he wasn’t only interested in you if you were his good girl, though. He wanted to turn you bad, wanted to see you lose all your concerns about what was proper and just suck his cock like an absolute whore. He wanted to turn you into as sick and needy of an animal as he was.

It was that thought—the thought of what you would sound like when he finally lost control and let his cock hit the back of your throat with force, making you gag on his considerable length—that finally got him off. His shirt was pushed up a bit, and he came on the firm pudge of his stomach.

_________________________________________

Ellie helped you meet more people in the community, and you even ended up with some friends. Joel couldn’t help but feel jealous when she’d whisk you away with the promise of hanging out with people your own age. Deep down, he knew it was good for you.

He really saw the value of it one night, though, when he found you passed out on the sofa, clearly too inebriated to get yourself up the stairs and in your own bed. You were in a heavy sleep, arms sprawled above your head and your legs open, one foot planted on the ground and the other on the body of the sofa. He admired the sight of you in the dress, the way your breasts were squeezed by the tightness of the chest, the way your legs looked as the knee length hemline rode up, exposing the plush meat of your thighs.

As he palmed the bulge in his jeans, he decided he wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. He knelt down in front of your body, grabbing the hem of your dress to flip it open. You were wearing a pair of thin cotton panties, damp in the middle where they stretched over your cunt. He brought his face to your body, his big nose nestling between your covered folds and inhaling deeply. The scent of your arousal mixed with your sweat was intoxicating, and he had to fight himself to not go any further.

He pulled his cock out of his pants and began to stroke himself to the smell of you, just as he had in your bedroom. This time it was so much better, though. It was the real thing. Instead of just a discarded pair of panties on their own, he could see the curve of your mound, your lips covered in cotton, the way it clung to the curls of your pubic hair.

He couldn’t help himself. It was all too much. He gently pulled your panties to the side, exposing your cunt. He let out a strained groan at the sight of you before coming all over his own hand. He leaned forward and gave a small kiss to your labia before putting you back as he had found you, taking a moment to taste you on his lips.

He knew he should feel guilty, but he was too overwhelmed to manage it.

_________________________________________

It was several weeks later when he woke up to the sound of you screaming. He ran to your room, knowing just how to push on the handle to get the door open even when it was locked. You had stopped yelling by then. Instead, you cried into your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you began to repeat. “I just had a bad dream.”

Joel’s reasoning skills weren’t fully functioning. He felt awful seeing you in pain like that, and his own body was filled with adrenaline. That’s why he didn’t think to stop himself before offering you a spot in his bed.

“Or I could sleep in here on the floor… I know you don’t like to be alone, is all.”

You had stared at him in silence for nearly a minute, and Joel began to fear that he had severely miscalculated your level of trust in him.

Then, he saw a small smile.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Course.”

As you curled up under Joel’s blanket, you explained to him that you had always shared a bed with someone growing up. It felt wrong to sleep in one without someone else. Joel knew the kind of pain you were in after losing your family, your group.

“I’ll try and find a way to get over it,” you whispered. “I’m sorry for making you take care of me all the time.”

Joel’s heart broke at the sound of sadness in your voice, but his body surged with arousal at your acknowledgement of him taking care of you. He told you that he was happy to take care of you, that he’d help support you through this for as long as you needed.

“Seems like you’re carrying the grief in your body,” he told you, noticing the stiffness in your shoulders even as you lied in bed.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured for you to get up in a seated position and turn around on your side, facing the opposite direction from him. He only took a moment to admire your ass in your nightgown before placing his hands on your shoulders. You flinched at first, but he cooed at you as he held you in place.

“You can trust me, remember?”

You let out a nervous breath, and Joel began to rub your shoulders. The next sound you made was a small moan. You quickly apologized, and Joel grinned to himself.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. ‘S supposed to feel good.”

He kneaded your muscles while you sighed sweetly, your body moving gently against the bed. He wondered if the pleasure was spreading. He moved his hands down your back slightly, grasping your sides under your armpits and using his thumb to rub circles into your back muscles. He could tell you loved it.

Slowly, he moved his hands further and further to your front before eventually groping your breasts, thick fingers running past your pert nipples. You let out a strained moan before jerking your body away.

“J-Joel,” you whispered, breathless. “I don’t think I carry grief… there.”

Joel chuckled, hoping to help diffuse the tension. “I know, but it’s a good spot for relieving tension.”

You turned to look at him, and he could’ve gotten off just on the shy but aroused look on your face. Your skin felt warmer and warmer, and your mouth hung open slightly, tongue gently licking your plush lips.

The word “ripe” was stuck on Joel’s mind.

“You know I’d do anything to take care of you, right? Whatever you need.”

You stared at him with wide eyes before beginning to shake your head. “T-thank you for all the help, Joel, but I think I’ll just sleep in my own bed.”

As you began to push yourself off the mattress, Joel’s hand darted out and hooked your body in, his large hand stretching over your tummy and holding you gently in place.

“Listen… I know what everyone in town says about you, and I’m sure that can’t make it easy to feel at home here, but”

“What?” You turned to face him again, your demeanor shifting. “What do people say about me?”

Joel let out a sigh, shaking his head gently. “People just haven’t learned to trust you yet… think you’re a bit of a freeloader, is all.”

“I help out where I can…”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Joel cooed, using his hand to rub your side. “People said things about me when I first got here, too. Now they respect me, they listen to me. If I keep tellin’ ‘em that you’re good… they’ll believe it.”

Joel suppressed a smile as he watched tears begin to form in your eyes.

“You tell them that?”

“Of course.”

The night ended with you apologizing for trying to go back to your room. It was so sweet of you to offer me a spot here for the night, I shouldn’t have tried to say no. He waited until you were asleep to pull the straps of your nightgown down far enough to expose your breasts. He fisted his cock while he imagined coming all over your chest.

All over your face.

All over your cunt.

All over you.

_________________________________________

Nothing happened for a few days. Ellie came to visit, which helped take Joel’s mind off the situation completely until she brought you up while they were eating breakfast. She had made some confusing joke about the “real great” night you were sure to be having that day.

“What’s that ‘sposed to mean?”

Ellie just snickered, a trait she never gave up from childhood. “She’s going on a date with James.”

Joel felt his body tense up at the news, although he couldn’t feel surprised. You were a beautiful young woman, of course you’d be going on dates. It still filled him with a terrible sense of jealousy, an unearned sense of possessiveness.

“What’re the plans?” Joel asked, trying to sound as disinterested as possible.

“They’re going to ‘stargaze by the lake,’ if ya know what I mean,” Ellie replied as she shoveled down another mouthful of oatmeal.

Joel just gave her a funny face. “I do not know what ya mean. You and Dina used to love going down there to stargaze.”

Ellie’s smile immediately disappeared, a wince taking its place. “Well, uh… I’m not saying this is what Dina and I were doing down there… because, you know, we had a real passion for… the stars. But…” Ellie let out a groan and just spit it out already. “That’s where everyone goes to hook up.”

Joel made a disgusted face in light of this news, letting out a slight groan while he dropped his slice of bread.

“So that book on constellations I found for ya was just a part of some nasty little rouse?”

Instead of being too embarrassed, Ellie just laughed. “We did use that book! A lot.”

Joel let his disgruntled face begin to soften, but Ellie was quick to get the punchline in, already laughing at her own joke.

“We needed something to talk about afterwards.”

“You little shit,” Joel muttered, stifling his own laughter. “I think maybe you oughta just keep lying to me like you did when you were a kid, okay?”

His smile didn’t remain long, however, disappearing when he remembered that you would be down by the lake later that night, getting fucked by some guy who probably wasn’t even gonna get you off once.

“Ain’t she a little old for such juvenile tricks?”

