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buckysleftbicep · 19 hours ago

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in too deep 𐙚 b.b

pairing: dom!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, fingering, orgasm denial, publi(ish) teasing, dirty talk do not operate heavy machinery after reading

summary: you told bucky it was your ovulation week and he took that as a challenge. you really, really, should’ve kept your mouth shut. based on this request | requests are open!

word count: 3k

author's note: hi my loves! i had too much fun writing this and i love it so much! i'm so excited to start working on the other requests that i have received 💓. have a great time reading, love ya and stay safe out there!

You should’ve kept your damn mouth shut.

It was just a whisper, a breathy, heat-laced confession, murmured with your face buried against Bucky’s throat last night while straddling his lap.

The compound was quiet, the television playing some netflix movie neither of you were watching. His hand had been sliding slow, comforting circles across your lower back, and your thighs were clenched tight around his hips, slick with want.

You hadn’t meant to say it, but your hormones clearly had other plans.

“It’s my ovulation week,” you breathed, nuzzling against his stubble. Your voice trembled with need, barely a sound. “Everything… feels extra.”

His hand had stopped, just for a second.

Then, danger. Pure danger. The way his fingers tightened possessively at your waist, the low hum he gave in response, and that glint in his eyes, it was not just mischief, his gaze was hungry almost as if he couldn’t wait to claim you.

That’s when you knew you were in trouble.

Now, the next morning, you’re standing in the mirrored gym on trembling legs with a kettlebell in your hand, sweat sliding down your spine, and your boyfriend is watching you like he’s about to drag you into the nearest closet and fuck you into the drywall. Not that you minded though.

He’s leaning against the wall across the mat. Casual on the surface. But the tension in his jaw and the weight in his stare?

It was anything but casual.

His sweatpants hang low on his hips, framing the sharp cut of his v-line and doing absolutely nothing to hide the thick, heavy outline of his cock beneath the cotton. His black tank is soaked through from sparring, clinging to the hard planes of his chest and abs like a second skin.

Bucky's got that calculated look in his eye almost like he’s pretending to assess your form, but really, he’s picturing bending you over the nearest bench and wrecking you six ways from Sunday.

You shift on your feet, stretch your arms overhead, arch just enough to let your back curve and your chest push forward.

If he’s going to tease you, you’ll tease back.

That’s your first mistake.

The second is letting out a moan, quiet, soft, instinctual as you bend down to touch your toes. It was barely audible, but he hears it.

The moment it escapes your lips, his eyes flash. And then, he moves.

Not a walk. A stalk.

He pushes off the wall and prowls toward you across the mat, slow and deliberate, like a wolf scenting its prey.

You straighten up too quickly, nearly dropping the kettlebell.

“Need a spotter?” he drawls, his voice pitched low and lazy, but his eyes rake over you like he’s already got you on your knees. “Or are you just making those noises for fun?”

You swallow, trying to look as unimpressed as possible. “Just warming up.”

He hums, circling behind you.

You feel the heat of him before he touches you, his presence like the sun, warm and overwhelming. You can smell him, too, sweat and cedar and something feral. And then, he kneels behind you, dragging his palms slowly up the backs of your thighs like he’s not in the compound's gym right now.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “We should stretch you out more.”

Your breath catches.

He parts your legs wider, his metal hand sliding between your inner thighs to nudge them open. You gasp as the fabric of your shorts pulls taut across your aching core, the pressure sweet and cruel.

“Bucky—” you whisper, heart racing.

“Shhh.” His breath ghosts over the curve of your ass. “You’re being so good. Standing still like this. Letting me see just how fuckin’ desperate you are.”

His fingers dance under the hem of your shorts, barely grazing your skin. Teasing your soaked, sensitive flesh without mercy, but he doesn’t touch you where you need though. Just close enough to ruin you.

“You’ve been wet since last night, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Could feel you clenching around nothing when you were grinding on my lap. Bet you soaked through your panties when you slept.”

You tremble, the heat between your legs now unbearable. You want to scream, maybe even cry, perhaps drag him into the supply closet and beg him to fuck you until you can’t walk.

And he knows it.

“You told me it’s your ovulation week dollface” he whispers, voice dark and sinful. “That means this little pussy’s hungry, huh? Just aching to get filled.”

“God, you’re evil,” you whisper through your teeth, trying not to fall apart in front of the squat rack.

He chuckles. Presses a kiss to the side of your thigh. And then—he stands. Just like that.

Leaves you there, shaking, soaked and empty.

You spin around, panting, barely restraining the urge to launch your kettlebell at his head.

Bucky smirks, that infuriating, self-satisfied look that says he’s enjoying your torment a little too much.

“I think Yelena’s done with the sparring mat,” he says, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Why don’t you grab it, sweetheart?”

Your face burns and your clit throbs. And Bucky walks off like he didn’t just edge you in the damn compound gym.

You turn and meet Yelena’s smug grin.

She’s still jogging on the treadmill but slows to a bounce-walk as she tosses you a towel. “You look like you need a different kind of workout, sweetheart.”

“Don't.”

Yelena leans on the handrails. “No, no, I’m just saying—” she lifts an eyebrow— “the mat isn’t the only thing that’s going to get stretched out today.”

You throw the towel at her face.

She catches it mid-air, laughing.

“Tell Bucky to let you finish next time,” she calls as you storm off to the locker room, “Or at least let us know so we can film it!”

Somewhere near the dumbbells, Bob chokes on his protein shake.

You don’t even know what this briefing is about.

There’s a map stretched across the table, John is mid-rant about “optimal insertion points,” Alexei’s chewing sunflower seeds with the enthusiasm of a man watching spring training, Ava is checking her knives for the third time, Yelena’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone, occasionally snorting at whatever she’s watching.

And Bob, well Bob is asleep.

But none of it matters.

Because Bucky is sitting next to you. And his fingers are buried between your thighs.

From the outside, everything looks innocent. His flesh hand rests gently in your lap, your own placed demurely over his like the two of you are just quietly close, sweet, even.

But beneath the table, where no one can see, his metal hand is sliding past the waistband of your shorts with deliberate, devastating precision.

He doesn’t even pretend to rush. Two thick fingers move in slow, torturous circles over your clit, skimming with maddening pressure, barely enough to satisfy, but just enough to make your legs tremble.

Your breath catches, body frozen in place, every muscle tight with restraint. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how to touch you just right, how to coax those tiny, helpless reactions from you while you try to sit still and pretend you’re paying attention to a goddamn map.

His fingers stroke like he has all the time in the world, like there isn't a room full of operatives around you and a mission briefing happening overhead. A soft whimper curls in your throat and dies behind your teeth.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to catch more friction, but that only makes him chuckle under his breath, barely audible and smug as sin.

And still, he doesn’t go deeper. Doesn't give you what you're aching for. Just keeps circling, teasing, controlling. Like this is a game, and you’re already losing, pathetically.

You sit stiffly, back ramrod straight, every muscle locked as you try not to make a sound. Your tablet is open in front of you, gripped so tight your knuckles ache and it's the only thing grounding you in this room while your body burns.

He leans in, voice low, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in it. “You really gonna cum in front of the team, princess?”

Your breath hitches. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice sharp like a warning, like a prayer.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, his touch gets lazier. Crueler. His cold vibranium fingers part your folds like he owns every inch of you, and he dips just barely inside, only to pull away, dragging the wetness back up to swirl gently over your clit again.

“You said you needed me,” he continues, brushing his nose against your temple. “Said your body’s beggin’ for it. I’m just helping”

“Are you two doing this again?” Yelena asks flatly, without even looking up. Her tone is dry as dust. “She’s vibrating like she’s possessed, someone get her a snack before she faints.”

You glare daggers at her, but it’s weak, your body is already betraying you.

Alexei squints at you across the table. “I thought she had blood sugar issue”

“She’s ovulating,” Bucky announces casually, not even bothering to lower his voice.

Ava groans. “Jesus, Barnes, you can’t just say that.”

“She told me,” he shrugs, like he’s reading weather reports. “I’m being supportive.”

You make a choked sound as he presses down harder in tight, purposeful circles now, inescapable. Your hips twitch without your permission, Bucky's not even fucking you yet, but you can already feel the orgasm winding tight in your belly like a wire stretched too thin.

“I hate you,” you grind out under your breath, nails digging crescents into your palm.

He turns just enough to meet your eyes, that wicked glint in his blue gaze that makes your lungs seize. “Say that again when you’re cumming on my fingers, pretty girl.”

But he doesn’t let you get there.

Each time your body trembles on the cusp, he pulls back, slows, teasing you with strokes so feather-light they feel like punishment.

You’re soaked, shaking, every inch of your skin flushed with heat. He’s wrecking you in silence, in full view of your teammates, and no one’s the wiser, save for the few who clearly suspect exactly what’s happening under the table.

“Bucky,” you beg, barely audible, lips barely moving. “Please.”

He tilts his head, brushing his mouth over the corner of yours. “Not here, sweetheart.” His voice is velvet, low and dark and dripping with promise. “You wanna be bred, honey? Stuffed full like you’re meant to be?” You whimper, and he smirks. “Then you’ll wait.”

“Okay,” Walker claps his hands like a kindergarten teacher trying to salvage control, clearly frustrated. “Unless Bucky would like to finish fucking his girlfriend under the table, can we maybe circle back to the infiltration routes?”

“Bold of you to assume he hasn’t started,” Yelena mutters, not even glancing up from her screen.

You want the ground to swallow you whole. Or set the whole damn briefing room on fire. Maybe both.

Bucky withdraws his hand with excruciating slowness, fingers slick with your arousal. He doesn’t bother hiding it. Instead, he drags them along the inside of your thigh, leaving a glistening trail before wiping them off on your skin like he’s branding you. A silent, possessive mark that has your breath catching in your throat.

He leans back in his chair like nothing happened, legs spread in that display of dominance, expression unreadable but infuriatingly smug.

Completely relaxed. Completely in control.

And you? You’re ruined. Wrung out and twitching. Every nerve ending crackling with frustration, your body screaming for the release he just denied you.

Then he turns again, tilting his head so his lips hover at the shell of your ear, voice so low it shivers through your bones.

“Kitchen. Twenty minutes. Don’t wear panties.”

You almost beat him there.

Almost.

You're already perched on the edge of the kitchen island, legs swinging slightly, thighs pressed tight together in a poor attempt to dull the ache pulsing through your core. Your shorts are somewhere back in your room, discarded in your frenzy to get here fast enough, and you’re bare underneath his black t-shirt, no panties, no shame.

Just soaked thighs and need.

The cotton of his tee clings to your skin, damp with sweat and arousal. Your nipples are pebbled against the fabric, the cool air in the kitchen brushing over them each time you shift. You’re a mess of frustration and anticipation—hot, dripping, ruined—and all because he didn’t let you finish at that stupid meeting.

Then the sound of footsteps.

He strides in like he owns the whole fucking building—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, dark tank sticking to his chest, muscles flexed, jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that stop your breath. Cerulean blue, blazing and feral.

He takes one look at you—legs spread, thighs gleaming, lips parted in silent plea and something in him snaps.

He crosses the space in two steps and his hands are already on you.

“You waited like a good girl, huh?” he rasps, voice wrecked and raw, lifting the shirt up and over your chest. “Sittin’ here all wet and desperate, no fuckin’ panties like I told you. Fuck.”

You don’t get the chance to answer—he’s already kissing you. Hard and possessive. Open-mouthed and filthy, all tongue and teeth and the sharp edge of punishment. You moan against his mouth, clawing at his waistband, nails scraping the hard lines of his hips.

His vibranium hand slides between your legs and you nearly sob. He groans into your mouth as he feels how wet you are, how ready.

“Been leaking for me all fuckin’ day,” he growls, dragging slick fingers through your folds. “You know what I want, don’t you, baby? Want that sweet little cunt full. Stuffed so deep you feel me for days.”

“Please,” you pant, grinding shamelessly against his hand, desperate. “Need it—need you to fill me up, Bucky, please—”

That’s all he needs.

He spins you around and bends you over the island, chest pressed to cool marble, ass bared and ready. There’s no teasing this time. No patience. You feel the thick, blunt heat of him at your entrance and brace yourself—

Then he slams into you with a brutal thrust.

You cry out, loud and unrestrained, one hand slapping the counter, the other gripping the edge like a lifeline. Bucky bottoms out instantly, stretching you open, splitting you around the thick length of him.

“Fuck,” he groans, snapping his hips. “Tight fuckin’ pussy. You were made to be filled by me.”

He sets a relentless pace, hips slamming into your ass, the sound obscene and echoing off the tiled walls. Each thrust drives your body forward, forces breath from your lungs, drags you closer to the edge with reckless, punishing efficiency.

“You want it in you, huh?” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll never let go. “Gonna fuck you full, baby. Gonna fill that greedy pussy ‘til it’s dripping down your thighs. Want my cum deep, want me to breed this needy little cunt?”

“Yes!” you scream. “Fuck, yes, yes, please, Bucky, fill me,"

He snarls, pace turning savage. “Gonna take it. Gonna fuck a baby into you right here on the goddamn counter. My needy little slut, my good girl.”

You unravel, shaking, twitching, walls spasming around him as your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure burning through your bloodstream, exploding behind your eyes. You sob his name, voice wrecked.

Bucky’s right behind you.

He grits out a curse and drives in deep, cock twitching as he spills inside you, hot, thick and endless. He keeps grinding forward as if he could somehow fuck his cum deeper, claim every inch of you from the inside out.

And then you heard voices and footsteps from the hall.

Yelena’s voice rang out, “You know we eat food on that counter, right? Like with our mouths?

Alexei exclaims, “Walker owe me twenty bucks!”

John retorts, dry as ever “at least she's not complaining now.” Ava laughed, “Told you they wouldn’t make it to sunset”

And you could vaguely hear Bob asking if they were supposed to see this.

You bury your face in your arms, groaning. “Kill me. Kill me now.”

Bucky chuckles, actual laughter, low and warm, chest shaking against your back, he presses a kiss to the base of your neck, then another to your spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He pulls out slowly, a filthy squelch of sound following, then hums when your thighs glisten with his release. “Look at that,” he says softly. “Already leaking. Just how I like it.”

You melt when he wraps his arms around you from behind, chest to your back, still warm and panting.

“You did so good for me,” he whispers, brushing your hair off your cheek. “So perfect. Gonna clean you up, put you in bed, and hold you all night. You earned it, needy girl.”

You sigh, body boneless.

And when he lifts you off the counter like you weigh nothing, bridal style, you don’t even resist. You just curl into his chest, letting yourself be carried away, dripping and satisfied.

“I love you,” he says softly into your hair as he walks past the rest of the team like you two didn’t just fuck in a common area.

Despite everything, despite the chaos, the teasing, the way he just wrecked you in the kitchen, you smile.

“I love you too.”

Even if you’re banned from the kitchen forever.

a/n: thank you so much for reading my sweethearts! ❤️ please leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! it keeps me motivated 🥰

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em1i2a3 · 2 days ago

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Only Human

Pairing: Soft!Void!/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been staying with Bob every night since the incident with The Void in hopes to prevent anything like that from happening again. Much to your surprise though, he slips out of Bob to see you one night. (Sequel to ‘The Dark Side’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Fluff, Smut, and like Hurt/Comfort kind of?, Mentions of Injuries that occurred in the first part, Just as a Reminder Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, There is some references to supernatural things (we are dealing with The Void here, so it does need a bit of a warning I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️), Reader and Bob are not in a relationship (not at the moment), but they do have feelings for one another.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please lol), Sensual Touching, The Void is Touch Starved (what can I say?), Fingering, Squirting, Mutual Masturbation, Biting, Praise/Dirty Talk (kind of?), Little Bit of Supernatural Elements to the sex, Hopefully I didn’t miss anything.

Author’s Note: People really liked my portrayal of Soft-ish Void in ‘The Dark Side’ and truly I wanted to kind of expand on that and take the story just a bit further too. Writing Soft!Void was so fun and odd, but it was so nice to be able to do it. Hopefully y’all enjoy! Thank you for readin <3 (P.S. Yes I said Soft Void. Don’t worry, normal Void shenanigans will be back soon.)

Word Count: 9,702

“You really don’t ha–have to keep doing this…” Bob’s voice broke softly through the silence like a crack in still glass. It wasn’t really a protest, it was more like a quiet plea laced with guilt. He lingered just inside the doorway, his tall frame half-silhouetted by the dim hallway light that glowed behind him. His tone trembled, stretched thin by exhaustion, “I’m…I’m sure you want to get more sleep than ju-just an hour or two.”

You were already under the covers of his bed, leaning against the headboard with your legs drawn up beneath the thick comforter, shoulder relaxed but eyes wide open. Sleep hadn’t been coming easily lately for you–not with everything still so raw with worry and concern–but being here, in his room with him, had become a kind of comforting ritual for you. A place where you stood guard, and soothed.

The chaos that once wreaked havoc over his bedroom–the splintered furniture, shattered glass, dented drywall–was gone now. Cleaned. Patched. Rebuilt from the ground up basically. The entire team had taken on the task to make everything right again, to erase the brutal traces of The Void’s presence. Even the scuffed floors had been sanded and polished, though some of the deeper gouges remained, hidden beneath the new rug Ava insisted on buying.

You had spent nearly every spare hour of the past week in his room–sorting through broken remnants, salvaging what you could. Bob’s framed photos of the team had been the first thing you tackled: cracked glass removed, splinters of wood from the frames glued back together, and new little pieces of plastic placed against the photos to replace the glass. You sat cross-legged on his floor, each picture spread out before you like fragments, before putting everything back together. You had also tried to salvage some of his mugs, but only two had been saved–Bob was grateful that you even tried to do it anyway.

Then came the dresser. A new one that you ordered from IKEA, that was delivered in a box that was too heavy for you to haul into Bob’s room on your own. You got Alexei and Walker to help you with that, but you stayed behind after they left, kneeling on the carpet beside Bob, helping him screw everything into place and go through the instructions. He had insisted on doing everything himself, even though his knuckles that you had patched up had begun to bleed through the gauze.

When things settled, everything looked very close to normalcy–eerily so. There was familiar furniture positioned back into place, books reshelved in the same order, and picture frames perched in the same areas. But it felt different. Lived in again…Touched by healing hands.

And Bob noticed.

He thanked you feverishly every time you finished a picture frame or replaced something–even when you handed him a cup of tea. He thanked Walker for lifting the headboard, Ava for the rug, Yelena for restocking his little trinkets. He must’ve said those words a hundred times within the week. You could tell he didn’t think it was enough. That it gnawed at him–how much everyone gave, and how little he felt he could return.

Now, he stepped into the room slowly, closing the door behind him with that same soft care he had throughout the entire week, his shoulder rising and falling with a tired breath as he crossed the room toward his dresser. You watch him from your place under the covers, silent, observant.

His movements were slower than usual. Careful. Painfully so. You saw it in the way he unzipped his hoodie with trembling fingers, the bandages frayed slightly at the edges, stained faintly with ointment from earlier. Your eyes followed every shift of his hand–the one you’d held steady days ago as you pulled a splinter from beneath the nail, listening to him suck in a breath and tell you, “It’s okay, I don’t even feel it anymore,” even though he clearly did.

“Trust me, Bob,” You said softly, your voice breaking the stillness in the room, “I’m okay. I don’t need as much sleep as you think…And regardless of that…I’m the only person that can control him if he comes out again. I need to be here.” He paused, halfway through shrugging off the hoodie. His jaw clenched for a second, then he slipped the rest of the fabric off, folding it slowly and neatly, hands still trembling slightly, before placing it on the dresser. You saw it in his face–there was something haunting him again. A question. A thought he hadn’t dared speak aloud until now. He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“…You never told me how you go-got me to come back,” He mumbled, voice quiet, strained, like it was raw just thinking about it. He stared down at the hoodie for a beat longer, rubbing the soft fabric, before wordlessly reaching for the hem of his shirt, turning on his heel to face you. He peeled the shirt off, the gauze clinging slightly to the inside of it. The amber glow of the bedside lamp casted long, soft shadows over his body, bathing him in warm light that didn’t hide a single thing.

The bruises and bandage were in plain sight again.

You had noticed them when you were patching up his hands after you calmed him down that day, but under this light they looked worse. Deeper. Like violet clouds blooming beneath the surface of his skin. The bruising stretched across his ribs, wrapping over his sides and spilling faintly along the edges of his abdomen, as though he’d been caught in a collapse and had barely crawled out from under it. There were a few patches of gauze as well, from where splinters of furniture had scraped and cut him.

He had told you, through clenched teeth, that The Void had made him hurt himself. That in the haze of it all–in the fog of darkness and sadness–he had taken the pain out on himself instead of the furniture around his room. He punched himself, or at least Bob said he did.

It hurt to hear, and it was even more painful to see, yet you still patched him up with such gentleness that Bob felt like he was going to pass out.

Seeing them again made your throat tighten.

He didn’t seem to notice your expression. He was too focused on the motion–folding his shirt with such neatness before throwing it into the hamper. Like it was the only thing he could really control.

”If I told you…” You began softly, your voice low, hesitant, “You wouldn't believe me, Bob.” He paused. Looked over at you, brows drawn in quiet confusion. His concern was already building, you could feel it.

“Tr-Try me,” He said after a beat. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze dropping to your hands where they rested on top of the blanket. Your thumbs brushed against the constellation of beauty marks scattered along your skin—small, quiet things you’d never thought much of before. But now…

Now, they burned.

Not in pain, but in memory.

You thought of what The Void had said. What he knew.

How Bob looked at them when he thought you weren’t watching. How he had memorized them–every last one. How they marked where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you. That stupid piece of folklore you’d only ever half believed–until you saw what your kisses did to him.

The way the freckles had bled through the Void’s form like stars. Tiny galaxies lighting up the dark. One at a time. The shoulder. The spine. The base of his neck. His jaw. The more you kissed him, the more the darkness split open and Bob began to return–like you’d traced a map across his skin and led him home.

How were you supposed to say that out loud?

How were you supposed to tell him the most impossible thing you’d ever done felt like instinct? That somehow, without understanding how or why, your body knew the way back to him even when his mind didn’t?

So instead…You looked back up at him.

His eyes were on you, soft and waiting, concern already building in the faint knit of his brows.

“It’s really…” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, “…confusing, Bob.” That crease in his forehead deepened just slightly as he took a cautious step forward.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head, once, immediately.

“No,” You said gently. “He didn’t. He can’t. He’s weak when he’s around me.”

You watched him exhale, the motion shaking slightly through his chest. His shoulders dropped, but his eyes stayed shadowed with something heavier–dread, maybe. Guilt. You reached over and flipped the blanket open without a word, and with your free hand, flicked off the bedside lamp.

Darkness swept across the room like a curtain. Not suffocating. Not cold. Just soft. Gentle shadows broken only by the pale blue glow from the window, where moonlight cut through the glass in long, quiet angles and kissed the walls.

Bob stood there for a moment–hesitating. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, his gaze cast low like he didn’t quite feel worthy of crawling into the space beside you. You saw it in the way he lingered. The way his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The fear wasn’t just about him. It was about you–what might happen if he let himself close enough to need this. To need you.

“I’m just…” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, “I’m wo–worried one day he’s going to come out…And he’s go-going to hurt you.” You saw it in his face then–clearer than ever. The helplessness. The guilt. The ache of someone who had come back from a nightmare and didn’t know how to live in the aftermath.

So you didn’t argue. You didn’t offer platitudes.

You just opened your arms.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And that was enough.

He sighed, almost like it hurt to exhale, and crawled into the bed beside you. His movements were slow, careful, like he was trying not to make a ripple in the space around you. Like he thought too much weight in the wrong place might send you drifting away.

You slipped down further against the pillows, welcoming him in without hesitation, your arms curling around his body as he eased closer–until his head found its usual place.

Right over your heart.

He settled there gently, cheek pressing to your clothed chest like he’d done every night for the past few days. His arm came up slowly, resting across your stomach, the other curling underneath you, tentative fingers lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And you held him.

Without fear. Without judgment.

Your palm found the back of his head and slid into his soft light brown hair, your fingers already stroking the strands in a rhythm you’d learned by heart–slow, grounding, gentle.

He exhaled. You felt the breath fan across the fabric on your ribs, warming them slightly.

“He would never hurt me, Bob…” You murmured, your voice warm in the dark, your breath stirring his hair. “Because you would never hurt me.”

A silence fell then–full of trust.

He didn’t say anything, but his body responded. You felt the way he leaned in closer, his grip tightening around your waist, his weight shifting until he was almost curled into your side completely. Like he wanted to disappear into you. Like you were the only solid thing he trusted to anchor him back to himself.

“You don’t have to worry about me…” You added softly, pressing your lips gently to the crown of his head. He let out a small, shuddering sigh at the kiss. It was quiet–barely more than breath–but it echoed in the hush between you. His fingers twitched slightly where they clung to the fabric of your shirt, and then he nodded once, slow and reluctant.

“…Okay,” He whispered, the word brittle and small. Like he wanted to believe it. Like he didn’t, but was choosing to anyway.

Then came the silence.

Thick and warm and filled only by the slow cadence of your breath and his. The soft weight of his body curled around yours. The bed creaked faintly as you both shifted, but nothing broke the stillness of the room. Just the hush of safety. The quiet rhythm of presence.

You knew the exact moment he drifted off.

The soft whistle of air from his nose told you. That tiny snore that only came when he was crushed into you like this–cheek against your chest, limbs tangled beneath the comforter. You smiled faintly and kept your hand moving through his hair, threading your fingers through in a slow rhythm. A grounding gesture, more for him than for you…But now, maybe it was both.

You lost track of time like that.

Until something changed.

At first, it was subtle. A coolness in the air under the blanket–not cold exactly, but different. A shift in pressure, like something holding its breath.

Your fingers stilled.

And then you felt it. The texture. The change in the strands beneath your touch. They slipped too easily between your fingers now–too smooth, too silent. They didn’t catch the way hair should. Instead, they moved like silk underwater. Alive. Shifting.

You looked down.

The crown of his head had gone black. Not just shadowed. Not just dimmed. Black. Lightless, hollow, impossible. The kind of darkness that felt sentient. The kind that could swallow stars.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t pull away. Just stared as the darkness spread, slow and sinuous–crawling down the back of his neck, across his shoulders, seeping into his skin like ink in water. The soft light from the window did nothing to touch it. It just disappeared into him.

And then, he moved.

Arms curling tighter around your waist, the way someone clings to the edge of a dream they’re afraid to wake from.

“No…” The voice came low and quiet. “…No, please. Do not stop suddenly because of me.” The Void’s tone was different from the last time you interacted with him. No malice. No venom. No harsh edge of control. It wasn’t a hiss–it was something closer to a plea. Gentle. Almost unsure. You froze. Heart pounding.

He didn’t move beyond that. Just stayed pressed against you, dark and heavy and cool, his face buried in your chest like nothing had changed at all.

“You…” He began, breath catching faintly, “You have absolutely ruined me.” Your hand hovered inches above where you’d been stroking his hair just moments ago, watching as tendrils of vantablack shadows exuded from his skin and crawled up your arms. Usually they recoiled when you were around, but not this time. It felt like a breeze. Cool and featherlight. Not invasive. Not consuming. Just…Explorative. Your breath hitched as they danced across your skin.

“…I didn’t do anything to you, Void.” You whispered, Your voice trembled, not from fear–but from the weight of the moment. From the ache in your chest that this darkness–the same darkness that once tried to devour the man you loved–was now wrapped around you like something desperate to stay.

He didn’t reply.

So you looked down.

And you saw all of him.

His entire form was draped in lightless shadow, vantablack and consuming, the folds of it shifting like living ink where he breathed against you. But within that sea of black, the constellations built from your kisses remained. Brighter now.

Over his shoulder, at his neck, on the dip of his spine. Every place where you had laid your lips to bring Bob back to you was shimmering. You had branded him, and it was evident by the way he was speaking.

”Where’s Bob?” You asked cautiously. The tendrils continued to slip up your skin, going beneath the sleeve of your t-shirt.

”He’s asleep…” The Void replied, the words soft, almost careful, “I promise…I’m not hurting him.” The tendrils continued to move beneath your shirt, curling gently along your ribs like they were memorizing you��your shape, your warmth. Not with hunger. Not with domination. But with need, and you allowed it…Because they hadn’t done anything to hurt you yet.

“Then…” You started, feeling your heart begin to pick up in pace, “Why are you here?” A silence stretched so long you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, with the faintest voice:

“…Because I needed to feel you again.”

Your breath caught.

You knew he felt it–your pulse thudding wildly beneath his ear. His head shifted slightly, like he was adjusting to the new rhythm. Listening to it. Drinking it in. You felt his face press even closer to your chest, like he was trying to lose himself in it. The tendrils climbed higher now, curling up your spine, slipping out from beneath the collar of your shirt like silk, wrapping around your shoulders, your throat–soft and slow, like they were bracing him for the words he hadn’t let himself say before.

“You…” He began, voice cracking slightly, “…Have taken me and ripped me apart–and you have no idea that you’ve done it. You closed your eyes tightly, chest tightening beneath the weight of that confession.

“Void, I–“ But he didn’t let you speak.

“I have never had my skin kissed…”

His voice was low and hoarse, but not from anger. It cracked with something deeper. Wreckage and worship all tangled together.

“I have never been treated with such gentleness in my entire existence,” He continued, lifting his head from your chest.

The weight of him shifted slightly, and you felt the cold brush of ink-light against your throat as he rose just enough to look up at you. His face was still veiled in darkness–no edges, no shape, just a silhouette of pure, living shadow–but those eyes…Those pale white pupils glowed like moons in an eclipse. Twin lights in the endless black.

His gaze bore into yours, not with fire, but with something aching. Broken. Like looking directly into grief that had finally grown too tired to be cruel.

“You marked me,” he breathed, and though his voice was still low, there was something fraying at the edges–tightness, tension, a tremble you didn’t often hear from him. “You’ve claimed what’s rightfully yours.”

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly as his eyes bore into you—those eerie, hollow white pupils that somehow shimmered with heat despite their cold hue.

“You have burned yourself into me,” he continued, and his voice cracked on the word burned, the sound splintering like the edges of a dam giving way. “Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, he moved.

His hand–shaped from shadow but solid, braced itself on the mattress beside your ribs, and he slowly climbed higher, crawling up your body with a grace that was too fluid, too precise to be human. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he shifted, his form inching up until you were face to face–your back sinking deeper into the pillows while he loomed above, haloed in ink and moonlight.

The breath in your lungs hitched sharply.

He was so close now that you could feel the coolness radiating from him, his form drawing heat from the air around you. His breath–if it even was breath–fanned over your mouth in chilled waves. And yet somehow, it didn’t make you recoil. It made your skin spark. Tighten. Ache.

“I…” You whispered, but it came out barely audible.

His hand came up to your cheek then–tenderly. Not the shadow-tendrils this time. A hand. Cold. Unnatural. But steady. His thumb grazed the apple of your cheek, stroking slowly.

“…I woke something in you,” You continued, your own voice so fragile it nearly fell apart between syllables.

His touch faltered for half a second, but then he pressed his palm more firmly to your skin, as if grounding himself in it. Like he needed to feel you to keep himself from dissolving.

“I am cursed with the memory of your warmth, Y/N…” He admitted.

The way he said your name–it sounded like reverence and devastation folded into one.

“It has been plaguing me since you did this…”

His free hand reached across his body, brushing at the shimmering mark glowing faintly on his shoulder–right where you had kissed him first.