Ellie shrugged. “She’s stuck living with an old man. Would you really prefer her bringing home some guy? And James’s family certainly wouldn’t appreciate him bringing her home for the night.”

Joel gave a noncommittal nod, pretending to no longer care even a little bit about you as he switched to a new topic of conversation. Ellie seemed none the wiser, happy for the change in pace.

_________________________________________

Joel told himself he was just going to keep an eye on you from a safe distance, make sure that the boy didn’t try any funny business. He was just going to hide behind some trees and ignore the sound of your moans.

That proved more to be more difficult than he had imagined, however. He stood there, peering around a big tree trunk to watch you lie on the ground as James ran his hands up and down your body, firmly placing one of your hands on his cock that was sticking out of his jeans.

He didn’t bother to touch your clit or your other less obvious erogenous zones; he just began to spread your legs, prodding his cock at your entrance. He doubted you’d even be wet for him… he wondered if James had even been considerate enough to slip on a condom.

But the sight of your exposed breasts in the moonlight and the little noises you made for him was enough to make him at least believe you were enjoying yourself.

You looked beautiful, now fully nude in the summer heat. James was busy clumsily pawing at your breasts while you rubbed your own clit. A part of Joel’s brain was ignited in anger as he watched the younger man line his bare cock up with your pussy. It was that part of his brain that he had to temper when he was in Jackson, only bringing it out when necessary while on patrol shifts or on supplies runs.

 It was Joel’s duty to protect you, as an older member of the community, as the father of your close friend. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself as he finally emerged from behind the tree and began to approach you and James.

“’scuse me,” Joel muttered, with a pointed tone that was meant to convey authority and disappointment. You were too busy to mind the tone, however, as you were both scared shitless, scurrying to cover yourselves up and act like you weren’t just getting ready to have sex.

“Don’t you know how dangerous it is to be out here this time of year? In the dark? Busiest time for bears.”

James—although clearly scared based on how fast he shoved his dick back in his pants—seemed perturbed by Joel’s interference with his plans.

“Then why are you out here?”

Joel just shrugged. “Tommy wanted me to keep an eye out for horny idiots and stop ‘em from becoming a bear’s dinner.”

James didn’t laugh, just jumping to his feet and reaching out for your hand.

“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” Joel muttered. “I’ll escort her home. Think you’ve done enough for tonight, champ.”

Joel looked back to James with a dark gaze, trying to impart the message that he wanted him to fuck off already.

James just rolled his eyes, clearly not up to trying to fight with a man like Joel, especially now that you had a vested interest in going home with him instead. He said goodnight to you without much grace or sweetness and limped off, probably still dealing with  a bit of an erection.

“Keep an eye out for bears, buddy!”

When Joel looked back down to you, he found you smiling at his comment.

“I-I’m really sorry,” you muttered, looking down at your lap nervously while you shifted around from underneath your blanket, probably trying to get your panties back on. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Only thing that’s embarrassin’ is your choice of company.”

You ignored the comment, but he could tell you were still uncomfortable by the entire situation. He figured you were probably too bashful about sex to have a frank discussion about it, and Joel knew how dangerous it was for a young person—especially a young woman—to try and figure out sexual intimacy with only vague ideas and generalities.

You needed his help, Joel realized. And he was already here to protect you—it wouldn’t make sense to just stop now, when you arguably needed him the most.

He kneeled down, staring at you closely while you continued to shift around under the blanket. You looked up at him in shame, shaking your head.

“Now, I told you I’d take care of you, but I don’t know if I’d be able to take care of you and some baby you let yourself get knocked up with because you weren’t bein’ careful enough.”

“I’m so sorry, Joel… I just…”

“There’s other ways to get men to like you. You don’t need to degrade yourself for the first little boy who shows you attention.”

“Joel, I…”

“This is certainly not the way to get people in town to trust you.”

“I’m sorry!”

Joel stopped, staring at your face which seemed shocked by your own outburst. Tears began to form in your eyes once again, and he wished it didn’t turn him on as much as it did.

“I was just… Joel, I was just so desperate.”

“For what?”

Your eyes left his, and you looked around with a wince. “For that… relief you were talking about. James was just the first guy who asked.”

Joel thought about taking you right there. He’d hold your arms down and clamp your mouth shut if he had to, as long as he could give you that relief that you were so desperate for. He cock was aching in his jeans just at the thought of it, of how your pussy would feel clamping down on him, how he’d stretch you open.

His grip got tighter around your arm, and he had to stop himself from hurting you.

“Get up. We’re goin’ home.”

_________________________________________

“I know you’re disappointed in me,” you whispered when you two finally got back to the privacy of the house, after a long silent walk.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” he replied sternly. “I’m hurt.”

You stared at him with a sad little look.

“Have I not given you everything? Have I not taken care of you without judgement?”

“You have… of course you have!”

“Then why would you go to some random, careless boy in your time of need.”

You let out a tiny huff, looking around the room in discomfort. “I just… I thought maybe you weren’t into that stuff anymore. You’re just so much older than me.”

It turned Joel on to hear you say it, but his blood burned at what you were insinuating.

“Think I’m just some old man with a limp dick?”

You seemed shocked at his language, beginning to slowly back away from him.

“After all I’ve done for you?”

“Joel, I’m sorry,” you whispered, taking a few more steps back. “Can we talk about this in the morning? I think you’re too upset now.”

He took a few long strides forward and grabbed your wrists before you could move, twisting your arms so you were unable to get away. He pulled your body flush against his, staring into your eyes intensely.

“Think I can’t fuck, huh? Trust me, baby: I’ve never met a pussy I couldn’t get off. Used to fuck little sluts like you… I’d pick ‘em up in bars or at parties. Fucked almost babysitter I ever hired, fucked a few of my buddy’s daughters.”

“Joel,” you whimpered, voice dripping with fear. “I’m sorry… I believe you.”

“Haven’t even gotten to tell you about all the pussy I’ve gotten since the outbreak. Fuck, there’s something about the end of the world that made girls like you hornier than ever. Can’t tell you how many girls I had coming on my cock, callin’ me daddy while they milked me dry.”

“Let me go,” you muttered, twisting your arms just to bring yourself more pain.

“The ones who were trying to fight how they felt were my favorites, though. There was just something about grabbing a bitch by her wrists and bending  her over and just destroying her. And lemme tell you, sweetheart. They always came.”

Joel tried to be gentle when he tied your hands together. He didn’t need you being all bruised up and covered in evidence. He stuffed your panties in your mouth to stop you from screaming. Finally, he threw you on his bed, face first. He quickly got on top of you, his meaty thighs spread over each side of your ass while he repositioned your face against the mattress and muttered directions.

“Quit your squirmin’, baby.”

He indulged himself in a few slaps of your ass, watching your flesh jiggle before spreading your legs and letting out a low whistle.

“Look at all that wetness coverin’ your cute little pussy.”

He shoved a thick finger inside, groaning as he explored your tight, wet hole. “You really were fuckin’ desperate for it, huh?”

He took a moment to taste you off his finger, groaning in approval before working another finger in, roughly stretching you open.

“Don’t know why you’re resistin’ so much. Gonna give you better cock than that fucker James coulda.”

You made lots of noise, but it was all muffled by the gag. Drool dripped out of your mouth and down your chin, the sight of which turned Joel on even more.

“I told you, baby. I take care of you.”

With that, he lined his cock up at your entrance and pushed his reddened, leaking cock inside.  He moaned as he forced himself deeper and deeper into you, grateful for how wet you were.

“Gonna make you take all of it, baby. Even if it hurts. You gotta learn your place here.”

You continued to make noise, squirming around underneath him in a way that only made his cock feel better.

“Aww, you want more? That what you’re trying to tell me?”

He began to pull his cock out, rubbing the tip against your swollen labia for a moment before slamming it back in, eliciting a sharp yell from behind the gag.

Joel continued to fuck you, hands gripping at your shoulders. He leaned in closer, beginning to mutter in your ear.

“There’s a cost to the comfort of Jackson, sweetheart.”

He grabbed the back of your head and twisted your neck around so that he could see more of your face. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the drool on your chin.

“Keep cryin’, baby. I can feel how much you love this.”

He reached down to grope at your breasts, sharply pinching your nipples.

“Gonna learn to take what I give ya.”

Your cunt squeezed him tightly, and he thought you were close.

“Imagine what everyone in town will say when you end up pregnant, redeemed by kind old Mr. Miller helping to raise some crude man’s baby.”

He imagined you swollen with a baby, at your most vulnerable and needy. He imagined how much it’d turn him on to milk your breasts while he remembered how he knocked you up.

That was the thought that finally got him off. He groaned as he came inside of you, twisting your hair up in his hands and pulling your head back. It’d been too long since he’d come inside of a pretty little thing like you, and he couldn’t help but savor the moment when he pulled his softening cock out and watched a bit of his come cover your lips/

“Sorry you didn’t get off yet, sweetie,” Joel muttered as he watched your hole desperately contract around nothing. “But we’ve got plenty of time for that.”

[girlgenius1111]

i love you... it's all i can think

love you anyway part 2

alexia x reader proposal

Alexia was freaking out. She didn't think she'd ever been this nervous before, in her whole life. Not before the UWCL final. Not before the World Cup final. Not before her knee surgery.

She knew, realistically, that you'd say yes. You'd talked about marriage before, and both of you had expressed your desire to get married. Still, as she walked with you, hand in hand towards the boat, she couldn't help the waves of anxiety washing over her.

You were only slightly suspicious. She'd told you she was planning a surprise for the night, which looked like it was going to be a evening on the sea with her. This trip was partly a birthday trip for you, though, so you chalked it up to that. You'd never really let yourself believe that Alexia would propose. She was so perfect, in every way, it seemed too good to be true.

"After you, mi amor," she murmured, reaching a hand out to help you onto the boat. You smiled at her, pecking her cheek as you passed her. She preened at the gesture, smiling softly to herself. Once you were on the boat, she put her bag down, pulling you in by the hand for a hug. Even when the source of her anxiety was asking you a question, Alexia couldn't resist the comfort she got from your embrace. You held her tightly, enjoying the feeling of her warm, tanned skin against yours. After a minute you pulled back, placing your hands on her cheeks.

"Are you alright, baby? You've been quiet today," you wondered, studying her closely.

"Si, I'm fine, just a little tired. Excited to relax," she replied, just a hair too quickly. Still, you nodded, letting her go, and reaching for the bag she'd put down. She stopped you though, grabbing it and pulling it out of your reach. You looked at her questioningly.

"What do you need? I'll get it for you," she said, voice a little strained. You gave her a weird look, but requested a bottle of water. She pulled one out, handing it to you, before placing the bag on the table, across the boat from you.

She was only wearing a light, flowy, sundress, and there was no where else for her to hide the ring, but in the bag. The whole day she'd been resisting cracking and just asking you before she had planned to. In bed this morning, when the sun had been streaking in through the window, painting you in a golden light. In the kitchen, during breakfast, when you'd come up behind her, wrapping your arms tight around her abdomen as she whisked the eggs, pressing a few kisses into her shoulder blade. In the car, when you'd put on her favorite playlist, and began singing along easily, head bobbing along adorably to the beat.

Still, Alexia held strong, knowing that you wouldn't mind any of those options. However, she didn't think she could take the teasing if everyone found out that she couldn't wait a few hours to propose to you. Her teammates already teased her relentlessly about how absolutely soft she was for you.

Driving the boat to the little private beach, she watched you out of the corner of her eye, hair flowing in the wind. You were wearing white linen shorts, and a cropped black top. You looked so relaxed, so at peace, so fucking beautiful. Your girlfriend added this moment to the tally of times she almost slipped up.

The beach came into view soon enough, and you could just barely see a picnic set up on on the sand, a blanket carefully laid out, a picnic basket and a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket.

"What's all that?" you asked, confused as she hadn't said anything about a picnic.

"You'll see." Alexia said coyly, smirking at you from behind her sunglasses. She pulled up to the dock easily, and you swore the way she drove the boat was one of the hottest things you'd ever seen. Turning the motor off, and securing the boat to the dock, she looked at you, an expression on her face that you'd never seen.

"There's one more surprise, but you have to close your eyes, vale?"

You shut your eyes tight, reaching your hand out to her. She chuckled, grabbing the little box in one hand and you in the other, guiding you off the boat, being incredibly careful not to let you fall. She walked you to the end of the dock making sure your eyes were still shut. Off the end of the dock, the sun was setting, a splash of colors lighting up the sky. Pinks, oranges, purples.

"You better not be about to push me into the ocean," you warned, only half joking. She laughed nervously, and you held tighter to her hand. She instructed you to open your eyes, one hand behind her back, holding the box. You opened your eyes, looking around curiously, only seeing your girlfriend, and the sunset, both of which had been present before you'd shut your eyes. Alexia caught your confusion.

"Alright, it's less of a surprise and more of a question," she said nervously, all of the things she'd thought up to say escaping her brain. "I love you," she blurted out, pausing, clearly not sure what else to say. You'd never seen her this flustered before, and decided to help her out. It was becoming clearer to you where this was headed, and you couldn't wipe the grin off your face.

"I love you too, baby, but that's not a question," you said softly, squeezing her hand.

"Right," she said. Alexia was slightly -very- humiliated at how lost for words she was. She'd had a speech, she'd practiced it; in the mirror, to her mom, to Alba, to Mapi. And now the only words she could think were I love you. Honestly. You were looking at her like you didn't care though, like she could simply present you with the ring and you'd say yes, even if she didn't say a word. She looked into your eyes, your captivating eyes, and opened her mouth, the words suddenly flowing.

"I love you, so much. My love for you surpasses what words can describe. You changed my life in ways I cannot explain. I didn't know that I could feel things so deeply until I met you. The way I feel about you, it makes my chest ache. I can't comprehend it sometimes, how everything I want, everything I need, comes back to you," Alexia's voice was starting to break, and she cleared her throat, determined to hold it together.

"There are so many things I want to say; I could spend hours here with you, telling you all the ways you make me a better person. You make me happier than I've ever been, and I want to spend every minute for the rest of my life, doing everything I can to make you just as happy." At that, she got down on one knee, holding the ring out in front of her. You were crying, tears streaming down your face at her words. Alexia wasn't an especially expressive person; you knew she loved you, her actions told you every day. You'd never expected her to make such a big verbal statement though, to tell you exactly how much you mean to her.

"Y/n, will you marry me?" she asked, smiling up at you through trembling lips, and opening the box.

You let out something that was between a sob and a laugh, reaching out desperately for her arms, and pulling her to her feet. Throwing yourself into her, she caught you easily.

"Yes, Alexia. Yes," you cried into her ear, and you felt her whole body relax against you, as she let out a sigh of relief. Pulling back, you pressed your lips hard against hers.

"Did you think I wouldn't say yes, Ale?" you asked incredulously. Alexia blushed.

"I knew you would, but I was still nervous. You know I hate keeping secrets."

"There is no universe in which I say no to that question from you, Alexia. You could ask anywhere, at any time, and I'd say yes," you promised, rubbing your thumbs over her cheeks to wipe the tears away. Alexia pulled you back into a bone crushing hug, picking you up and spinning you around, much too dangerously for 2 people fully dressed standing on a narrow dock. You laughed in her arms, feeling her grin into your neck.