“Because I…” His voice dropped even lower, raspier, more ragged, “…I belong to you. And all I can have are these moments to admit it. These stolen minutes in the dark. And I can’t–I can’t take it anymore.”

You felt the mattress tremble faintly beneath his weight as another tendril slowly crept beneath the hem of your shirt. It slid along your skin with that same impossible gentleness, settling cold against the softness of your stomach. You inhaled sharply, your ribs stuttering under the touch. He noticed

“Void…” You murmured, a tremor slipping through your tone. “You can’t just come here and admit this stuff to me.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, slower now, and you saw his jaw tighten.

“…Why?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. But your eyes searched his, desperate for something to anchor to in the swirling dark. And then, quietly, you said the only name that ever broke him:

“Bob.”

He froze.

Swallowed hard. You watched the muscles in his neck twitch.

And then he spoke, each word like glass.

“Do you think Bob isn’t the main cause of all of this?” His voice trembled–not with anger, but something closer to despair. “Do you think my feelings are just… conjured up out of thin air?”

You didn’t breathe.

“We are connected,” He went on, more broken now, desperate. “His thoughts plague my mind just like my voice plagues his. His dreams. His love. I feel it. Every second. Every heartbeat he wastes on you, I feel it like a wound that never closes.”

The tendrils at your throat–already wrapped softly there–curled tighter. Still gentle. Still featherlight. Like hands cradling something delicate. Like the hands of someone scared to lose you.

“I can’t ignore the truth anymore,” He whispered. “Not when he dreams of you the way he does. Not when I dream of you now too. Do you understand me?”

You nodded, even though your breath still shook.

Even though your heart still pounded in your ears and your body felt caught between dread and something far more dangerous–want.

His hand cupped your jaw, the coolness seeping into your skin like mist through cloth, and he lowered his face even closer–so close your noses nearly brushed.

“Say it,” He whispered.

You swallowed.

“What?”

“Say you know,” He breathed, voice shaking now. “Say you know what you’ve done to me.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then quietly–so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a prayer–you whispered:

“…I know.” He didn’t move at first.

It was like the words had knocked the air from his lungs, like they’d rendered something inside him too stunned to function. You watched his mouth part slightly–lips trembling, breath shallow–and his pupils, those glowing pale moons, flicked down to your mouth.

And then…He leaned in.

So slowly. So hesitantly. As if he were expecting the moment to vanish before it touched him. His lips hovered a whisper above yours–cold, barely-there, and waiting for permission he didn’t know how to ask for.

So you gave it.

You tilted your chin, parted your lips just a breath–and then flicked your tongue out and lightly licked the soft curve of his bottom lip.

A sharp, guttural sound escaped him.

It wasn’t a moan. It wasn’t a gasp. It was something more primitive–like something inside him cracked wide open. Like the memory of your warmth came rushing back all at once and hit him like a storm. His whole form shivered beneath your touch, like even that much gentleness was too much to bear.

And then you kissed him.

Soft. Delicate. A press of lips that felt less like hunger and more like offering. A sacred thing. Like you were silently giving yourself to him–trusting him.

The tendril against your stomach quivered, then spread upward, curling slowly up your sternum. The coldness traced the line between your ribs with aching slowness, pulling goosebumps to your skin like the aftershock of a spell. Another tendril wrapped firmer around your back, pulling you upward, into him, and your hands moved before you could think.

You cupped his face.

Both palms against his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheekbones as though trying to soothe the trembling that had begun shaking through his body. And he melted into it–like his form wasn’t solid anymore. Like the sheer weight of being held like this was more than he could survive.

He kissed you back–slowly at first, uncertain.

And then again. And again.

The whimper that escaped him was so raw it sounded like it hurt. Not from pain, but from feeling. From the overwhelming pressure of being kissed like this–like someone wanted him, all of him, even the parts he thought were unsalvageable.

You felt him shift.

The mattress dipped again as he leaned in heavier, his body pressing down into yours, his chest brushing yours. His weight was cold and foreign, but grounding. Not crushing. Not claiming. Just seeking. Wanting to be closer than was allowed.

Your legs parted instinctively beneath the blanket, and you wrapped them around his waist–lightly at first, tentative, as though testing if this was still okay. But when your calves settled around him, he let out another sound–a shaky, broken breath against your mouth that might have been the closest he could come to a thank you.

He deepened the kiss.

Not rough. Not fast. Just more. His mouth moved with such aching slowness against yours, lips cold but desperate to memorize you. He whimpered softly into your mouth, again and again, like the sound was being pulled out of him against his will.

Your hands kept moving. One stayed on his cheek, thumb stroking in soothing circles, but the other slipped down–over his neck, his shoulder, down along his ribs.

You felt him tremble.

Not from fear. But from need. That wild, hollow ache of something that had been starved of affection for so long, it didn’t know what to do with it now that it had finally been touched.

The shadows around you shifted, curling tighter around your form, but they didn’t hurt. They held. They cradled. They tethered. As though The Void himself couldn’t bear the thought of losing contact. Of being separated by even a breath of air.

And still, his mouth stayed on yours.

Whimpering. Trembling. Kissing you like your lips were the only thing keeping him tethered to the body he’d borrowed.

He pulled back slowly–too slowly, like leaving your mouth was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

When you opened your eyes, his were still closed.

His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged and shallow as if even the act of kissing had drained him. He was trembling–barely–but enough that you felt it through every place your bodies touched. You opened your mouth to speak, but then you saw it.

His lips.

Flecked with tiny white pinpricks of light. The same ones your other kisses had left in its wake. You reached up with slow fingers, reverent fingers, and gently traced the outline of his lips. His breath hitched violently, and his head dipped toward your palm like he couldn’t help it–like he was starved for it. Your thumb grazed the soft swell of his bottom lip.

He whimpered.

The sound was raw. Desperate. Almost painful.

You stilled immediately. “Void…?”

His eyes blinked open slowly–dim moons, fogged and trembling. His voice cracked as he whispered, “It…It hurts.”

Your heart clenched. “Hurts?”

He nodded faintly, almost ashamed. “I don’t…I don’t know how to process this. Being touched like that. Being kissed like that. It’s too much–” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, then exhaled shakily, as if trying to hold himself together.

“I can stop,” You offered softly, your hand still cupping his cheek, your thumb now brushing beneath his eye instead. “Just tell me and I’ll–”

“No.” His hand caught yours–shadowed, trembling, cold. “Don’t.” Another breath. “Please. Don’t stop. I just…I need to feel it all.”

You nodded once, slowly.

Then, he shifted.

He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your leg still wrapped loosely around his waist. You followed easily, pressing your chest to his again, the blanket cocooning you both in warmth while his shadows curled tightly around you like a second skin. Your face was just inches from his, your breath mingling with his cool exhale.

Your hand slid down his jaw again, trailing lower this time–down his throat, over the defined line of his collarbone. Your palm remained splayed across his chest, cool beneath your fingers, rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths. His shadows still curled around you—gentle, clinging, trembling with a hunger that didn’t come from destruction, but from longing. From need. From the aching vulnerability of a god on his knees, cradled in human hands.

You tilted your head just slightly, forehead still grazing his, voice low and warm as you whispered:

“Tell me how it feels…”

Your thumb traced a soft arc over the center of his chest. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

A breath hitched. A sound caught in his throat—like he was about to speak, but it took him a second to find the strength.

“…Please…” His voice cracked—barely above a whisper, “Please just…keep touching me.”

That was all he could say. All he could manage.

So you did.

You moved slowly like you were tracing stardust across him, like every motion was meant to tell him I see you. Your hand slipped from his chest and down along his side, curling around his waist to hold him closer. The other stayed between you, lifting just slightly to stroke your fingertips along the line of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then into his hair again–inky and cool and shifting beneath your hand like it responded to your touch.

He sighed, trembling, and his own hand came forward to find your thigh beneath the blanket. Slowly. Carefully. He rested his palm there, large and cool against the bare skin just above your knee, like he was memorizing the shape of you. He inhaled sharply at the contact, the breath catching at the top of his chest before shaking loose in a low exhale through barely-parted lips.

His thumb stroked once. Then again. Small, grounding circles against the inside of your thigh, before his fingers curled slightly and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You swallowed.

Then you leaned forward, lips brushing the curve of his collarbone.

A kiss.

Then another.

Slower.

Lower.

You felt the exact moment he gasped–the motion rattling through his chest and into your mouth as you pressed another kiss just beneath the hollow of his throat. Light bloomed beneath your lips–those same soft pinpricks of white, growing like starlight across his dark skin.

“Oh god…” He breathed, his head tipping back slightly, exposing more of his neck to you. Inviting more of you.

It was a prayer and a confession and a surrender all at once.

You kissed higher, toward the edge of his shoulder, lips dragging softly along the cool skin, your nose brushing his throat as you whispered gently:

“You can have this…” Another kiss. “As long as you want.”

A low, broken sound escaped him–something between a moan and a whimper. His hand on your thigh tightened again, not roughly–just anchoring. Needing. Worshipping.

You moved back just enough to look at him again.

His glowing white eyes were glassy now, lids heavy, lips parted slightly. He looked completely undone. Not from lust. But from being seen. From being held.

Your hand came up to his face again, fingers tracing the hollow of his cheek.

“You’re not too much,” You murmured, answering the question he hadn’t dared ask aloud. “You’re not too cold. You’re not too broken. You’re not a mistake.”

His breath stuttered again. He blinked. You saw something fracture across his expression–something soft. Something grateful. Like you’d just rewritten a truth he thought he had to live with forever.

“Touch me again,” He whispered, voice breaking. “Please…”

You shifted closer until your chest pressed to his again, and your mouth returned to his neck. Kissing. Marking. Soft worship. Your hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers splaying wide, grounding him again. He whimpered, and you felt the sound vibrate against your lips.

The shadows around you pulled tighter–still not hurting, still not threatening. Just holding. Like they were trying to remember this moment. To keep it somehow. Etch it into the fabric of reality before it could slip away.

His hand remained anchored on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles into the warmth of your skin like he was committing it to memory. You felt him shift slightly–closer, heavier. His mouth brushed against your cheek.

And then came the question.

“Can I touch you?”

It was soft. Wrecked. Almost reverent.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face–those pale, glowing eyes dim and unsure, shadowed by something fragile.

“Where?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Instead, his hand slid higher.

Cool fingers brushing up along your thigh, along the hem of your sleep shorts, until his knuckles just barely grazed the waistband. He paused there, eyes searching yours—studying. Not demanding. Just waiting.

And you saw it again–the way his breath caught. The tremble in his touch. The restraint of a creature that could ruin you in a heartbeat…but didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

You nodded.

And he moved.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband.

You gasped sharply.

The cold was immediate–like shadow-dipped silk gliding against your heat. Not harsh. Not jarring. Just the opposite. The contrast made your body tense, then melt. He felt it—how wet you already were for him–and his breath stuttered, just once.

“Oh…” You gasped.

His other hand rose slowly, almost uncertainly, and came to cradle the side of your neck–his palm cool and steady as his thumb stroked under your jaw, grounding you again. The feel of his fingers below was almost unbearable now.

“You’re so warm, Y/N…” He whispered, and it wasn’t just awe in his voice–it was longing. Worship. “So…So warm…”

His fingers moved gently between your folds, slowly, like he was learning you by touch alone. His middle finger dipped lower, parting your slick with a trembling kind of care, until he found the delicate ache at your entrance.

Your breath hitched.

He stroked along it once–soft and teasing–and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you. Your hips twitched forward, chasing the sensation, and he groaned low in his throat like the sound of your pleasure was more than he could bear.

“I want…” You breathed, voice trembling. “Guide me to you. I want to touch you too.”

There was no hesitation.

One of the tendrils–slow and patient–slid down your arm like ribbon, curling around your wrist. It coaxed your hand forward, easing beneath the blanket, through shadow and warmth and the press of his form, sliding beneath his waistband until–

You felt him.

Hard.

Straining.

Solid heat beneath impossibly cool skin.

You couldn’t see it. But you knew. The thickness. The weight. The need that pulsed there.

Your fingers curled instinctively around him, and he jolted–his whole body twitching with the contact, breath torn from his lungs in a raw, shuddering gasp.

“Oh god…” He whispered, barely coherent.

You palmed him gently, dragging your hand along the length of him, feeling a wet spot already forming at the tip. His hips flexed forward into your touch. The tendrils around your wrist tightened–just slightly–like they couldn’t bear to let go.

And still, his fingers moved.

He slipped one inside you–slow, so slow–and you cried out, arching into him.

“Void…” You moaned, your voice breaking. “Your fingers feel so good…”

His mouth dropped open at the sound, and he groaned into your neck–low and trembling and desperate. His finger curled inside you, and then another joined–his thumb pressing up, slow and steady against your clit in small, precise circles.

His fingers thrust into you with more confidence now, the earlier hesitation melting away as he felt your heat clench greedily around him. He groaned raggedly against your skin, the sound low and fractured as he buried his face in your neck. Your wrist flexed in rhythm, stroking the length of him with slow, coaxing pulls, and his hips twitched forward again, seeking more.

“Fuck–” He breathed softly into your throat, reverence and disbelief tangled in the single word.

The slick sounds between your thighs were unmistakable now–vivid, shameless, echoing beneath the blanket like they were announcing just how wet you were for him. Every time his fingers curled just right, your hips rolled down into them, grinding against his palm, chasing that pressure. You could feel yourself dripping–your sleep shorts were clinging now, damp and sticky, soaked through as he thrust deeper.

Then he did it–he nipped at your neck. Gentle, testing, like he wasn’t sure how much you could take. His lips grazed your pulse point, breath cooling the heated skin, and then–he latched on.

You gasped sharply, your whole body arching into him.

“V–Void–” You moaned, a tremble shaking through your voice as your hand jerked on his cock, stroking him with firmer, wetter pulls. “That…Fuck, that felt–”

You didn’t even finish.

He groaned at your reaction, grinding his palm up against your clit harder now, his fingers pumping faster, deeper, slicker. The cold contrast of him inside you made the heat coil impossibly tight in your core, and your thighs began to tremble.

You moved your hand faster, too. Dragging your fist up the thick, throbbing length of him, curling your fingers tighter at the base, and then slipping upward, smearing the precum across the tip with your thumb. You could feel him twitching in your palm, feel how much it wrecked him to be touched like this–reverently, intimately, possessively.

“Please–” He rasped, breath hot against your neck. “I can’t–if you keep touching me like that–”

You clenched around his fingers hard, your hips grinding down with desperate rhythm.

“I know…I know…But please don’t stop,” You whispered.

And he didn’t.

He fucked his fingers into you harder–faster–his wrist snapping with a precision that felt unfair. You sobbed his name into his shoulder, your hand jerking reflexively on his cock as your thighs spread wider, desperate to keep feeling him.

Then–his thumb pressed up again, harder, tighter, and you shattered.

It wasn’t a soft climax.

It hit like thunder.

You gasped–a sharp, breathless sound–and your thighs clamped down around his wrist as your hand spasmed and gripped his cock tightly. Your whole body bucked as your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wet, your walls clenching wildly around his fingers as a gush of slick spilled into your shorts and soaked his hand.

“Oh, fuck–” He groaned, nearly collapsing into you, his voice broken with awe. “You–god, you just–”

Your hand slipped off him, limp with aftershock, and he kept his fingers inside you as you shook.

You were still gasping when he pulled back–just slightly–and looked down at you.

The mark on your neck pulsed dark in the moonlight.

He stared at it.

Then he leaned down again and bit you.

Not gently this time.

He sunk his teeth–sharp, deliberate–right over the place he’d already kissed, right over your pulsing artery. You gasped again, your fingers tightening in his hair as your hips jerked.

When he pulled back, you were panting–and the look on his face…

Pure, holy vengeance.

The bruise he left bloomed immediately. Deep, dark, and possessive. A perfect mirror to the stars you had carved into his skin with your kisses.

He gazed down at it with a look of worship and darkness all at once.