She put you back down, holding her hand out, wordlessly asking for yours. You gave it to her, and she pulled the ring out of the box, slipping it onto your ring finger. It was breathtaking, one large ovalular diamond, 2 smaller ones on either side. The band was lined with smaller diamonds, that sparkled in the sun light. Your jaw dropped looking down at it, before you raised your eyes to Alexia's. She was smirking at you, knowing very well she'd picked the perfect ring.

"You like it?" She asked smugly. You nodded, completely speechless. Alexia pulled you in again, kissing you in a much messier way, her hand lacing through your hair. You pulled away, lips puffy, breathless, and pressed your forehead to your... fiancee’s.

"Picnic time, si? And then we can go back to the villa," she said suggestively, and you threw your head back, laughing.

"Anything you want, baby. After that speech? And this ring? Anything you want." you whispered into her ear, and Alexia shuddered. She'd never been more in love with you, than in that moment.

-----

okay so... obviously i need to write post engagement smut but i'm in more of an angsty fic mood rn and i don't want to half ass it so part 3 will be filthy, i promise. I am actually, seriously, begging people to send in requests of what you want to see smut wise; if you ask i'll probably write it :)

[lewsnumerounofan]

interrogation tactics (rafe cameron x reader)

summary: you and rafe are trapped in singh’s mansion. rafe needs to know where the diary is, and he’s willing to do just about anything to find out.

notes: nsfw, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), consent is a bit like mmm (??), idk the obx plot well so factual details might be wrong…., maybe a bit of fluff like so little, ~1k words

+ check out other works here

“Tell me,” Rafe says, and your eyes roll back as his fingers press into you harder, stretching you until you’re gasping. Under his ringed hand your hips buck and twist, burning from the way his tongue moves over you, inside you.

“Rafe please I don’t know anything-“ you try, but he’s locking your hips down harder and fitting another finger into you. The strong band of his nose keeps nudging into your clit, his tongue passing over your folds. He’s like a man starved as he devours you, grunting as you buck against him.

The shaking legs around his head are already bruised with hickeys. He’d spent long minutes marking you, nursing out the dark blooms of purple and red on the soft, private skin of your thighs. In case you forget, he’d mumbled as he’d nipped softly your hip bone, who you belong to.

“Rafe please,” you say and your voice cracks as he meets your eyes. From between your legs his gaze is dark, drowsy off the taste of you. The tan arm banded over your hips flexes as you grind against him, shameless now in your pursuit of another orgasm.

Rafe only bares you open further, drawing back to watch your abused cunt flutter in his absence. It’s almost impossible to breathe as he lets his thumb drag down from your bellybutton. Brazen as he pushes over your swollen clit, you whimper at the oversensitivity, at the arrogant, semi-sadistic smirk that tugs at Rafe’s swollen lips. He loves you like this. The snarky, sarcastic mouth you usually reserve just for him is long gone. Now he’s got you begging—begging—beneath him, body marked and abused by his tongue and teeth and crying out at every touch of his fingers. For the very first time he feels the heady rush of power at owning you, at owning your body and your pleasure.

“Tell me about the diary baby. Tell me or we just keep doing this,” Rafe murmurs, voice low and hot on your skin.

The diary —the diary. You’re supposed to know something about the diary, about where it is and who has it (do you have it?). But Rafe is so strong over you, the smell of his cologne so strong that you can’t think. Can’t form the words to tell him.

He clicks his tongue and leans back from you, just far enough that he can grind onto your core at an aching, lazy pace. The friction of his rough dress pants has your head tipping back, hands desperately finding purchase in the thick linen sheets. Rafe repeats the action again, his eyes dropping down to watch where you connect. It feels so good—the heavy weight of him over your center, the bruising grip of his hands on your waist, the exhale of breathe over your neck as he groans out your name. Even the thick shape of him through his pants has you keening, writhing against the bed.

“Rafe, Rafe.”

It was his turn to moan at your desperate babbling. He shook his head, eyes closed and jaw locked as he fought to control himself. With his shirt halfway unbuttoned and his pretty lips and jaw decorated with smudges of your lipstick, Rafe looked a mess. Something about it, something about how ruined he just from touching you, had you shuddering and whimpering anew.

“I know. I know baby,” he said. His voice was ragged as he shifted down again, folding you open and putting his mouth over you.

You could barely speak now, barely think past the warm, rough tongue lapping at the hot skin between your legs. You ached from the orgasms Rafe had already forced from you, ached from the way he was moaning into your slick legs. It was too much, but still he didn’t let up, shoulders broad as they kept your legs from closing.

“Rafe please I can’t,” you begged.

When he spoke his words hummed into your skin.

“Tell me you have the diary.”

You couldn’t help the tears the gathered in your eyes at his demand. There was no way you could take much more of this. But still Rafe’s fingers worked you, his tongue pushing into you as you writhed and begged. It was so close—your stomach was tight with it, eyes shut hard against the dizzying proximity of another orgasm. You needed it. And then Rafe’s ringed hand was moving, brazenly passing over nipple and closing around your throat. You were a goner.

“Mr. Sunn. John B gave him a copy, please Rafe please, please.”

You were incoherent. Delirious off the both the possession and lack of oxygen bestowed by Rafe’s hand. Below you, Rafe smirked into your skin. His eyes were almost wholly black as he gazed at you.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmured. And then he was pressing harder at your neck, his large hand sure to leave you with a necklace of bruises. Doubling down, his tongue worked you harder, fingers sure as they circled your clit. Everything went hot as you looked at him. The strong breadth of his shoulders and his tan golden skin. The glint of his rings and you on his fingers. His pretty swollen lips, still grinning at you. And then your vision went and you were bowing into him, desperately clutching at his hand, at his fingers as he slid them into yours.

“That’s good baby. Did so good for me,” Rafe panted as he held your reeling body, shifting up beside you. Rings glinting as they cupped your flushed cheeks.

“So good,” he murmured again, letting his lips press over your brow.

[mothwingwritings]

C and F for my boy Pickle

Eyyy sorry for the delay! (Yes I am still working on these!!!) Here is some Pickle goodness for you my dear.~<3

WARNINGS: Sex and violence and one love sick feral man.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Pickle would honestly treat you as nicely as he is able too. His living environment has its limitations, but he does everything he can to make it comfortable and inviting for you, adamant about making it a home that is fitting of his mate.

Once you are safely stashed away in his secret abode he sets to work constructing you a nest of things so that you may find pinnacle contentment in your new home. He’s gathered an amalgamation of the softest blankets, clothes, linen, etc. that has been given to him or that he has scavenged, so that you may rest in peace and luxury while in his presence. He also brings you the best cuts of meat after his hunts, though he caught on quickly that you were apt to turn your nose at his bloody, raw offering (he couldn’t quite understand why, he was sure you would love it if you just gave it a chance). Once he picks up on your distaste, he instead begins to hoard ingredients and snacks he steals picks up out in the world, supplying you all manner of foodstuff till he pins down the ones you like.

While Pickle prefers you in your natural state, he understands your body needs protection from the elements. He doesn’t quite get modern fashion, but you seem sad wearing the same thing over and over again. While he’s out he procures a hodge-podge of varying clothing, presenting it to you by dumping it at your feet, a huge dopey grin on his face. He loves seeing you in the clothing he gifts you, you look so beautiful in each and every piece that he can’t help but stare, holding back the urge to rip it right back off and have his way with you.

Pickle won’t mock you and wouldn’t dream of disrespecting you in anyway. Any harm he causes you is either completely unintentional or for your own good. He loses control of himself sometimes, forgetting his own strength. You are just so small and he loves you so much, it’s hard to hold himself back. He hates using his strength against you to prove a point, but if you remain insistent on trying to escape him he will do what he must to protect you. You are HIS mate and HE’S the only one who can take care of you. All that’s waiting for you in this strange new world is danger, so if you won’t stay by his side willingly, he will force you there.