“That,” He murmured, his voice low and ruined, “Is going to be very hard to explain tomorrow.”

And the smirk that curved his mouth was slow, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.

You leaned in first. Pressed a soft, breathless kiss to his parted lips, catching the last remnants of that smirk and stealing it right from his mouth. Your lips brushed, warm against his cold, a slow drag of reverence and claim. Then you whispered against him:

“It’s alright. I’ll figure it out.”

He barely had time to respond before you kissed him again–deeper this time, with heat that made his hands twitch on your thigh. His shadows curled tighter around your hips, bracing for something neither of you could take back.

When you finally pulled away, breath caught in the space between you, your voice dropped to a sultry whisper:

“Lay on your back.”

His pale eyes squinted, caught between suspicion and arousal. “Why?” He rasped.

You leaned close to his ear, let your lips ghost over the shell of it, and whispered:

“’Cause I want you inside me.”

You felt him shudder.

Hard.

The kind of involuntary, whole-body tremor that pulled a sound from his throat–quiet, ragged, and guttural.

Without another word, he obeyed.

The mattress shifted beneath you as he slowly laid back, shadows slithering and curling beneath his spine like smoke. His eyes never left you–not once. Even as your thigh slipped from around his waist, even as you reached down, dragging your soaked sleep shorts down your trembling legs.

You peeled them off inch by inch, slow and deliberate, the cool air grazing your slick thighs as you bared yourself to him. Then your shirt followed. Pulled over your head, discarded to the side.

You were completely bare now–bathed in moonlight, glowing like the stars that had once kissed his skin.

The Void’s body shifted beneath you, shadows writhing like living breath across the sheets. You heard fabric rustle faintly, and then felt it–the brush of his length against your thigh, already slick with precum, already straining.

You climbed over him slowly.

His gaze followed every motion, those glowing white pupils wide and ravenous. His chest barely moved with breath, but his body was tense beneath you–cold and waiting.

The second your knees straddled his waist, his eyes dropped to your chest.

And he sighed.

The sound was deep. Hollowed out. Full of awe.

“Dear god…” He whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

His hands rose almost reverently and cupped your breasts. He gave one a gentle squeeze, like he was testing its realness, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, cool and soft, sending a rush of heat straight through your core.

Around you, the tendrils stirred again.

They slipped along your sides, brushing over your ribs, your stomach, your thighs. Cascading up your back and down your arms in slow, possessive strokes. Not gripping. Just…Holding. Just reminding you that he was everywhere.

You shifted above him, and he let out a low, ragged sigh at the feel of your soaked core dragging over the length of his erection. The contrast of temperature was almost unbearable–your heat against his endless cold.

His hands dropped to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

You rose up slightly, just enough to reach between you, guiding his cock with careful fingers. You lined him up with your entrance, already so wet and aching it made you whimper.

Then you began to sink down.

The stretch made your mouth fall open immediately–a burning, slow ache as your walls parted for him inch by inch. He was cold inside you. Not harsh. Not unnatural. Just…different. Like your warmth was the only thing tethering him to this plane.

He whimpered the moment your heat began to envelope him.

And god, it was a sound you’d never forget–wrecked and vulnerable, a gasp that trembled with disbelief.

You sank down slower, hands braced on his chest, shadows curling tighter around your back. The pressure built. The stretch deepened. The burn crawled higher. Your jaw went slack, eyes fluttering shut.

“F-fuck,” You choked softly, your voice breaking. “You’re…bigger than I thought.”

The Void whimpered again, trying not to move, hands gripping your hips like restraint was the only thing keeping him intact.

“You’re so warm,” He whispered hoarsely. “So tight. I–god, you feel like fire.”

You moaned at the way he filled you–deep and cold and aching. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him as you finally settled, fully seated on him, the stretch bringing on a delicious pulse between pleasure and burn.

He was still.

Too still.

Like if he moved too fast, this would all disappear.

So you leaned forward again, your palms sliding up his chest, your lips brushing his temple. He let out a low, airy sigh as you leaned forward again, your lips pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to the ridge of his cheekbone. Another to the tip of his nose. You felt him shiver beneath you, his pale eyes fluttering shut like he couldn’t bear the sensation of it–like he didn’t know how to accept being touched so gently, so freely. But still, he held perfectly still. Breathing shallow, jaw slack, letting you do it.

And each kiss left behind a soft gleam of white light.

Tiny constellations bloomed where your mouth had landed–stars flaring into life against the shadowed surface of his face. They shimmered softly in the moonlight, and when you pulled back to admire him, the image took your breath away.

He looked…Ruined. Worshipped. Unmade by your love.

“I’m not going to be able to strike fear into anyone,” He murmured, voice hoarse and trembling, “If you keep kissing my face and marking me like this.”

You laughed–a soft, breathy thing that shook lightly through your chest. “Say it’s a birthmark.” His hands clenched at your hips in that moment–fingers digging in with involuntary need–and his hips shifted, just slightly, a subtle thrust upward from beneath you.

It was enough.

Your laugh caught in your throat and turned into a sharp gasp as he nudged deeper inside, your body seizing around him in a sudden ripple of tightness.

“Shit,” You breathed, eyes flying open, “you can’t do that.”

His eyes widened slightly–moons gone soft with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped, voice thin and stunned, hands relaxing on your hips like he thought he might’ve hurt you.

You shook your head immediately, one hand bracing against his chest, the other sliding up his jaw.

“No, no–it’s alright,” You murmured gently. “Just caught me off guard.”

Then you leaned in slowly, mouth brushing along the edge of his jaw, your breath warming the cool skin as you whispered, “But…Does this mean I can start moving now?”

His response was instant.

A nod. Wild and desperate. Then another–faster, almost frantic. His eyes locked on yours, pupils wide and glowing as he whispered, “Yes. Please. I need you to.”

You smiled softly.

And then you moved.

The first roll of your hips was slow. Measured. A gentle pull upward, and then a careful drop back down. The stretch flared again, sweet and biting, your breath catching as you sank onto him fully, the thick weight of his cock dragging deliciously along your walls.

Beneath you, he groaned–low and guttural and barely restrained.

His hands clenched again at your waist, not guiding you, just holding. Just grounding himself. Like the pleasure was too much and he needed your body beneath his palms to remember he was still here.

You rocked again.

A slow, rhythmic grind of your hips that pressed him impossibly deep, the angle shifting just enough that the drag of his cock against your walls made you moan. The pressure mounted with every roll–an intoxicating, needy heat spreading through your core as he filled you, stretched you, worshiped you without even moving.

And he just lay there–utterly undone–letting you take him apart.

“Fuck,” You breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “You feel…So good, Void.”

He whimpered.

That same raw, involuntary sound he made every time your body clenched around him. His breath trembled. His hands flexed.

And then the tendrils began to move.

They curled along your back first–sliding up your spine, cool and slow, trailing over your skin like ribbons of silk. Then two more snaked down your thighs, wrapping around them just beneath your hips. Not restraining. Just holding. Guiding. Supporting you where his hands couldn’t reach.

They moved with you.

Rising as you lifted yourself. Lowering as you dropped down again.

Like they were learning your rhythm.

Your pace quickened slightly, each drop down onto his cock making your thighs tremble, each upward lift a delicious drag of heat and friction. Your hands pressed harder against his chest now, fingers splayed, nails curling slightly into the shadows that made up his skin.

And he was gone.

Eyes wide open now, lips parted in breathless awe, head tipped back into the pillow as he took everything you gave him. Every roll of your hips, every breathless moan. His eyes flicked down to your chest, to the way it bounced with every motion, and he groaned aloud–his hips twitching up into you for the first time in response.

You gasped.

“Void–” You choked.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped again, but there was no restraint this time. His voice was wrecked with need. “I need to–I need to feel you more–”

You leaned down and took his face in your hands again, kissing him hard, your mouth sliding against his with heat and hunger as your hips began to move faster. The sound of your slick echoing now–wet and open and filthy–as he fucked up into you with trembling precision.

The tendrils climbed again.

They ghosted over your breasts, curling gently around them, cool and reverent as they cupped your weight. One traced the curve of your throat. Another danced down the arch of your back, grounding you through every bounce, every roll, every stutter of your breath.

You moaned into his mouth.

He caught the sound and swallowed it–his tongue slipping into your mouth with the most delicate desperation, kissing you like he was starved, like he’d never get to do it again.

You broke the kiss only long enough to pant against him, your forehead pressed to his as you gasped, “Push me down onto you.”

His breath caught.

And he obeyed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he braced you, holding you still against him–just for a moment–before he thrust up hard.

You cried out, the sharp pleasure of it shocking through your nerves like lightning. The tendrils cinched tighter, wrapping you in a cocoon of darkness as his pace began to build beneath you–slow but deep, precise, controlled only by the fragility of your body above him.

Your voice broke on another moan. “Don’t stop, please, I’m–I’m gonna–”

And then you shattered again.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, clenching tight around him, soaking him in wet heat as your nails dug into his shoulders and your head fell forward with a cry.

He gasped.

And then he came.

With a broken moan and a hoarse curse, his body convulsed beneath you, his hands yanking your hips down hard–burying you to the hilt–holding you there as he spilled inside you, cold and heavy and endless.

The tendrils trembled around you, tightening like a final embrace, like they were anchoring him to you while his body seized with pleasure. His mouth parted, breath ragged, eyes squeezed shut as his hips stuttered up one more time–and then he collapsed back into the bed, shaking.

You slumped over him, forehead resting on his shoulder.

Breathless. Glowing. Slick and ruined and full.

His arms came around you slowly, delicately–like he wasn’t sure you’d allow it. But you did. You melted against him, chest pressed to his cool skin, the soft weight of your body settling atop his as you began to breathe in sync.

Your exhales mingled. Your heartbeats echoed, uneven but slowly evening out.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, quivering waves beneath your cheek, and beneath the chill of his skin, you could feel his pulse–faint, strange, but steady. You rested your palm just over it, grounding yourself there, listening to the rhythm until it felt like your own.

The tendrils around you loosened only slightly–enough to ease the tension from your limbs without breaking contact. They kept stroking softly along your back, trailing up and down your spine with gentle pressure, like they were comforting you…Or comforting him through you.

After a moment, you finally lifted your head.

And you stilled.

Your gaze caught the faint white gleam scattered across his face. Dozens of tiny marks, scattered like freckles–no, constellations. Traced by your lips. Etched like a map across the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks, across his temple, haloing his brow. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, breathless laugh.

“Jesus,” You whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, “I really did a number on you.”

He blinked slowly, still catching his breath, then smirked faintly. “Can’t pass it off as a birthmark anymore, hmm?”

You shook your head, amused, gaze tracing every speck of light you’d left behind.

“No… definitely not.” Your fingertips danced over them again, tender, reverent. “But they’re really pretty.”

His mouth quirked upward into something close to a grin–more tooth than smirk this time. You saw the faint flash of his teeth, sharp but clean, like fangs made for something more elegant than violence.

“Lucky it doesn’t pass off to Bob,” He said, voice still low, hoarse. “He’d have even more to explain than you.”

You snorted softly and shifted a little against him, letting your forehead rest beside his. “He’d never live it down. Walker would never stop asking questions.”

“Or Ava,” Void added. “She’d try to scrub them off with a washcloth.”

You both chuckled quietly, the sound soft in the quiet hush of the room. The tendrils still moved slowly across your skin–trailing along your lower back, curling gently around your ribs, one brushing softly against the back of your knee where it hooked loosely over his hip.

“I think…” He murmured after a beat, “he’ll definitely be happy tomorrow morning though.”

You looked at him, blinking slowly.

“But you will have to talk to him about this.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Then, after a beat of hesitation, you admitted, “The soulmate thing may confuse him though.”

The Void hummed softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest beneath you. “Leave that out,” He murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I think it technically applies to only you and I anyway.”

That made your heart thump–once, hard.

You swallowed, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

A shimmer of light bloomed beneath your lips.

His whole body tensed.

Every tendril tightened slightly around you–not harshly, but as if the entire mass of shadows needed to hold you in place, needed to feel every second of that kiss, needed to memorize it.

You pulled back slightly and whispered, “Void…”

His head turned slowly toward you, that expression unreadable but open, mouth slightly parted.

“Yeah?”

You brought your hand up to his face again, palm cradling his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, breath hitching.

“I was really wrong about you.”

His jaw tensed beneath your palm. You felt it–just for a moment–before he whispered, “It’s okay… I made multiple bad impressions and you had a right to dislike me.” He takes a moment, and presses his cheek into your touch. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You leaned in slowly.

And kissed him again.

Right in the center of his lips.

Another star flickered into life.

His breath hitched audibly this time, chest quaking beneath you, eyes still shut like he couldn’t bring himself to look at you in that moment. Couldn’t believe he was being forgiven.

You rested your forehead against his.

And whispered, “And I’m glad you weaken me…”

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes brushing your cheeks from how close you were.

“…Because you make me feel a little more human.”

He didn’t answer.

Not aloud.

Instead, the tendrils coiled tightly around your back, around your thighs, around your shoulders–pulling you closer, tighter, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

And for the first time, The Void didn’t feel like a monster at all.

He just felt like a man who finally knew what it was like to be loved.

594 notes · View notes

dollgxtz · 2 days ago

Note

Can you write a short somno fic for Sylus but he’s already been doing it for awhile? And he feels so damn guilty about it but genuinely can’t stop because it’s like an addiction to him now? :)

In Somno

Word Count: 3.6k

Tags: sylus x fem!reader, somno, nonconsensual somnophilia, noncon, unprotected sex, creampies, fingering, facials

Summary: Sylus just can't help himself when it comes to your sleeping body <33

Over and over he'd tell himself how wrong this was. How terrible he was for using you like this. All he could think about when he picked you up now was how long it would be before he got to cum on your pretty face again. How could he even think such thoughts? All that guilt would quickly subside as soon as you started yawning though.

Yes, even a simple yawn from you was enough to get him rock hard now.

AN: Sorry anon, I know you said "short" but I got really excited and got carried away. So lets just say this is my version of a short fic LOL. Also thank you thank you thank youuuu for requesting this, I've been itching to write another somno fic hehehe. Btw the title means “In slumber” in Latin!!! :33

He hadn't intended for things to escalate to this point.

Normally, Sylus was a master of self-control, able to reign in his desires with ease. But on that particular day, something had been stirred within him, something that he couldn't quite explain. It had started when he saw you lying in his bed, fast asleep and naked, after a long and exhausting mission. You'd taken a shower and had passed right out. Your fatigue had been palpable, and he had gone to cover you with a blanket, his hand accidentally brushing against the side of your breast.

Sylus froze, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn't meant for this to happen, hadn't meant to touch you like...that. His hand lingered for a moment, a mere whisper of contact, before he moved it away as if it burned. He stared at you, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the turmoil his innocent touch had ignited within him. He had always prided himself on his ability to control himself. Yet here he was, his heart pounding, his body betraying him.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It was just a touch, he told himself. A harmless, accidental touch. But his body refused to listen, his mind refusing to let go of the softness of your skin, the warmth that had radiated from you. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to touch you again, to trace the curve of your breast, to feel more of your warmth.

He knew he should leave, let you rest, should respect your sleep. But he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to tear his eyes away from you. He had seen you naked before, had seen you sleep countless times. But this was different. This time, he felt something stirring within his groin as he watched your naked chest rise with each breath. Your beautiful, peaceful face was messing with his senses. He tried to dismiss it, to attribute it to the fatigue of the long day, the heat of the room, anything but the truth.

The truth was, you two hadn't had much time for each other lately, and even less for anything intimate. The lack of physical connection had left him pent up, achingly so. He couldn't remember the last time you'd both had a moment to yourselves, a moment to explore each other's desires and needs.

As he sat there, looking at you, he couldn't help but feel a surge of longing. He shut his eyes briefly, trying to calm himself down, but it was no use. Better to quell the urge to touch you now, and then forget about this, he figured. He reached back over, his hand gently touching the soft roundness of your breast, giving it a light squeeze. The touch sent a spark of electricity through his body, and he felt his cock harden in his pants.

Shit. He had definitely just made it worse.

You stirred, letting out a soft whine, and he felt his heart skip a beat. The sound of your voice was like music to his ears, a sweet melody that only added to his arousal. He quickly withdrew his hand, however, as you began to shift and turn your body away from him in your sleep.

Your butt was now completely visible to him. His heart dropped into his stomach. You had always been the only one to undo his calm, to make him feel this way. He ran his fingers through his hair, now having an internal battle within himself. It felt wrong...undeniably wrong...and yet…

One thing had led to another, and he found himself carefully pushing his fingers inside your wet folds. The sensation was almost too much to bear, and he was breathless as your cunt sucked in his fingers bit by bit. The feeling of your inner walls clamping down on his fingers sent his mind into a frenzy, and he couldn't help but think about how much he wanted to be inside you.

How wet you'd be.

How tight you'd be.

His cock was rock hard and throbbing in his boxers, pressing against the back of your leg. He pressed himself against your butt lightly, trying to relieve some of the ache that had been building up inside him.

It wasn't enough.

You began to squirm, your body shifting slightly in your sleep, and he froze. He didn't remove his fingers, but ceased his motions...as if pausing could erase what he’d just done. He watched you closely, heart pounding, waiting to see if your eyes would open. If they did, he told himself, he’d just say you two had dozed off like that. Just a sleepy accident.

The lie formed easily in his mind, but the weight of it hit hard. He had never lied to you before...and now, standing on the edge of it, he felt something bitter twist in his gut. Shame crept up his spine, hot and sharp, settling in his face until his skin burned. But he didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. He smothered the guilt with silence, burying it under the oldest excuse in the book: what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you.

As you pressed your backside against him, unknowingly in your sleep, he felt a surge of desire wash over him, replacing all guilt and shame with a primal, aching need. The pain in his groin became almost unbearable, and he couldn't bring himself to care about anything else except satisfying his craving for you.

Within the next few minutes he had rid himself of his underwear, lifted your leg and slowly began to sink his aching, throbbing cock inside you, only a little bit at first. The sensation was almost too much to bear, and he felt himself plunging into you over and over, his hips moving in a slow, rhythmic motion. His hand gripped the roundness of your ass, holding you in place as he thrust into you, his fingers digging slightly into your skin.

"Ah...fuck. Kitten, Im sorry..."

He bit his lip, trying to suppress a groan as he sunk himself deeper, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. The room filled with the sound of your bodies meeting, the creaking of the bed, and his ragged breaths. He could feel every inch of you, tight and warm around him. He wanted to savor this moment, to imprint it on his memory forever. He reached around, finding your clit with his fingers, rubbing in time with his thrusts. You moaned softly, still deeply asleep, arching your back to meet him.

"Mghn...S-sylus..."

He froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He was worried that you had woken up, that you would discover him inside you, and that everything would be ruined. He lay there, holding his breath, as he frantically thought of excuses, of ways to explain what was happening.

But as the seconds passed in silence, and you didn’t move, he began to ease—just slightly. He glanced over, searching your face for any sign that you were awake, that you knew. But your eyes stayed shut, your expression calm, untouched. Still lost in sleep.

You looked so docile, so innocent and soft with your mouth agape, small snores escaping your lips. He hates that he feels a rush of arousal looking at you in such a vulnerable state, peacefully sleeping in his bed.

He wondered if you were thinking you were having a dream, if your subconscious was responding to his presence inside you. The thought sent a thrill through him, and his cock twitched in your inner walls. Maybe you wanted him too? Even in your dreams?

As he began to thrust again, this time with a bit more force, he could feel the pressure building up inside him. The ache in his groin was becoming almost unbearable, and he knew he was on the verge of cumming. He groaned, the sound choked out of him as he struggled to maintain control.

But as he looked down at you, still asleep and unaware of what was happening, he knew he had to pull out. As much as he didn't want to, he couldn't risk finishing inside you. Surely you'd put two and two together when you woke up and he'd be caught.

With a strangled groan, he forced himself to pull out, his cock throbbing with the effort. He gripped the sides of your hip, holding himself up as he shot a hefty, sticky load of his cum all over your inner thighs. The sensation was intense, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him as he finally released the pent-up tension.

As he looked down at the mess he had made, he felt a pang of guilt and anxiety. What would you think if you woke up and found out what had happened? Would you be angry, would you be scared? He didn't know, and the uncertainty was eating away at him.

So he simply cleaned you up as best as he could, and when you awoke the next morning you were none the wiser. You did question the ache between your legs, but fortunately for him you simply chalked it up to pushing yourself too hard during the mission. Besides, your entire body hurt already. What was one more area?

He swore that would be the last time.

Except it wasn't.

You didn’t always spend the night, but when you did, it was usually because you were too tired to head home after a long day. Sylus would swing by and bring you back to Onychinus’s base without complaint. You’d shower, get comfortable, and eat whatever dinner he’d ordered the chef to make you—just like always.

Then the two of you would settle in. Maybe you’d watch a movie, maybe listen to one of his new records. It was an easy routine. Comfortable. Soothing.

Eventually, you’d get too tired to keep your eyes open, and drift off beside him on the couch.

Then he’d carry you to the bedroom—slow, careful, as if you might break in his arms. On the surface, it was about comfort. He wanted you to sleep well. To feel safe.

But underneath that was something more selfish. He wanted to test the limits. To see how close he could get, how much movement he could do before you would stir, how long his hands could linger on your skin.

Most nights, you didn’t even move. You stayed limp and warm in his arms, face tucked against his neck, breath slow and even. It should have calmed him.

Instead, it made things worse.

Guilt curled in his chest like smoke. You trusted him. Implicitly. You let yourself go completely in his care. And he hated how that trust made something coil low in his groin, thick with heat and desire to strip you down and plunge himself in your wet walls.

And that's exactly what he did. Night after night, he'd start carefully moving your underwear to the side, swiftly inserting the head of his hardened cock inside you, and fucking you until a creamy white ring of your juices formed around the base of his shaft. Touching your breasts, butt, and pussy in ways you'd never let him before. And just as he felt himself about to release, he'd quickly pull out, covering your soft skin in his cum. Sometimes it was your thighs, sometimes your back. He'd even gotten bold enough to do your face at one point.

To compensate for the guilt that gnawed at him every time he let himself fall into his dark cravings, Sylus had started buying you more gifts.

At first, it was subtle—a snack you liked, a book you’d mentioned in passing. But it escalated quickly. If you so much as glanced at something in a store window while the two of you were out, or paused a moment too long while scrolling on your phone, it would show up in your hands within days. Sometimes hours.

You noticed, of course. It was hard not to.

“Another one?” you’d ask, brow arched in amused suspicion as you unwrapped a new plushie, or a piece of jewelry that matched your favorite dress, or a gadget you’d casually mentioned needing just once.

When you asked him why he was suddenly giving you so much, he’d just shrug—casual, like it meant nothing.

“You've always been spoiled, why question it now?” he’d chuckle.

As if that explained everything.

And maybe it did. At least, enough to keep you from pressing further.

Because to him, each gift was a way to say I’m sorry I touched you too long, I’m sorry I wanted more than I should, I’m sorry I’m not being honest. I love you so much.

It was his way of trying to be good for you.

Even as the craving got harder to ignore.

Yes, even a simple yawn from you was enough to get him rock hard now.

He found himself unable to stop. Would you really blame him if you found out? You must clearly want it too...the way your body greedily sucked in his cock, squeezing around it like a warm, wet vice. It was as if your body was begging him not to pull out, to keep going, to keep giving you more. Every time he thrust into you, your muscles would contract, holding him in place, and then release, allowing him to slide back out, only to repeat the process again. It was a sensual, intoxicating rhythm, one that threatened to consume him whole.

And the soft little whines you made when he was stretching you out or when he pumped into you a little harder than he meant to drove him absolutely crazy...

He'd promptly cease his movements, gently shushing your little noises while he waited for you to calm.

"Im sorry, baby. I didn't mean it, stay asleep for me," he would coo, his voice a soft, gentle whisper, as he gazed down at your sleeping face. He would pause for a moment, his chest heaving with desire, as he struggled to control his own needs. But then, with a quiet sigh, he would resume his movements, his hips slowly rocking back and forth, his cock sliding in and out of you with a smooth, gentle rhythm.

As he moved, he would continue to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, his words a soothing balm to your sleeping form. "Just need to see you covered in my cum one more time..." His voice was a gentle hum, a vibration that seemed to resonate deep within your body, as he continued to pump into you.

He did this for several weeks, reassuring you whenever you began to grow concerned at the continued ache between your legs. Of course, you'd trust him. Relax after. He'd feel terrible but he'd tell himself it was for your own good. You just felt too good. Too soft, so warm.

Tonight was no different. You both were watching a new movie in his home theater this time, when you promptly yawned. Immediately he felt his breath get shallow, and his pants get tighter.

“Tired, kitten?” Sylus asked, his voice lower than usual—rough around the edges, like he was holding something back. He reached for the remote and shut off the screen, the soft click echoing in the quiet space between you.

You nodded through a sleepy stretch, arms lifting lazily above your head before collapsing into your lap.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, eyes already heavy. “We never finish these movies. I just…I don’t know. I’m always so tired now.”

There was a faint furrow in your brow as you said it—genuine regret, like falling asleep beside him was some kind of failure.

He leaned in without hesitation and kissed your forehead, slow and deliberate. His lips lingered there a moment longer than they needed to, soaking in the warmth of your skin.

“You don’t have to apologize for being sleepy,” he said softly, slipping one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “You’re welcome to come back and finish it any time.”

You didn’t respond.

He was rock hard now.

As he rose to his feet with you cradled in his arms, your body melted into him completely. Your head dropped to rest against his collarbone, lips parted in the beginnings of sleep. He felt the small puff of your breath against his neck—warm, steady.

Halfway down the hallway, he glanced down at you.

Out cold.

He smiled. There was something in your face when you slept—unguarded and soft. Your lashes fluttered faintly, cheek pressed against the curve of his chest like you belonged there.

“They must be working you to the bone,” he muttered to no one, voice barely audible.

Unfortunate for you.

But for him…

You felt incredibly wet and tighter tonight. He'd boldly set you on your back this time, not wanting to miss a single facial expression or noise. Even if it meant being more gentle than usual. He watched greedily as your breasts bounced up and down with his movements. He leaned down, hands on either side of your head, trying with strained effort to quiet his groans.

"How am I ever going to stop doing this to you? You feel so good," he hissed through his teeth, his voice a low, tortured whisper, as he struggled to keep his gentle rhythm. His cock was buried deep inside you, and with each thrust, he felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge. The sensation of his tip grazing your cervix was almost unbearable, threatening to overwhelm him.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched in a fierce effort to hold back, but it was no use. The feeling of being inside you, of being surrounded by your warm, wet flesh, was too intense, too addictive. He couldn't get enough of it, couldn't get enough of you. And as he looked down at your sleeping face, he knew that he was doomed, trapped in a cycle of desire and pleasure that he couldn't escape.

His hips moved faster, his thrusts becoming more urgent, as he chased the sensation, as he sought to prolong the pleasure. And with each stroke, he felt himself getting closer, closer to the point of no return, closer to the moment when he would finally succumb to his desires and let go. "Hah...gonna cum...," he growled, his voice a low, animalistic snarl as he felt his orgasm building.

"Mmmm..."

As you began to squirm under him, your eyes peering open just a bit, but still not enough to be considered awake, he felt a surge of panic mixed with excitement. Were you waking up? He should stop, he knew he should, but he couldn't. He was too close, too caught up in the moment, too desperate to cum inside you.

He leaned in closer, his large body encasing yours, his warm breath whispering against your ear. "Shh...I'm almost there baby...don't wake up..." He pleaded, his voice a low, husky whisper, as he tried to calm you down, to keep you from waking up and discovering what was happening.

But you whine, sleepily grabbing onto his arms, your hands wrapping around his biceps like a vice. You clearly aren't aware enough to even realize what's happening, and he takes advantage of that, using it to his benefit. He continues to thrust into you, his hips moving faster, his cock pounding into your wet flesh with a relentless rhythm.

As he looks down at your face, he can see the faintest glimmer of awareness in your eyes, but it's not enough to stop him. He's too far gone, and he knows that he's going to cum inside you, no matter what. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Fuck..."

As he pushes as far as he can go, his hips stuttered, jerking forward with a mind of their own, as his cock pulsed, throbbing with the intense force of his release. As he came, he felt his cock unleash a torrent of cum, wave after wave of it flooding into your body, filling you to the brim. A wave of relief crashed over him, drowning out the relentless hunger that had been gnawing at him all night.

As he looked down at you, Sylus noticed you were starting to squirm again, your body shifting slightly under the covers. You were clearly on the verge of waking up. Your brows twitched, your breathing changed, and your fingers gave a small, unconscious twitch.

Thinking quickly, he moved to wrap himself around you, encasing your body in his arms in a way that was both protective and possessive. His chest pressed against your back, one arm curling securely around your waist, hand resting just beneath your ribs.

You let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering open for a brief moment—glazed, unfocused—before slowly slipping shut again. He felt your body melt against his, the subtle tension in your shoulders and spine easing as sleep reclaimed you. Your breathing evened out. You relaxed fully in his grasp.

Relieved, Sylus allowed himself a quiet breath of his own, feeling the tension in his body begin to dissipate as he gazed down at you. He looked down to see the remnants of his cum slipping down the trails of your thighs, a warm, sticky liquid that glistened in the dim light.

He would definitely have some explaining to do when you woke up...guess it was time to buy that cart full of items you'd been begging for...

655 notes · View notes

byfawn · 3 days ago

Text

THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole.

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment.

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you.

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed.

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse.

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest.

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber.

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out.

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you.

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy.

the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement.

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent.

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught.

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says.

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs.

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands.

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it.

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you.

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable.

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town.

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation.

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off.

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway.

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin.

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be.

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him.

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so.

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful.

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

650 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 23 hours ago

Note

hiii bb

first off all GURL YOUR WRITING IS LITERALLY TOP TIER I CANNOT WITH IT—

and second, i saw you had your requests open and while i’ve never done this before i really, really would love it if you could write a poly!wolfstar with reader coming from a pretty similar family background as sirius and gets triggered by loud noises and remus is in a bad headspace because it’s just a few days before full moon and he accidently yells at her and reader just shuts down and tries to brush it off because she thinks she’s being dramatic and tries to act unruffled but sirius sees through it and overall just hurt/comfort, pretty please? ILY

Awe thank you lovely! For both the sweetness and the request <3

cw: migraine, reader panics because of shouting/aggression

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

Remus has told you to leave him alone more than once. You know that you should, that you really ought to make yourself scarce because these moods before the full moon almost never yield good things. The issue is that you care about Remus more than consequences, and as a result you’re not very good at doing what you should.

“Hey,” you say gently, when he passes you by on his way back to his desk with another cup of tea. “That’s too much caffeine, lovely. You’ll make your headache worse.”

“It’ll be fine,” Remus grunts. He continues on his way, and, despite Sirius’ look, despite knowing better yourself, you give chase.

“You’ll regret it if you have another,” you reason, following him to his work-cluttered desk, which has been shoved temporarily into the darkest corner of your bedroom. “I know some caffeine helps, but too much—”

“I know how it works.” Remus’ voice is low. Low, but not thin. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down. “I need it, alright?”

You take a breath. Yes, you can see how you explaining Remus’ own migraines to him might not be well received. But it’s not easy to watch your boyfriend act against his own self-interest.