All that said, while you may be relatively safe from Pickle’s more violent tendencies, anyone else most certainly is NOT. If another person approaches you, threatens you, or tries to take you away from him they will be obliterated, decimated, ripped to shreds, torn apart until nothing is left. He’ll bask in the gruesome slaughter, their end another validation that he is the best one for you, the one who loves and can protect you above all others. Doesn’t matter if that person is a stranger or your own mother-he is all you need, anyone else butting in is an unnecessary threat.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

He would find it incredibly charming if you tried to fight him. Pickle doesn’t see it as an act of aggression at all, but views it as you trying to mimic him as a sign of reverence. You think he is so impressive and strong that you strive to be like him, going so far as to challenge him to a fight. It’s adorable, and he can’t help but break out into a huge toothy grin when he sees you assume a fighting stance.

And it excites him- seeing you tense up, clenching your fists and bending your knees, preparing to strike at a moment’s notice. Seconds before the fray, you stare him down with such intensity, sizing him up and calculating what moves you should make against him, gears turning in your head as you focus wholly on him. The fixation on him sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He is the only one you are thinking of in that moment, and in turn you are all that is occupying his thoughts.

Your strikes never hurt him and he can tell how much that frustrates you. He’ll play along sometimes to make you happy, yowling like a mother lioness that is being batted by her cub. He’ll cringe at your punch, shy away from your kick. If he’s convincing enough, you sometimes award him with a small smile, a brief look of accomplishment. It warms his heart, knowing you are having as good of a time as he is.

He also relishes the closeness the two of you share when you initiate these little fights. Usually you try and hide away from him, distancing yourself as much as possible whenever he is in the vicinity. At first he thought it was another game you were trying to play with him, something coy, cute, and seductive to grab his attention. But when the chase became a regular thing he was disappointed, why did you put up such a fuss each time your mate tried to approach you? You didn’t even give him a prize when he finally caught you, just flailing and screaming and spitting. It hurt his feelings- this was supposed to be fun.

But the little brawls you had were fun, and they gave him a chance to have you near him without any to-do. He could feel your skin on his, smell your sweat as your body writhed and wriggled against his. Feeling your small hands grab at his hulking form, listening to your strained moans and heavy breathing as you threw your all into attacking him… Witnessing you in such a state, holding you close as your body rubbed his in just the right way, it doesn’t take long for him to completely lose control.

Before you can recognize what is going on, your body is sheathing his cock, previous grunts of exertion quickly turning into wails of pleasure.

He doesn’t understand why you cry so much afterwards, though. Were you not having as much fun as he was? You initiated the fight, why are you so upset at the outcome? It was a good tussle, and judging by the noises you were making, he was able to make you feel good. Even if you struggled a bit when he was trying to enter you, you always end up yielding to him. The fit is tight, and there have been several times he was afraid he would outright break you when he pushed deeper, pressing into your core.  But the pleasure that courses through him as he bottoms out is indescribable. He loses himself in the feel of you surrounding him, completely consumed by the euphoria your body has supplied him.

You are his perfect mate, his brave little warrior, and his love for you is endless. So don’t cry, OK? Maybe next time he’ll let you really ‘win.’ :)

[lieutenantfloyd]

Could you do Beau Cyclone Simpson with wife reader where she surprise him with the news of her pregnancy? Just something fluff and cute. Tag me later! Thanks! :))

Speechless | Cyclone x Reader

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy and anxiety.

Authors note: This request has been living in my head rent free for over a week and has sent me down a rabbit hole of wholesome baby announcement tiktoks lol

Read on AO3

You and Beau have been together for the better part of a decade, and married for over half of that time. Naturally, you've had plenty of conversations about starting a family throughout your relationship. The conversations confirmed that you were on the same page—"Whatever happens, happens." He'd murmured into the crook of your neck after a bit too much liquor—but always had a dreamy, hypothetical air to them. Even now, looking down at the soft linen onesie, "Hi, Daddy!" board book, and paperwork confirming your upcoming eight-week prenatal appointment, things still didn't feel quite real.

You arrange—and rearrange—the items in the gift basket until your house's silence is interrupted by the sound of the front door closing. You glance at the clock on the bedside table and notice it's only six o'clock in the evening. Typically Beau wouldn't be home this early, but you know that today's doctor's appointment followed by your vague updates afterward had inevitably left him worried.

You'd never known your husband to be a man of grand gestures and even less one to make bold declarations of love. Yet you had learned early on in your relationship that he was a man who shined brightest when in the traditional role of a provider. The fine details—from managing your monthly bills and ensuring that there was a fresh bouquet of flowers on your bedside table each week—was one area that he took serious pride in.

Maybe that's why you didn't argue when he scheduled a doctor's appointment for you in the first place. An appointment you had attended simply to silence the alarm bells going off in the mind of your darling—if not overprotective—husband. Though just as luck would have it, a blood test revealed that what you'd chalked up to be a rather strong bout seasonal allergies was actually the symptoms of your first trimester.

Hearing the clank of his keys against the table downstairs, you take a seat on the bed. Your heart rate picks up as he calls out to you. You tell him you'll be right down as you pull the basket into your lap. With a heavy breath, you give it a final look over before gripping the wooden handles and pacing out of the room.

His back is facing you as you enter the kitchen. He perks up at the sound of your footsteps, but you speak before he has the chance to turn around.

"I have a surprise, but I need you to close your eyes." You say, pushing down the butterflies fluttering wildly in your stomach.

 He hums lowly in response, and you move around him once you see his posture shift as his remaining senses go on high alert. Despite the butterflies, you can't help the smile that breaks out on your face as you place the basket on the kitchen island in front of him.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now."

His blue eyes flicker open and immediately land on you. You give him a soft, reassuring smile and nod downwards. His gaze follows yours, and you watch closely as he takes in what's in front of him. Even after years together, you can't help but melt as a look of graceful concentration floods his handsome features.

As expected, he bypasses the other items in favor of examining the paperwork. Your heart hammers in your chest as his eyes scan the page. The look on his face shifts into one of loving softness as everything clicks into place in his head.

"You're-"

"-pregnant."

The word barely leaves your mouth before he drops the papers and pulls you into his arms. His strong hands run over the small of your back as he places a kiss atop your head. You stay like this—sheltered in each other's embrace—for several beats. Eventually, he pulls away, though only far enough for you to adjust and see the smile blooming on his face. One of his hands departs your back, only to find purchase against your cheek. Another beat passes before he shakes his head as if in disbelief.

"I don't know what to say..." he voices softly.

"Are you happy?"

"I'm over the moon." He smiles.

Your heart screams at you to kiss him, only for him to be faster. Your lips meet gently, though not an ounce of passion is missing from the kiss. Whatever fear and anxiety that you had still been holding onto vanished in an instant. He pulls away and leans down to place a peck against your shoulder, which he does only when falling deep into thought. You raise a hand and run your fingers through his short cropped hair before inquiring about what’s on his mind.

"A to-do list, along with a list of potential nursery paint colors."

His words make your heart swell, but you can’t pass up the opportunity to press his buttons just a little.

"Can we at least make it through our first official doctor's visit before you start drafting schematics?"

"Preparation is the key to success." He states matter-of-factly, only to earn a sarcastic eye roll from you.

"Hey,” he says while poking at your side, “you knew exactly who I was when you married me."

“Isn’t hindsight is 20/20?” You respond playfully.

A crease forms between his eyebrows as he feigns offense, though it’s only seconds before he joins you in laughter. Watching your face light up, he shakes his head softly before capturing your lips for another kiss.