Remus has described the feelings leading up to a full moon to you before. He said it feels like something sizzling under his skin, or crackling. It’s not entirely pleasant, but it gives him more energy than he ever has otherwise. Makes him restless, productive, lively. Eventually, though, that energy builds into something he can barely tolerate—that’s when the migraines usually start. Remus gets irritable, his joints ache, it’s like his body is trying to hold something no human can, waiting for the full moon and the chance for Remus’ not-human body to expel it all.

When you think about how much energy he’s storing, that electric sizzle under his skin, caffeine hardly seems necessary. Until you take into account that Remus has hardly slept for the past three nights. Then you wonder if perhaps his brain can no longer keep up with the tireless dynamism of the rest of him.

“Maybe you should rest for a while instead,” you try.

“I have work to do.”

“It’ll still be there after a nap.”

“And I suppose I may as well just wait until after the full, then, yeah?”

“I mean, maybe.” You pick up on Remus’ sarcasm, but you don’t disagree. “You can’t be expected to just power through when you’re having such a hard time.”

“Really?” There’s bite in your boyfriend’s voice now. Enough that you retract the hand you were about to set on his shoulder. “I can’t be expected to? That’s exactly what’s expected of me. I don’t just get a week off every month.”

You push out a frustrated breath. “I know, and that’s not fair—”

“None of this is fair.” Remus turns in his seat, glowering with such virulence it shocks you despite the argument you’d thought you were prepared for. “There aren’t allowances made for lycanthropy. If I told my boss that I need a lighter workload and he made the connection, he could report me to the ministry. I can’t afford to complain about how my head hurts or indulge in naps and breaks when everyone else keeps working.”

His voice rises, and he’s suddenly taller than you, looking down on you. He stood up. Your ears are ringing.

“If everyone else is able to handle their workload during the full, I have to, too. Do you understand that?”

You find you can’t speak. There’s a horrible ache sitting in the base of your throat which won’t let anything out. You nod.

“Do you?” Remus seems exasperated. Baffled by your naïveté. “I don’t want to be told that I shouldn’t be working. I don’t want to be told that I can’t have caffeine to get through it, because I know what I have to do, and that’s not something you can understand. Alright?”

“Alright,” you choke out.

“Do you get that?”

“Yes.”

“Remus,” says another voice. You don’t turn, but you don’t need to; Sirius always follows the sound of shouting. It’s habit for him. “That’s enough, love.”

“I was done,” Remus snaps.

Sirius’ hand wraps around your elbow. His fingers feel cool, or maybe you’re only hot. You feel very, very hot.

“Hey,” he prompts softly. Now you look at him. Sirius’ expression is all tenderness, and it feels like whiplash. “You okay?”

You dismiss the question with a shake of your head. Your ears are still ringing. “Yeah.”

You look back to Remus. You can’t help it. You want to fix, and to leave, and to dissolve. But Remus is the epicenter of everything, and you feel as though taking your eyes off him even temporarily is a danger.

“Let’s be done squabbling for now,” Sirius says, his voice unnaturally light. “We’ve all said our piece, yeah?” He gives your arm a gentle tug, and you take a step back. You’d been nearly right up against Remus, you realize. Frozen to the spot where you’d gone to rest your hand on his shoulder. Sirius runs his thumb over your skin before asking again, “Are you okay?”

Tears invade your eyes without warning. Your face burns, and you feel it screw up in an attempt to keep them from falling. “Yeah,” you say unsteadily. “I’m just—so—sorry.”

Two things happen seemingly at once: your voice fractures, and Sirius crushes you to him.

Remus exhales. You hear the creak of his chair taking his weight again. “Shit.”

“Shh, I know,” Sirius murmurs, petting your head while your tears spill over to wet his jumper—Remus’ jumper, which smells like both of them and probably also you. “I know, baby, it’s okay. You’re safe here.”

“I’m sorry,” Remus says. His voice sounds muffled, as though he’s speaking into his hands.

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” You sniff, trying to wipe under your eyes. Sirius keeps you held to his front. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is my fault.”

“I believe I said we were done with the squabbling.” Sirius kisses your head firmly. “What do you need, sweetness? Some quiet? Time to breathe?”

“I’m okay. Really, I’m fine.” You give Sirius a grateful squeeze before letting him go. He lets you, but watches you concernedly as you swipe a knuckle underneath your eyes. The ringing in your ears has faded to near nothing, aftershocks trembling through your fingers in its wake. “I’m fine. I just—needed a second. Sorry.”

Sirius makes a quiet sound. “Stop that. You don’t have to be sorry.”

Remus nods his agreement. His head is in his hands, you can see now, but he lifts it up to look you in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you.”

You shake your head. “You were right. I was insensitive. And I don’t know why I reacted like that, I’m just being dramatic.”

“Oi,” Sirius cuts in sternly, though half as stern as he’d usually be even to tease you. “I’m dramatic. Get your own personality.”

That gets your lips to twitch a little. You watch as Remus sends him one of his fond, exasperated looks.

“You weren’t being dramatic,” Remus says to you. “I shouted at you. However angry I was, that’s not alright. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You didn’t scare me.” Your eyes are beginning to burn again. You try to blink through it. “It was just—it was—”

“I understand,” he says, softly. His expression is still taut with pain, but some of the harsher lines have melted away. “I’m sorry anyway. Do you want to come here?”

Sirius hums satisfiedly when you go sit across Remus’ lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He draws his hand up and down your back slowly, with enough pressure to ease away any lingering tension coiled around your spine. You breathe out. Sirius doesn’t hold out long before he’s there too, curled around the two of you and squeezing heartily.

“You two aren’t allowed to fight,” he mutters, kissing your head and Remus’ in turn. “In order for me to be petty and vain, I need you to be the sensible ones, understand? This is a delicate ecosystem.”

“I don’t know,” you hum. “I think Remus should get breaks some way or another around the full moon. Can’t you take a sensible shift once a month?”

Sirius lets out a sigh like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, but you hear the gentle sound of him pressing another kiss to Remus’ head. “Suppose so. Only once a month, though.”

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mwphisto · 2 days ago

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Sylus: Sweet Temptations

~ this started as a quick imagine, meant to end where the "read more" tab is currently located. And, well, it spiraled.

~ Warnings: smut with no plot, reader is female! Cunnilingus, Sy hits it raw per usual, evol use, creampies. Pretty tame lol

A note from Soul: Heyo idk how I got here. It really started to spiral lmfao I miss writing full length stories. Perhaps I'll try and give it a whirl with a previous Sylus idea I teased a few weeks back. Enjoy! WC: 2.3k

"You... can't wear that."

You freeze, eyes widening as you stare at Sylus. Fresh out of the shower, your hair still damp, and a fresh set of comfy clothes adorning your clean skin. "Wha-why not?" Glancing down, you can't figure out what is so scandalous about a t-shirt and shorts.

"Your shorts are... too short." There is an odd tremor in his voice, one that freezes your confusion as it barrels down the train tracks of pure spiraling. "My shorts are too short?" You start, a smile creeping onto your lips as you cross your arms. "Are you saying I'll tempt the twins by showing so much of my legs?" Your grin turns wicked.

"Your legs? Sweetie, look behind you." So you do, catching a glimpse of your back in the full length mirror. No, it's not just your legs. The shorts are hiked up a little, teasing the round curves of your ass cheeks just below the cotton surface. Oh. oh.

"I don't see anything wrong." You bat your lashes at him as you turn to face him again, hands reaching back and poking the plush of your ass. Something Sylus catches in the mirror reflection, something you notice makes his throat bob. "Sweetie..."

"I'll be fine." You stand firm, the teasing lit in your voice making him clench his jaw. "We promised the twins we'd watch that movie with them, can't back down no-hey!" Your legs are kept in place by the familiar black and red tendrils of Sylus' evol.

But, he's stalking forward, long strides closing the distance. You feel the need to back away, but your legs are cemented in place. Before you can ask what he's doing, he's squatting down in front of you.

"My kitten is being naughty." He states simply, hands hooking in the elastic waist of your cotton shorts and tugging them down.

"Sylus!" Your face flushes, heat radiating through your body as he reveals exactly what he expected to find. "No panties, Kitten? I thought we were just watching a movie with the twins... instead you're trying to tease me, huh? Shorts riding up that perfect ass, just to forgo underwear. Easy access for me, right? How considerate."

You wanted to melt into the floor, eyes frantically looking between his face and where it hovered inches next to your exposed cunt. "I-I just didn't bring underwear into the bathroom with me." But Sylus is laughing, shoulders shaking as his hands move to hold your hips.

"You parade naked around our bedroom all the time, kitten. That's a silly excuse and you know it." You feel the urge to defend yourself, but, dammit, he's right. "C'mon, pull my pants back up the twins are probably wait-ngh!" You flinch, struggling to stifle your noises as Sylus nudges your cunt with his nose.

"They can... wait. I'm craving a pre-movie snack."

You’re struggling to swallow, mouth feeling impossibly dry as his words ghost warm air along your center. “Sy…” but you’ve already lost the battle, lost the war, this isn’t what you wanted to happen anyways, no?

“Hush, kitten. Let me eat.”

You can't stop the strangled yelp that leaves your mouth, hands immediately flying down to tangle in the silky soft white strands of Sylus' head. His nose is settling on your pubic bone as his tongue prodded between your slick folds. You could tell by the look he shot you that he wasn't at all surprised at how quickly you got worked up.

"S-shit, Sy. C'mon... I'm gonna fall." You could feel your knees trembling, even with his hands and evol holding you up. Still, Sylus didn't stop. His warm tongue poking at the pulsating bud residing at the apex of your cunt. As if to drive his point home, he squeezed your hips as his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking until you squealed.

"S'too intense! C'mon!" But your lips were parted, fingers tugging on his hair so hard you were certain a few strands would come with you when you let go. But Sylus didn't stop, didn't even try to hide the obscene noises leaving his mouth as he slurped on your juices.

He was in his own form of heaven, face caged by your thighs, mouth glued to your cunt, your fingers yanking his hair so hard it sent delicious thrills of pain down his spine. Fuck, he could cum just like this and be satisfied. "S-shit I'm already gonna cum..!"

Your entire body trembled with pleasure, your cunt clenching around nothing but Sylus could feel the movement against his chin. Every nerve ending seemed to light on fire, to the point you wanted to tell him to ease up just to extend your pleasure.

But if there was one thing about Sylus, he loved to eat. And he certainly did not take well to any interruptions. That, and he always went back for seconds, thirds, hell even fourths and fifths and sixths and…

"Shit'm so close!" The tension in you cunt spread up to your gut, down your thighs, you had half the sense to realize his evol was the only thing keeping you upright at this very moment. Sylus hummed at your words, vibrating your now sensitive clit and making stars spark across your vision as his tongue flicked left and right.

Drool pooled in your mouth, damn near spilling out had you not swallowed to try and gain any sense of sanity. Sylus didn't relent, no, his eyes seemed to sparkle up at you as he started slurping again, suckling on your pulsating clit until he could see the tears brimming in your eyes. If his mouth wasn't so occupied, he'd tell you to cum.

"Boss man? Are you and Miss Hunter going to watch the movie with us?" Sylus didn't freeze, but you sure snapped out of your daze. You expected him to unlatch himself from your cunt, to gruffly answer Luke and then continue. Instead, he doubled down.

It was up to you to give a verbal response... that devil.

"Boss man?" Sylus merely sucked on your clit, you swore you could feel his lips curling into that goddamn smirk. "W-we'll be out in a minute. Sylus is j-just finishing up." What was he finishing exactly? You'd let Luke make his own assumptions. "Oh! Alright... we'll get it ready."

You could feel the confusion in Luke's words, but it didn't matter when your orgasm was teetering right on the edge. "Sylus please, oh fuck I'm so close to coming, please..."

He obliged just as you nearly hunched over, fingers spasming in his hair as you sought for some sort of grounding. The pleasure building up was far too much, and you knew your orgasm would absolutely destroy you. You just prayed you'd be able to keep your voice down.

Sylus' mouth was hot as he shook his head against your cunt, slurping and sucking as your eyes squeezed shut. Your release covered him, drenching his lips and chin as your pussy trembled and clenched all over his mouth.

Your ears rung, eyes swimming with tears and you tried to blink them away. Sylus barely relented, not until your hands tugged at his hair weakly. Then, with a soft kiss on your sensitive cunt, he pulled away.

"Sylus..." You weren't even sure what you were going to say, but he didn't give you a chance. No, there was something lingering in his gaze. Primal hunger, need, you knew you were in for it now. He wasn't done yet, the poor twins would be waiting forever.

"Sylus the twins are waiting-" but you were being scooped up in his arms, shorts still around your ankles as he walked you over to the bed. "They can start without us, I'm not satisfied yet." A dark gray patch had leaked across the front of Sylus' sweatpants. His cock visibly straining against the material. "Oh fuck..."

“Do you see what trouble this little stunt of yours has caused us, my naughty little kitten?” You pushed up on shaky arms, watching Sylus pull off the flimsy material of your shorts and toss them onto the bedroom floor.

“You’ll need to make it up to me, y’know. You can’t just go and dangle the sweetest of treats in front of me and expect me not to…” he sunk lower, crowding your space as his lips brush the shell of your ear. “…bite.”

An involuntary shiver racks your body, eyes dazed as your legs spread wider to accommodate him. “Then take your fill, Sylus. Devour me.” You swore you could see his self control snap in half, but his lips were crashing into yours with bruising force before you could process it.

Sylus took his time exploring your mouth, something he had done countless times, but it never quite got old. He didn't think it ever would. All the while, one hand reached down to yank his cock out of the confines of his sweatpants. He hadn't been wearing underwear either... but you didn't need to know.

You had been so lost in the feeling of his mouth that you didn't process anything else until it was a second too late. The dull head of his cock was pressing into your entrance, the pressure of the stretch making you whimper. Sylus soothed you by kissing you harder, drowning you in the feeling of his mouth.

"Good girl, take it." The whisper was enough to send a shrill of pleasure down your spine, walls quivering as inch after inch was buried in the warmth of your velvety walls. "Feel so good, baby. Such a good girl f'me. Taking me so well..." every praise was a whispered sin into your parted mouth, enough to have you gasping.

The pressure built, until your legs trembled as they crossed around his waist. "Sh-shit so big... so full..." He had bottomed out, a breathy laugh leaving his lips at your shameless praise.

"Don't inflate my ego too much, kitten."

You could only roll your hips in response, you didn't mind inflating his already large ego. "C'mon, Sy. We still have a movie to watch." His head fell forward at that, a reminder he wasn't all that willing to accept. "Quit rushing me, Kitten."

Your mouth opens to complain, but you can't manage to spit the words out. Not when he draws back half way just to push in again. "I want to take my time with you." he shifts, pushing you both further up the mattress so he can get better leverage.

"Only you, my love, would dare to order the leader of Onychinus around." And if you weren't grappling with your fraying sanity, you probably would have made a smart remark back to him. Instead, your nails dug into the material of his shirt, yanking it up his back in the process. You needed something to scratch.

Sylus found his rhythm easily - he always did - somehow knowing just how to fuck into you so you're seeing stars. If you thought he was ruining you, you should see the mess you were making of him. His shirt bunching at his neck, your nails digging into the muscled flesh, his sweat pants hanging around his thighs.

If anyone were to see the leader of Onychinus like this? It would be proper blackmail material. "S-shit Sylus! Just like that... fuck!"

It was incredible how quickly he could work you up. Your stomach was twisting, cunt fluttering around his size as it plunges in and out of your heated center. You could cum just from this, from the pap pap pap of his hips rutting into you, from his abdomen ghosting your sensitive clit. All of it had you forgetting to keep your voice down.

"Sy, m'gonna cum again..!" You pulled his face towards you, mushing your lips together in a sloppy kiss as his hips worked you senseless. "Cum for me, kitten. Make a mess." There was already a creamy ring of your arousal collecting at the base of his cock, it drove him wild.

His hand sunk lower, angling himself just right to begin rubbing eager circles on your twitching clit. "Feels so good, huh? Do I make you feel good, kitten? Ruining this pretty pussy cuz you wanted to be a brat? Wanted to get a rise out of me? You got it, fuck you got it."

You clamped down on him, walls suffocating him so harshly his hips stuttered in their steady pace. "Shit!" He almost came just from that.

You weren't faring much better, entire cunt spasming as your second orgasm hung just out of your reach. "C-cum with me, Sy. Please?" He was a devil? He'd beg to differ with that one. You were so effortlessly sin-incarnate. "Course, k-kitten." And you were falling apart, cunt gushing around him as his hips slammed into you one last time.

Hot ropes of cum poured into your cunt, filling you to the brim as a rumbling groan vibrated Sylus' chest. He was twitching, forehead pressing to yours as your uneven breathing mixed together.

"Pleased with yourself, Kitten?" A kiss lands on your nose, then your cheek, then your lips. You're struggling to keep your eyes open, a dopey grin on your lips as you try and calm down. "Very."

"Boss man... miss hunter?" This time, it was Kieran knocking at the bedroom door. "We can uh... reschedule the movie night. Or just uhm... Luke and I can just watch it together." A mortified shiver was creeping up your spine. How much had they heard?

Sylus sighed, a devilish look in his eyes as he called back. "Start watching, Miss Hunter and I will be out in a few minutes."

"C'mon Sylus!" But your lover only smirked down at you, "I thought you wanted to watch the movie, kitten. You were so eager to rush me every time I was looking to take my time."

This was his form of payback. "You're evil, Sy"

"...I know."

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caseoftheblues · 2 days ago

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I FUCKING LOVE WRITING SUMMARIES idk if this'll help at all ??? but sometimes for me i gotta like. Look at something as an example?? so have one for a fic i haven't written yet

Philza didn’t think the guy had meant his last words— if anybody needs me, I’ll be in my coffin— literally, most notably because people blessed by Lady Death were incredibly rare (basically nonexistent), but there Philza was, in a desiccated cemetery in the middle of the night, ready to raise the dead.

They really should start burning villain’s bodies.

(or- the blood god is legendary. despite the unsettling name, he was the greatest hero of his generation. stories of him were all but etched into civilization— the people he saved, the infrastructure he helped build— almost everything about Port-aux-Français could be traced back to him.

that was until, of course, one day he decided to raze it all. hundreds of people died by his hand, hundreds more by the fallout— crushed under rubble, died without access to medical care, even starved or froze to death in the winter brought on by his rage.

crowfeather is— not that. but if everything goes to plan, he’ll get there.)

—

which, notably: spoils just enough of the early plot points (techno is dead, philza is trying to revive him, perhaps to teach him the villain ways?) while leaving enough unknown (how did he die? why did he turn from legendary hero to legendary villain?) to (hopefully) hook someone

i am by no means an expert!! nor a professional!!!! but honestly writing the summary is more fun than writing the fic itself if you know how to do it so. go forth

super simple low-effort ao3 summary methods that are 1000% better and 1000% less annoying than just saying you suck at summaries:

copypaste the first few lines of the fic. u already wrote ‘em. let ‘em be their own damn hook

if ur feeling fancy & don’t mind showing ur hand a bit, copypaste the first few lines of the fic that u feel are esp. Important or Interesting - the ones where u first start getting into the real meat of things

state the main tropes! theyre probably already in ur tags - just say them again - maybe as a full sentence if ur feelin fancy. or with a joke if ur feelin Extra fancy

ask a question. pose a hypothetical. eg what happens if u take [character] and put them in [situation]?

make an equation. [character] + [thing] = [outcome]

just write like a one-sentence summary of what the fuck is going down. just one (1) sentence. doesnt matter if it doesn’t cover every important aspect. or if it sounds bland. any summary sentence is gonna be miles better than “idk i suck at summaries”

just…explain the fic like u would to a friend? it doesnt have to be a polished back of the book blurb. it can just be “[pairing] coffee shop au, but like, still with murder, and also i made everyone trans. enjoy”

just stick a meme in there

honestly who cares

just put literally anything but a self deprecating comment in there & ur golden

#PLEASE dont say 'sorry lol i suck at summaries' it instantly makes me not want to read the fic #even if i was originally hooked

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loveisanimaginarydagger3000 · 24 hours ago

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Warm Us Up

Natasha X Reader 18+

Summary- After a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are left stranded in a safe house with nothing but a small fire to try and keep you warm, leading you two to resort to sharing body heat to not freeze to death.

Warnings/Tags: Smut 18+ MDNI- Hate/Love, Sexual tension, Resolved sexual tension, Naked cuddling, Dom/Sub, Oral Sex, Fingering

This is an old fic I found from my ao3 so the writing quality isn't that good, apologies but I don't have the time to improve it.

General Master List

W/c- 2.1k

“Fuck,” you growled as you and Natasha walked into the safe house in the middle of nowhere. You and Natasha had been paired for a mission in Siberia even though you didn’t get along meaning that when everything went to shit, as in went to absolute shit, you were left in the extreme climates to fend for your lives. Luckily there was a safe house only a few miles walk from where you were so you both walked in a tense silence throughout the snow.

“Why are you so angry? You’re the one who fucked the mission up,” she snapped at you while u saw a fire place.

“Me?” you shouted back, “I’m sorry but if I didn’t have to save your arse none of this would have happened!” You quickly made a fire with the wood that was left in the cabin and went in search for something to heat you up. Walking through the cold and wet had left you both in soaked suits in freezing climates. Thankfully you had super-soldier serum in your blood meaning you weren’t as cold but that didn’t mean Natasha wasn’t.

“I didn’t needed saving and you made a stupid move!” she screamed back while shivering at the fire place. You searched the cabin while she continued to yell at you and found three large sheets that could warm you up.

“Take your clothes off,” you said making her look at you with an annoyed look.

“Excuse me?” she growled.

“You’re clothes are soaked meaning if you stay in them you will most likely get a bad case of hypothermia and as much as I hate you I don’t need the team on my back for letting you die.” You state while throwing her two of the sheets. “Take them off and put them in front of the fire so they can dry. I’ll do the same but in another room. Call me when you’re done.” She huffed at your commands but listened anyway and quickly stripped herself of the wet clothing leaving her naked in the sheets wrapped around her body. After a few minutes she called you in and you walked with the sheet wrapped around you. You didn’t really think it through when you gave her the sheets as you accidently left yourself the smallest one meaning it just about covered your body.

“So what now?” she asked as you sat near her in front of the fire. Natasha couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering around the skin she could see. Your body was extremely toned due to the intense training you would do every day and she could see the muscles in your back moving as you shivered. She was extremely grateful you gave her more sheets as she was still cold in this but not as cold as you would be.

“Warm up and then try and find a way to get in contact with anyone,” you said and she didn’t miss the way your voice wavered due to how cold you were. Despite having the serum even your body couldn’t deal with low your body temperature was making you shiver uncontrollably.

“Come here,” the spy said and you slowly looked at her.

“What?”

“Come here we can share body heat and use the sheets to stay warm,” she said while watching your body tremble.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you manage out and she answers you by moving in between your legs and settling her body there. She takes one sheet off her self and throws it around your shoulders making the other sheet drop lower and oh.

“Uh Natasha,” you stutter out while she kneels in front of you making sure the sheet is around your bare skin.

“What?” You look at her and she sees the blush on your face before looking down at herself. “Oh,” she says before quickly fixing the sheet and turning so she can sit and rest back against you. You awkwardly keep your arms by your side as you don’t want to make her uncomfortable. You only hated her because she was a total bitch to you when you first arrived and it made you feel worthless. You had the stupidest crush on her and wanted her to approve of you but that never happened so you just learnt to ignore her remarks. You didn’t want to admit your feelings to her because you didn’t even talk to her so how could you possibly feel anything for her? You tensed behind her when she wriggled backwards so her back was fully flush with your front and her backside flush with your core. You stifled a groan at the contact as you had one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen naked in front of you. “What’s wrong?” she asked at your sudden stiffness.

“Nothing,” you breathed out against her neck and she shivered at the feeling. Natasha had to stop herself from breaking. She only pushed you away because she was scared of her feelings and attraction to you. So being here with you was making her extremely wet and she couldn’t stop the little noise that left her lips when your breath touched the bare skin.

“Can I move your arms?” she asked while moving hers hands to hold yours. She felt the slightly raised skin of a scar on your forearm while she waited for your response.

“Yeah sure,” you whispered out. She guides your arms to wrap around her middle. If anyone was too see you both like this they would assume you were lovers wrapped up in the sheets naked by a fire like in some romantic film but that was not the case.

“You know I never thought you would be a cuddler,” you tease, your hot breath making her body feel hot under your touch.

“Well I’m trying not to freeze to death,” she says while turning her head to look at you. Unconsciously you glance at her lips then her eyes which seemed to have dilated.

“I can think of a way to warm us up,” you say while staring at her lips. The next thing you know your on your back with Natasha pressing her lips against yours. She moans into the kiss and moves to straddle you, the sheets falling off both of your bodies. You both groan into each other’s mouth as her bare pussy makes contacts with yours. You move to sit up and grab onto her ass making her sigh against your lips. You break away from the kiss panting for air and you move one hand to move the hair out of her face. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” you rasp out while watching her face for any sort of uncertainty. She threads her fingers into your hair and pulls your back in for a bruising kiss. You move her so her hips straddle one of your toned thighs so she can grind along it.

“Oh fuck,” she moans as you guide her hips along your leg, her clit rubbing against your thigh and her wetness now dripping down the side of it. You break away from her lips to pepper open mouthed kisses along her jaw and neck before sucking hard. Her breath hitches as you suck a mark into her skin and you cant help but chuckle against her skin. You move your kisses further down and take a breast into your mouth while moving one hand off her backside to cup the other breast. You lick and suck one of them while rolling and pinching the nipple on the other before switching to pay them both equal attention. Her hips are starting to buck more wildly and you take that as a sign that she’s close.

“Do you want to come for me?” you murmur at the top of her breasts while a hand moves to rub at her clit.

“Please,” she whimpers while riding your thigh, her hands tugging your face back up to her. “I’m so close please,” she whined against your lips.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” you purred out before crashing your lips to muffle the scream that left her lips. Her hips stuttered as she came on your leg, the wetness now completely coating your thigh. You helped her ride out her high and placed gentle kisses along her jaw and neck while she recovered.

“Still cold?” you tease and she lets out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah actually,” she jokes back and moves her hips so she’s straddling your waist. Your hand slips through her soaked folds and the moan that leaves her lips will forever stay in your brain. You easily slip a finger into her and her hips start to roll and grind on your hand. You return your attention to her breasts while her hands made her way to your shoulders and back. “Fuck Y/n,” she moans as you slip another finger into her core and she tightens around you.

“Fuck you’re so hot when you moan my name,” you groan before biting a mark in the valley of her breasts. You increase the pace your thrusting your fingers in and she moans and whimpers above you as she gets near another orgasm. “You’re so tight,” you murmur while moving to kiss her lips again. You move your thumb to rub circles on her clit sending her over the edge once again. She lets out a string of moans against your lips as she rides out her high. When she’s ready you pull out of her and bring your fingers to your mouth. She watches you with a hunger in her eyes as you lick off the cum on your fingers and moan around your digits. “You taste delicious,” you say before she crashes her lips back onto yours for a feral kiss. She moans when she tastes herself on your lips and pulls away panting for air.

“I think someone else needs to be warmed up,” she says while pushing you so your back is on the floor. She crawls down your body leaving kisses and bites everywhere she could. You groaned when she took a nipple into her mouth and sucked lightly on it, teasing you, before moving to the other. You moved your hands to tangle in her fiery locks and pulled her away from your chest and back for a kiss.

“No teasing,” your tone warning and she quickly listened by running a finger through your dripping folds. You leaned forwards to kiss her and moaned into her mouth when she slipped a finger in. She quickly added another finger and pulled away from your lips to move her head lower. You were already a moaning mess beneath her as she thrusted her fingers in and out of you but when she kitten licked your clit you were fucked. You arched your back at the feeling as she licked and sucked in your clit while increasing the pace of her fingers. It didn’t take long for you to tense and fall over the edge. You came with a guttural moan and she carried on until the aftershocks of your orgasm had finished. She swiftly made her way back up your body and kissed you making you groan at the taste of yourself on her tongue. You wrapped your arm around her and pulled the sheets up so they were covering you both.

“You ok?” you breathlessly asked.

“Yeah just tired,” she mumbled against your chest. You held her close as you both drifted off to sleep.

The next morning you woke up with Natasha fast asleep on top of you and you smiled down at her. You managed to slip out from under her and tucked the sheets around her before grabbing your now dry clothes and putting them on. You searched the safe house for some kind of food and only found some snack bars. You also found out the taps worked and hoped that the water was alright. You went back to see Natasha stir awake and you both ate your ‘amazing’ breakfast in a comfortable silence. Once you had finished you both found a way to communicate with the rest of the team and someone sent the Quinjet to get you.

“I see you didn’t kill each other,” teased Steve who was in the jet.

“Ha ha Rogers,” you sarcastically remarked. While Steve was flying he let the two of you rest after the mission and change into better clothes. What you didn’t expect was for Natasha to come and see you. You felt her presence behind you as she purred into your ear.

“Meet me in my room at 11,” she nibbled on your earlobe before walking away, swaying her hips.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha fanfic #eventual smut #hate sex #marvel fanfiction #wlw smut #smut #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff fanart #natasha romanoff fanfiction #oneshot

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novaimperia · 2 days ago

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★ student council secretary!reader and her unconventional quid-pro-quo partnership with enforcer for hire!Toji

“if i’m gonna bust my ass teaching those frat guys a lesson, i’ll need a little more than some over-the-pants petting this time, doll.”

"well, y-you can't grope my breasts again; you're too aggressive and it hurts."

he grunts. "ya gotta shake off y'r habit of mistaking pleasure for pain. and in any case, those assholes give me a rash so, as nice as y'r tits are, it's still not gonna cut it."

you fidget with a loose thread on your skirt. truthfully, you didn’t want to go back to him – toji’s brash, crass, and intimidating. sitting on a contraption to work the quadriceps muscles of the leg, you assume, you’re left awkwardly standing to the side, in the gym, watching as his thighs flex and thicken with the strain.

they’re really impressive things, actually.

“you eye fucking my thighs?” the scar on his lips stretch ever so slightly with the smirk stealing your attention. “if i had known the pretty secretary had a thing for thighs, we woulda been having much more fun.”

scoffing, you retort, perhaps a little more defensively than you would have liked, “i don’t. ugh, j-just think about it, okay? phi kappa psi has been lax with their charity quota and it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. so, just do what you usually do: make them see things our way.”

he huffs in dry amusement.. “i’ve made my point clear so let me know what ya decide, kiddo.”

‘kiddo’ is worse than ‘doll,’ but you don’t say anything. unsure, you don’t leave just yet. no amount of reminders, of chasing their president and begging the faculty to get involved has convinced the fraternity to make good on their quota. it’s proven to be a huge bother for the student council.

and, though you’ve already gone above and beyond for your job – rubbing his length, impressive and hot as it is, over his gym shorts or jeans in the janitor's closet or locker room has always left you a stuttering, fumbling mess – there has to be some limits. right?

the worst part, you think, is that it was never to bring him to an orgasm; he just wanted some entertainment. you don't like calling people names but he can be a real jerk.

crazily unethical as it is, you needed to indulge him otherwise the dean would never write a good enough recommendation letter for the top masters program for your interest. if you failed or disappointed him, it’ll be a stain on your perfect record. that just can’t happen. and it won’t. at this point, you’ll do anything to make sure of that.