Taglist: @pear-1206 @marchingicenotes7 @bayisdying @princessofglitterland @bella-law @callsignaries @katesmadness @oliviah-25 @luckyladycreator2 @shakira-sasha @xoxabs88xox @fanboyluvr @alexxavicry @madamemelancholysstuff @paola-carter @barbiewritesstuff @dozcan123 @withakindheartx @nyx2021 @teti-menchon0604 @kmc1989

[dante-mightdie]

Trailing off of dragon!price, princess!reader, and knight!gaz, why not add blacksmith!soap, and bandit!ghost ;))

-

Blacksmith!soap gets snatched by price the second he sees how beautiful his delicate metal works are, already daydreaming of his little pets in nothing but thin chains worth more than the average cost of a fine-breed horse,

Soap trys his hardest to fight against the territorial dragon, but once price decides he like something it's his, and he never lets go of what he instinctively knows is only his possession ;)

Bandit!Ghost and absolute thrill seeker of a theif, has stolen from the so called impossible, and Price's treasure is his next target and easy win, or so he thinks,

He gets rather far, filling a rough linen sack with valuables thousands of years old, and he almost gets away with it except for one small mistake, he spookes pretty princess reader and though he immediately muffled their growls and yells with a burly hand, the sound you did let out is enough to send price hot on your tail, and just like the rest ghost is scooped up unwillingly into the fold of price's wing like a mangy stray.

And believe me Ghost bites and thrashes trying every trick in the book, but price likes the sad/angry puppy look in his eyes and once again has picked up another stray for his hoard,

The first time all of price's hoard fuck together is during price's rut when he's absolutely insatiable and without tagging each other out, a couple of them woul definitely get severe dehydration among other things, not too say they all aren't a bunch of submissive puddles after being used by price,

All passed out in Price's warm silk nest, tucked under his wing, this is when price knows he's picked the perfect little pets to entertain him :))

-

Much love Sin <3

(p.s. praying Tumblr just ate the other puppy req I send in, and if you were in anyway uncomfortable with it don't hesitate to send me a dm about it :P)

not lost i just wanted didn't check my inbox until i finished work :)

content warning: dub-con, smut

price getting johnny to make pretty swords for his pretty knight! dull, of course. can't risk one of his pets hurting themselves!

gets you all matching velvet pillows so you dont scuff your knees when you kneel at his feet. makes him feel powerful. makes him feel in charge

and he is in charge, believe you me. only he could bring 3 big strong and a spoilt princess to their knees. turn them into moaning messes as he overstimulates them. soft rumbling purrs filling the dense cave when he reduces you to a whimpering puddle as you snuggle into him, desperate for aftercare from this grumpy ol' dragon...

I think he'd have a temper. start destroying things from his stash when one of you pisses him off, yelling at you and huffing fire from his nose whilst you and the rest of his hoard cower from him in the corner :(

it is nice having the boys around. it was dreadfully boring in the cave whenever price would go into hibernation, leaving you all alone to snoop through his belongings to find things to keep you busy

but now you have your boys to keep you entertained :) passing you around and taking their turn with you. simon wasting no time in throwing the pretty village princess onto her knees and having his way with you

his hard, thick cock drilling into your sopping hole, stretching you open as you squeal and bite down on your pillow to avoid waking price. listening to him tell you how he can't wait to escape this dragon and tell everyone that the village princess is really the village whore :(

soap goes next, telling himself that there's no reason why he shouldn't get to have his turn next. except he's a little nicer than simon, kneeling between your legs and lapping at your sore cunt :( spitting on it to keep you nice and wet as he slips his cock in you

fucking simon's load back inside your cunt and making the sloppy sound of him drilling into you echo throughout the cave, slinging your legs over his shoulder and forcing you into a mating-press

and lovely gaz :( who feels so bad about defiling the princess he swore to rescue but you just looked so pretty creaming around soap and simon's cock, tears slipping down your cheeks as you cum for the millionth time :(

goes in with the guise of comforting you before slipping his fingers down to drag between your sopping folds. kissing your forehead and cooing at you as he sits you on his cock, grabbing your hips and bouncing you in his lap

shushing you when price stirs in his slumber due to your loud squeals and cries. dumping another load in you before dropping you down next to price, letting the older man wrap his wings around you as he snores soundly <3

[konigs-left-pec]

Dad!Simon smluff smutty fluff yo.

18+ under the cut

💠 M a s t e r l i s t

Simon's desire for you hasn't diminished at all since you started having kids. If anything it's made him sneakier - like stealth groping your ass or breasts in the kitchen when you're cooking dinner or slipping into the shower with you in the morning before the kids are up.

You're doing laundry together in the basement one afternoon, the raucous din of your children playing in the living room overhead just about drowning out his sudden inquiry. How quiet can you be? as he's already got his hand shoved past the waistband of your sweats, fingers insinuating and then how quick can you come? The husky timbre of his voice crawling down your spine as he dips a thick finger into your slick well, smirk spreading across his lips in satisfaction of your body's welcoming answer.

That's how you find yourself on your back on a lopsided pile of bed linens, pants dangling off the curve of one of your knees as your husband all but rips off his belt, shoving his pants down just enough to grip his length and line up. Simon huffs out a weak groan against your neck on the first press, like he's been without you for weeks, before he begins driving into you with purpose. He always feels so damn good, even more so when he's desperate for you. You spread your legs wider to take him deeper, involuntarily squeezing him even tighter when he angles his hips just so, striking a devastating spot inside you.

It's fast and hot, enough to make you feel a little guilty, praying the kids keep playing and you'll be undisturbed for just a few more precious minutes. You're so full, you just know you're going to feel the ache of him for days. You scramble to ground yourself, clutching at the plush nest of blankets beneath you as he's dragging your hand down to touch the root of him between where your bodies meet, begging nonsensically broken things against your lips. You feel so good squeezing me like that...s'wet for me, doll...need you to touch yourself for me...

You're climbing higher, molten warmth is pooling in your belly when he suddenly pulls out. Before you can complain, he's rearranging you into a press and sliding back inside with a stretch that has you delirious. His hand comes down across your mouth just in time to smother the jagged moan that skitters out and he's actually chuckling, the sound breathless and hitched against your cheek and you know he's just as consumed by this tryst as you.

Need you to come with me, love he whispers coolly, oddly collected like he didn't just let out a tortured groan, the churning of his hips slowing to a dead stop to try and stave off his end. It drags you closer to the edge knowing how much he needs it, needs you. You can only nod, circling your aching clit as he picks up the pace. A consuming kiss - teeth and tongues and the punishing glide of his cock is all it takes for you both to succumb.

You're both still lying on the floor in a giddy post-sex haze, Simon half sprawled on top of you when you hear the crack of the door at the top of the stairs. A chorus of sweet little voices call out for papa to come back upstairs to fix one of the many brightly colored noisemaking toys they have strewn around the house. He tells them he'll be up in a moment before he gets to his feet, helping you to do the same before pulling you into his arms.

"I love you." He whispers into the kiss he has pressed against your crown. His hands on your back are strong and warm in a way that makes your heart clench. You'll never look at laundry the same way again. "I love you too, Si."

[mojogojocasahouse]

Blushing Confessions - Suguru Geto

Suguru Geto x f!reader

When your best friend finds out there’s something you haven’t experienced, he takes it into his own hands to show you what you’ve been missing.

Words: 1.9k Content:NSFW, friends to lovers, first time oral f!receiving, unprotected p in v, oral m!receiving, multiple orgasms, overstimulation 18+ ONLY

Satoru Gojo version || SatoSugu version

It’s just past midnight when you finally spot the wreath of flowers hanging on your front door. Your ankles and calves are throbbing from the long walk home in heels, the chill in the air blocked out by a black leather jacket that didn’t belong to you.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you sigh, beginning to shrug it off to return it to its rightful owner, “and for this.”

“I’ll get it inside,” your best friend Suguru Geto chimes from behind you.

Suguru follows you in before gently pulling the thick coat from your shoulders, leaving you in the short strapless dress you’d begun the night in, your keys and purse going on the hook behind the door.

“I overheard you talking to Shoko tonight,” he confesses, your blood running cold and a shiver shooting down your spine.

There had been enough words shared between you and Shoko that night you wouldn’t want anyone to hear, most of all Suguru. A few drinks earlier in the night had your tongue loose, and the conversation had gotten much more suggestive as the laughs had flowed. You were freshly single, breaking it off with the guy you’d been with since high school, and Shoko had been eager to get all the dirt on him that she could. That, and you’d finally admitted that the crush on a “mutual friend” she always teased you about having had actually been true all along.

“Is it true?” Suguru whispers soft and deep, he’s close enough you can feel his breath hot on your ear, “That no one’s tasted you before?”

Air leaves your lungs as the backs of his fingers graze down your arm, that was certainly one of the things you hoped he hadn’t heard. In fact, you’d wanted to take the words and shove them back down your throat the moment they left your lips. Frozen in humiliation, you feel the tight skirt of your dress being pulled up to bunch at your waist, your bare ass pressing against Suguru’s linen pants as he closes any remaining space left between you, nothing but the small triangle of fabric of your thong shielding your lower half from view.

“If only you knew how long I’ve wanted this,” he purrs against your throat, “Maybe you’d have taken pity on me a long time ago.”

Through all the nights you’d thought of him as you pleasured yourself none of your fantasies had done him justice. Your body is limp when he pins you against the door, sinking down to his knees and slinging your left one over his shoulder, your sharp stiletto heel thumping against his back. He doesn’t bother slipping off the pathetic excuse of panties you’re wearing, he just nudges the thin satin fabric aside before burying his tongue in your slit. A strong forearm pressing against your stomach keeps you upright when you keel over forward, the leg you’re still standing on already quivering and threatening to give out. 

It’s just long languid strokes at first, but he’s already groaning as he swipes over your dampening skin. Your limbs are on fire, and it’s taking all your focus to concentrate on the dark eyes transfixed on every gasp and expression on your face. Every muscle is shaking, you don’t notice the way you’re slinking down to the floor until the cool wood hits your ass, and somehow Suguru has followed you down without stopping his onslaught until he’s flat on his stomach, wrapping his arms around your thighs and taking advantage of the new leverage he has at this angle.

Immediately, his lips lock around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud until your little whines go silent. Your mouth is just hanging open now, fingers running along the sleek black hair tied back neatly in a bun. Every purse of lips and flick of his tongue is stronger than the last, and he stops to collect your slick whenever he pauses for a breath, humming in appreciation for every drop.

The top of your dress slips down as your chest heaves and body slackens against the door, and his hands immediately find your newly exposed skin. You’re lost in him. His thumbs rub circles over your hardening nipples as he palms the plush of your breasts, his mouth still greedily lapping at your cunt. It’s hard to breathe, pressure bearing down on your chest and stomach like a vice, and subconsciously you begin flicking your hips over his face. 

A wicked smile settles on his lips at the sight of you so undone, so wild and feral for him. You’re using him now, fucking yourself on his outstretched tongue until every muscle tenses, the dam breaking and sending a wave of relief through your body from the middle outwards. Air burns your lung as you gulp it in with loud, whimpering pants, your lidded eyes watching his hair fall over his shoulders as he pulls it free. 

Before you even stop twitching from the aftershocks, his mouth is once again adhering to your slick, swollen folds. You scream out in shock, your body still too sensitive, but Suguru has no intention of relenting. 

“It’s too much,” you slur, but your fingers thread in his silky locks gently, combing through them affectionately, “I can’t—“

“Try,” he purrs, kissing your overstimulated bundle of nerves, “You can take it. For me?”

That poisoned honey tone could command you to do anything. 

“So sweet,” he hums after his tongue swipes over your fluttering hole, “You’re still dripping.”

“Fuck me,” you beg, not even in control of your own thoughts anymore, “Fuck me, please.”

“Soon. But there’s something I want first.”

Pleasure won out over discomfort beneath his skilled ministrations, heat bubbling in your belly once again as his teeth grazed your inner thigh. You’re so swollen, just his middle finger feels like a stretch when he pushes up into your pussy, his chuckle over just how tight you are hot against your soaked skin. 

After a few strokes, he stuffs you with a second finger, curling them to massage along your inner wall. White-hot heat prickles your skin as a thin sheen of sweat has you glowing in the dim light, it’s an entirely different level of bliss now. This feels heavier, every drag of his thick digits can be felt all the way in the tips of your fingers, the added wet heat of his mouth shamelessly running through your slit and over his own fingers drenched in your juices making it unbearable. 

Wriggling your hips, you try to get away, but you’re keeping his head in place between your legs with an iron grip. You know your neighbors can hear your wanton cries, they’re echoing off the walls as a wildfire burns through your veins. Suguru is unrelenting, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder, scraping against the soft patch he’s pinpointed with proficient accuracy until you're gushing around him.

His teeth are bared in a greedy grin, his lower face drenched as he props himself up onto his elbows like he’s crawling from the trenches. Gripping the bunched mess of your dress pooled around your middle, he yanks you upright into his chest and crashes his lips down onto yours. 

“See? You taste simply divine,” he says, your tongue darting out to taste yourself still strongly saturating his mouth, your fingers working on the buttons of his shirt.

As you come down from your high, you enjoy the kiss you’ve waited years for. It doesn’t feel like the first time, his lips moving fluidly with yours, the dance is graceful as you wind your arms around his neck and find his hair once again while he shoves his shirt off his shoulders. Large, warm hands slip from your waist and over the soft curves of your ass to grip the backs of your thighs, your body leaving the ground as he stands. 

The blankets on your bed cushion your fall when he drops you, immediately twisting you to lay flat on your stomach and lifting your hips. 

“Gorgeous,” he sighs, smacking his palm down onto your ass cheek, the sting searing down your leg. 

“Please,” you beg, knotting your hands in your bedding as he notches at your opening, “Please, Suguru.”

“Have you ever thought of me?” he asks, teasing you with the tip, “When you were with him.”

“Yes.”

He groans at your admission, thrusting in and bottoming out in one stroke. There’s no time to adjust to the stretch of his cock splitting you open, he’s already dragging through your velvety walls in search of friction, slamming back in harder than the first. With each punctuated piston of his hips, your whines are choked from the force of his movements, your bones turning to jelly in his grip. 

“We’ll stay in tomorrow…sleep in,” Suguru plans, his voice barely audible over the smacking of his hips against your ass, “Order delivery for lunch…Then I’ll cook you dinner…”

How could he even be thinking coherently right now? You were drooling, face down on your bed, your body limp as he ruts into you with enough force to have you sliding up the sheets. 

“I’ll fuck you to sleep,” he continues as you mewl beneath him, “Soft and slow. Because I know you’ll be sore.”

You’re clenching around him at the suggestion. As his movements grow more frantic and sloppy, you’re building towards your third orgasm of the night. Exhaustion doesn’t even begin to encapsulate what you feel, the only word you can manage to babble is his name, and it only fuels him faster. 

“I won’t come without you,” he coos, curling his chest around your back, “Tell me what you need.”

With one hand, you drag his to your center, his fingers immediately beginning to rub circles over your clit once again, and with the other, you drag his left to your throat. He chuckles in your ear, pulling you upright with him, his hair falling down over your shoulder as he mouths at the hollow behind your ear. Your tits are shaking as he fucks you somehow harder and faster, his hand squeezing around your windpipe while he kisses your gasping lips. 

“Where do you want it?” he murmurs, his voice edging on desperation.

“In-inside…” you answer, and it’s the last word you utter before your air is cut off completely with his tightened grip. 

It’s nothing short of euphoria when your vision begins to blacken around the edges and stars begin to speckle across the room. You hear him moaning behind you as you tense, the feeling of his cum spurting hot and thick inside of you sending you hurtling off the precipice. When he released your throat, a hoarse cry finally chokes free, both of you collapsing down onto the bed, his arm slung over your lower back. You’re both heaving for air, burning and sweating but not caring enough about the heat to separate. 

When your eyes flutter open to the sight of his face you can’t help but smile. His eyes are closed, bangs sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed red, and his lips are still swollen; he looks serene. Your fingers drift to push the hair from his brow, moving down to cup his cheek and there he lays his hand over yours, nuzzling against you in a silent plea to stay.

“Shall I run a bath?” he asks, his lips pressing to your palm, and you hum in agreement, “When I feel like moving then.”

Your lips find his in a slow, lazy kiss, no longer frantic and desperate like before. There's safety in it—a promise—as you both affirm it won’t be the last. 

The other two will be out soon! Thank you so much for reading, comments and reblogs=love

{{Masterlist}}

[oceanlix]

Lean On Me Today

Pairing: Chan x female reader

Genre: Smut, fluff

Word count: 1379

Warnings: Masturbation (male), handjob, praise, nipple play

It’s late when Chan gets home. He knows you’ve already gone to bed because all the lights are off and the apartment is quiet. He heaves a sigh and is thankful that you’re not too light of a sleeper; he really wants a shower to soothe his sore muscles before bed.

He kicks off his shoes and heads down the hallway, grabbing a towel and washcloth from the linen closet on his way. Chan makes sure to quietly shut the bathroom door behind him. You may not be a light sleeper, but he’s still not going to make a bunch of noise and risk waking you up.

He turns on the water in the shower, taking the time to wash his face over the sink while it warms up. Chan knows he looks exhausted, but that’s okay because that’s how he feels. A good night’s sleep will fix it anyway.

Steam starts filling up the bathroom, so Chan strips off his clothes and gets in. As soon as the hot water hits his aching muscles, he can’t help but let out a groan. He’s trying to keep quiet, but it just feels so good that he can’t help the noises.

He grabs the washcloth and pours your body wash on it, lathering it up. Chan has his own that he uses during the week, something woody and strong, but yours smells good too. He likes to use it on the weekends, wrapping himself in your scent even when you’re right there next to him.

It doesn’t take long before his cock twitches between his legs, as he thinks about how pretty and soft you are. Chan sighs, not wanting to wake you up for his own selfish reasons. Instead, he wraps a hand loosely around his cock and tugs a few times. His head thunks back against the shower wall much too loudly, sobering him up from the steamy warmth. He decides it’s too risky to keep jerking off while you sleep in the next room; he’s going to make too much noise and accidentally wake you up.

His cock throbs with need as he finishes up his shower, but Chan knows he has enough self control to get through one night without getting off. He wraps himself up in his towel, tying it at the waist as he heads into your bedroom.

You’re sound asleep under the covers thankfully, not having been woken up from his noises in the bathroom. He breathes a sigh of relief and goes to the dresser, carefully opening the drawers to get clothing to sleep in. He selects a pair of boxer briefs and a t-shirt, but before he can take off the towel, he feels a warm body pressing against his back.

“Hi,” you whisper against his shoulder. He would greet you back, but your hand is sneaking past the towel and grabbing his cock. All he can do is harshly suck in a breath as your warm hand strokes him slowly, your lips pressing kisses along his back. “You’re home late.”

Chan watches you in the mirror, as best as he can since you’re behind him. You loosen the towel with your free hand until it falls away, revealing the sight of you pumping his cock steadily. His tip is red and leaking precum already, and watching it disappear and reappear in your hand has him groaning out loud.

“I thought you were asleep,” he chokes out. You chuckle, swiping your thumb over his slit. Chan grips the dresses so his knees don’t buckle, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“I was, but then I heard you moan in the shower and I knew I couldn’t leave my man hanging.” Your voice is so sweet as you say it, even though you’re jerking him off right now. It makes Chan’s head spin in the best way. “You smell like me,” you add, nosing along his shoulder.

“I used your body wash,” he admits easily. It’s not like it’s a secret that he does it, but you like to tease him in this way. You feel his cock twitch in your hands as he says it, and it makes you feel powerful.

“Good,” you hum, kissing his shoulder blade. “Now everyone will know that you’re mine.”

Chan groans, spinning you around so you’re against the dresser now. “I love it when you talk like that,” he tells you, leaning down for a hungry kiss. You let yourself get lost in his lips for a few moments, but then you gently push him off of you.

“No,” you scold him gently, moving behind him again. You slide your hands over his shoulders, down his pecs and abs, until your fingers wrap around his cock once more. “I want to make you cum just like this, baby. You deserve it, you’ve worked so hard this week.” You squeeze his hip and rub your nose along his back.

“O-okay,” he agrees, his body tense. You resume stroking his cock, leaving wet kisses all across his back. Chan moans beautifully for you, slumping forward against the dresser as he tries to resist turning around and ravaging you on the bed.

Your hand gets wetter with each stroke, his cock leaking precum steadily as you work him up. Truthfully, you want him inside you, but you want to take care of him even more. It’s true that Chan works so hard, staying late whenever it’s required. You want to pay him back for all that he does to support you, starting with giving him a mindblowing orgasm.

“You always take care of me so well,” you whisper, scratching your nails across his stomach gently. The man whimpers, making you grin to yourself. “I wanted to show you how much I appreciate you and everything you do for us.”

Chan feels tears pricking at his eyes. He’s overwhelmed by your praise and your hands on his cock and stomach. “Thank you,” he chokes out, hips jerking forward as you squeeze his tip on the upstroke. “Thank you, baby.”

You shake your head, your free hand trailing up to pinch and pull at his nipples. “No, baby, thank you. You do so, so much for me, even in bed. It’s time I give it back to you.”

Though you’re saying the words, both of you know that you each repay the other on a regular basis. There’s never an imbalance in your relationship for long, either inside or outside of the bedroom. Still, it’s nice to be reminded every once in a while.

The room is silent for a few minutes, only the sound of skin on skin and the occasional bump of the dresser hitting the wall gently. Chan’s so hard he can only hang his head and accept what you’re giving him, low groans slipping from his mouth every now and then.

“Are you close, baby?” you whisper against his shoulder. He can only nod, too far gone in the sensations to speak. You pick up the pace a little, squeezing the shaft every few moments and smiling at the way his hips jerk forward slightly. “Come for me, then we can go to bed.”

Your boyfriend thrusts into your hand a couple more times, then shoots his load against the dresser. You coo at him as he rides out his high, kissing his back until he gently pushes your hand away. You turn him around and drop to your knees, holding onto his thighs as you lick up the cum on them. Chan can only whimper softly as you clean up his softening cock with your mouth, the oversensitivity getting to him.

You stand up, glancing at the cum that’s dripping down the front of the dresser. “I’ll clean that up tomorrow,” you decide, lacing your fingers with Chan and walking over to the bed. You pull him down with you into the sheets, his head immediately going to rest on your boobs as you pull the blankets over yourselves.

“I love you,” he mumbles sleepily, and though his eyes are closed, he gently gropes your breast that he’s not laying on. You chuckle and kiss the top of his head, nuzzling your nose into his hair.

“Love you too, Channie,” you whisper, closing your eyes.