“fine.” at the decisive sound of your voice, he stops stretching those powerful legs of his, grunting to show he's listening. “um, what do you have in mind?”

his obnoxious bark of laughter sends heat to your cheeks. people’s heads turn but when they realise it’s fushiguro, they turn away hastily. with grace unbefitting of a man of his stature, he climbs off the machine and stands to his full height before you. sweat makes his skin shine under the lights. a dizzying musk, masculine and oddly sweet, reaches your nose. you step back.

running a large paw through his slicked hair and showing off the veins bulging in those monstrous biceps you try not to look at so much, he drawls, “well, my thighs do feel a little sore. be a doll and help a guy out, yeah?”

when he wraps a sweaty arm around you and pecks your head, you realise it's already too late to have regrets.

#fem!reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk drabble #jjk oneshot #toji drabble #toji oneshot #toji x you #jjk x you #jjk toji #jjk toji fushiguro #jjk toji fluff #jjk toji x reader #jjk college au #toji college au #toji x reader #jjk smut #toji smut

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lotsofluvz · 2 days ago

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.⋆♱ please, baby ୭˚. ᵎᵎ

is he desperate? yes. does he care? not really. all he wants is to be back in your arms. he will do anything for you.

rafayel x f!reader ꩜ exes to ?? ꩜ him being desperate

note first lds post! i just wanna post something to ease my mind n i love desperate men <3 i might write a part 2 of this with smut (but who knows) anyways, enjoy!

It's been six months since your breakup with Rafayel. What has he been doing in those six months? Well, he's been painting your portrait, singing sappy songs, annoying Thomas (even more), and crying.

Sounds pathetic, am I right? But can you blame him? He's never been this in love with someone to the point he is willing to look like the desperate ex.

Your breakup was mostly mutual, well, in your point of view. In his own point of view, he was against it but wanted to make you happy. So he agreed to breaking up.

How did you break up with someone like him? It wasn't an easy feat, especially given how he reacted upon hearing it.

"Rafayel, we should break up. I don't think we are working out. Take care of yourself," as those words fall from your mouth. He charged towards you and started crying in your nape.

Tears started to fall even more as he tried to come up with a response.

"Yn, please don't go," he sniffs. "I don't care if you have to use me. Please stay with me," as he tightly pressed himself to you.

You break away from his embrace and face him.

"Rafayel, are you hearing yourself?" while looking into his tearful eyes. "Let's part now. Don't contact or find me. We are finished," you angrily said as you walked away from his figure.

That day was one of the worst things that happened to him. He wishes to never ever feel that way again. He wanted to forget you, but the problem is he is still completely and utterly in love with you.

This is where operation "getting back with my ex" begins; it starts with a call. He hasn't contacted you within those six months out of respect for your request, but this time, he will get you back.

A caller ID called you as you were finishing up your work. "DN" was written, and you knew exactly who it was and answered it.

"Rafayel, this better be important," you sighed through the call as you waited for him to talk.

"Yn, look. I know you told me not to contact you, but I think we should start over," he said as he waited for your response.

"Don't be stupid, we are already over," you frustratedly tell him; you don't need this amount of headache before lunch.

"Okay, I'm stupid, but please hear me out," he desperately pleaded to you.

"The answer is still no, bye," as you hung up.

It didn't stop Rafayel from pursuing you. He started to send you gifts to your house, from bouquets of flowers and jewelry to luxury clothes.

Your phone buzzed, and a notification from him popped up. As you opened his message, you were surprised with a pic of himself.

Half naked with only a towel draped over his bottom half. Water droplets are still prominent on his body, which shows he just came out from the shower.

The pic was accompanied by a message, "For your eyes only ;)." You were baffled, to say the least.

"Thanks, I like it," you replied before placing your phone down and continuing to bake.

He patiently waited for your response, and to his surprise, you actually responded. All it took was a post-shower picture to get your reply.

"I'm glad you like it, but you can have the real deal iykyk ;)," as he pressed send, he waited for you to respond.

"Okay, let's meet up at my place. 9:00pm, you better be on time. See you later, pretty boy," you replied while you finished cleaning up.

Rafayel beamed from ear to ear as he read your message. This will be a long night.

#love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #lnds rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x you #rafayel x mc #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel fics #rafayel lads #rafayel smut #rafayel fluff #love and deepspace smut #rafayel #lads smut #lads fluff #lads fics #rafayel imagines

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b1eedthefreak · 3 days ago

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Hii I just wanted to submit a request! <3 I love your fics btw. Could you write something about Daryl struggling with intimacy because of his scars on his back and the reader reassures him and stuff. Thanks <3

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Scars

⌇daryl dixon x reader

summary⌇daryls never shown you his scars, but tonight you saw them

warnings⌇smut (just a little bit), body insecurity (daryl)

word count⌇0.9k

a/n⌇i’ve been wanting to do this request for like a month i’m sorry this took so long bae i hope you like it :)

You’d learned, early on, that love with Daryl Dixon was quiet.

It wasn’t flowers or grand declarations or touching under the stars. It was smaller than that. Quieter. A fresh apple slid into your hand on a rough day. A blanket folded neatly at your feet without a word. A grunt in place of goodbye, or hello, or I missed you more than I can stand.

And you were okay with that.

You didn’t need noise. You’d been too loud in past lives, too bright for people who never really knew how to hold something soft. But with Daryl, you could be still. You could be gentle. He made you want to whisper.

That’s why you’d never pushed.

Not when the nights passed with barely a kiss. Not when his hands stayed on your back, your waist, your shoulders—but never strayed lower. Not when you crawled into bed beside him and he curled around you like a shield but never let the last layer of armor fall.

You’d known, somehow. There was something in him that feared being seen.

You just hadn’t expected to see it like this.

The moment had been so ordinary, so easy. A teasing smile, the sound of your towel dragging across the floor, your voice light as it drifted back toward him.

“Wanna join me?”

He hadn’t looked up. Just shook his head, head ducked, hands still moving across the bow he was cleaning. It was his way of saying no, and you knew the language well enough by now.

“Suit yourself,” you hummed, walking over to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “Don’t go to sleep without me.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. You could feel the way his shoulders relaxed just a bit when your lips touched his hair.

And that was the last ordinary moment of the night.

——

The shower was longer than usual. Maybe because you were humming to yourself, letting the water run warm against the curve of your spine. Maybe because it had been a long day and your bones were tired, or maybe because, in your softest heart, you wanted him to change his mind and slip in behind you.

He didn’t.

But what you found when you stepped out, hair damp, towel clutched at your chest—was something you weren’t prepared for.

He didn’t hear you. You could tell by the way he stood frozen in front of the mirror, shirt discarded, back bare.

It stopped you in your tracks.

The scars weren’t just lines. They were stories. Stories he never told. Pale against his sun worn skin, some old and faded, others deep and jagged. They climbed across his shoulder blades, dipped below the waistband of his jeans, layered themselves like a language only pain could write.

You remembered them. From the prison. Just once, a flash of his back as he changed his shirt and turned away before anyone could really look.

But you had seen.

And you had never said a word.

Not because you were scared of him, never that. But because you knew, somehow, that silence was the greatest act of kindness you could offer then.

Now, though—seeing them again, seeing the way his jaw clenched when he spotted you in the reflection—your heart ached.

He turned, eyes wide like a boy caught stealing. Not angry. Just ashamed.

He grabbed for his shirt like it burned him to be seen, tugged it back on with jerky hands and wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You turned away gently, giving him the illusion of privacy he needed.

“Didn’t see anything, Dar,” you murmured.

A lie. A loving one.

When you looked again, he was already under the covers. Still as stone. Facing the wall.

You moved slowly, quietly. Put your towel away, slipped into one of his old shirts that hung down to your thighs, and padded barefoot across the room. The sheets were cool when you slid in beside him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Until you did.

“I saw them once. At the prison.”

He didn’t move. Not even a breath.

“I didn’t say anything then. I figured you didn’t want me to. And that was okay.”

Still nothing.

But you could feel it. The way his body was holding tension like a rope pulled tight.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Daryl.”

His voice came quiet. Broken.

“Ain’t nothin’ you need to see.”

You shifted onto your side, your hand hovering above his ribs before resting gently on them. Warm. Steady.

“I want to,” you whispered. “You’re beautiful to me. All of you.”

That made him turn. Slowly. His eyes were darker than usual. Not with lust—but with something heavier.

“Ain’t nothin’ beautiful about me,” he mumbled.

You leaned in. Not to argue. Just to kiss the corner of his mouth. Soft. Tender.

“Let me show you what I see.”

——

It wasn’t rushed.

There was no fire in it. Just warmth. The kind that builds in the hollow of your chest and spills out through every gentle movement.

You kissed him. Soft lips against rough skin. You climbed into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, and waited for him to say no. He didn’t.

He just stared at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You helped him take his shirt off again. This time slower. Your eyes never left his as you let your hands trace the planes of his chest, the line of his collarbone, the healed ridges of old wounds.

He flinched when you kissed one near his shoulder.

“Hey,” you whispered. “You’re not broken. You survived.”

His eyes flickered shut.

You kissed another. Then another. Down his back, along his spine, until he was trembling under your touch.

“You’re not just worthy of love,” you said against his skin. “You’re mine. And I love all of you.”

When you slid down between his legs and kissed the insides of his thighs, he gasped like he’d never been touched like this. He hadn’t. You knew it. You could feel it in the way he shivered, in the way he whispered your name like it was too big to hold in his mouth.

When you finally let him sink inside you—slow and deep, wrapped around him so gently he nearly sobbed—you cradled his face between your hands and kissed his lips through every second of it.

“You’re not disgusting,” you breathed. “You’re beautiful. You’re mine.”

He came with a broken sound and your name on his lips, forehead pressed to yours like he was clinging to the only lifeline he had.

tag list! @xx-lostgirl-xx @darylsdelts @ye-ooo @t-folklore13 @madyb17 @dead-sirens @theskinniestjackson-denny @littlelovingideas @angelically-yours

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon imagines #twd daryl #daryl dixon smut #the walking dead #daryl x reader #daryl twd

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ddejavvu · 3 days ago

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Excuse Me, Barmaid - Hiccup Haddock x Reader (Part 2) | SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Berk is a small island with a small populace. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody especially knows the son of the Chief. When you’re thrown into the mix, arriving alone on a ship from an island they’ve never heard of before, you’re the talk of the village. It, of course, doesn’t help that you’re now roommates with the aforementioned son of the Chief. Stoick’s hospitality is welcome, but how will you survive living amongst the Chief of Berk and his inquisitive son, all while keeping your secrets close to your chest?

Contents/Warnings: afab!fem!reader, mentions of sex, runaway!reader, non-canon timeline (no valka yet/stoick is alive but hiccup has dragonscale armor + trader johann hasn't... y'know...), more to be added as chapters are posted

WC: 7.6K / navigation / inbox / ddejavvu's summer of series

A/N: thank you for the love on part one! i'm massively inspired to write this series right now so I really appreciate that you guys are loving it and eager for more. I hope you like this part as much as the first! More is definitely on its way <3

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Hiccup’s journal is a tattered, impressive thing. It contains pages upon pages of sketches, blueprints for Toothless’s prosthetic tail fin- the story of which you’ve been filled in on, as well as Hiccup's metal counterpart - and doodles here and there of his green-eyed best friend. They bear a striking resemblance to the dragon currently stretched out on the forest floor to place his head in your lap, and his warm breath puffs over your stomach, seeping through your threadbare tunic and heating your skin.

You may be in shock.

You’d have assumed it would be harder to assimilate to an island full of dragons, not even ones that breathe fire and snap their great heavy jaws at you, but ones that blink up at you, pupils wide and teeth sucked into their gums.

But he’s done such a good job of acting like a cat that you almost forget he isn’t one, and his wings take you by surprise when he curls one over his exposed belly, protecting it from the ticklish grass of the cove.

“He really likes you.” Hiccup smiles, “I suppose that’s another reason I’m trying to help you. I trust his judgement.”

“He’s- sweet.” You marvel, “He’s twenty-five feet long, he’s got to weigh a thousand pounds, and he’s… sweet.”

“Legends about dragons are wrong.” Hiccup states, slipping his hand beneath Toothless’s wing to rub over his belly, round with fish, “You won’t need to fight them unless you try to. They’re gentle creatures.”

Toothless demonstrates this by getting so delighted that his belly is being rubbed that he whaps Hiccup upside the head with his red tail fin.

“Ow! Okay, except for that.” Hiccup yelps, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head, “You’ve really gotta stop swinging that thing around, bud. You’re gonna knock me out one day.”

Toothless raises his head from your lap to chatter back at Hiccup, and though neither of you understand what he’s saying, you certainly understand how he’s saying it.

“He has tone,” You laugh, “He’s- he’s arguing with you!”

“Yes, he is,” Hiccup drawls, “He does it all the time.”

“Incredible.” You note, and Toothless purrs contentedly, pressing his face back into your belly.

You gently rake your nails over the smooth scales on Toothless’s chin as Hiccup turns back a page of his journal, “Okay, so, we’re both familiar with the plan?”

“Stay out of the way, wait until the mead hall is empty, scrub like my life depends on it, and then in the morning your friends divebomb my boat?”

“You forgot be polite.” Hiccup reminds you, “I know my dad can be… brash, but that’s because he feels like you’re being brash. You might have to do some ass-kissing.”

You wish you could act indignant about it. But you are being stubborn, you are hiding the truth, and you’re going to for as long as you can get away with. So you nod, losing yourself in the pattern of Toothless’s scales, “Right. Ass-kissing.”

“It’s starting to get dark.” Hiccup notes, looking at the pinkening sky, “Berk doesn’t get much sun. We should head back before its hard to see.”

“Right. We’re flying.” You remember, as Toothless gets to his feet and shakes himself off, “I’m still getting used to that. Do you fly everywhere?”

“Almost everywhere,” Hiccup nods, reaching for his helmet on instinct and realizing that he’d left it in the great hall earlier, “I’ll walk around the village- to the forge, or to the great hall or whatever, but anywhere more than that and Toothless likes to stretch his wings.”

The large dragon crows in agreement, wings already spread to their full span. It makes him more intimidating, but you take Hiccup’s helping hand and mount him without much hesitation.

Taking off is easier this time, because now you know he’ll be gentle. It’s not really anything you’ve ever thought to prepare for- handling dragons, so you’re adapting as best you can amidst all of the other crises you’re going through. Toothless is a good test subject, and you’re sure Hiccup knows that.

Landing reveals that apparently it’s feeding time for the dragons, and Toothless nudges his snout into Hiccup’s back, crooning hopefully as the other dragons swarm the feeding troughs.

“Go ahead, bud. We’ll be okay.” Hiccup ruffles his hand over Toothless’s nose, nudging him towards the fish being snapped up by the mouthful. The dragon bounds away excitedly, and sticks his nose in beside a dusty blue colored dragon with a yellow spiked tail. They gorge on food, stuffing their mouths and shoveling mounds of fish into their hungry bellies.

“Hiccup!” A woman’s voice calls, and you turn to see a blonde viking rushing over. She’s got furs on her shoulders and around her ankles, and her hair is intricately braided over her shoulder, “Hiccup, I heard what happened.”

“I’m sure you heard something happened,” Hiccup grimaces, turning towards her, “But I’m willing to bet everyone blew it a little out of proportion.”

“You’re our overnight guest?” She guesses, her eyes narrowed like Stoick’s, and you wonder if she’s heard from him, or his friend, “The one that won’t answer any questions?”

“I’m Y/N- That’s me.” You nod politely, “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m only restocking my rations.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what they’ve all said.” She warns, “Everyone’s curious, y’know. It’d probably be easier just to tell us the truth, instead of whatever everyone else will come up with.”

“I’ll take my chances.” You let your weight rest on one leg, your hip jutted out defiantly, “But thanks for looking out for me…?”

“Astrid.” Her mouth forms a tight line, then she nods to the dragon beside Toothless, “That’s Stormfly, my nadder. Stoick wants us to keep an eye on you, too.”

“Toothless and I can handle it,” Hiccup reaches for her placatingly, but she rounds on him.

“He meant for us to keep an eye on you. The three of you, you, Toothless, and Y/N.”

“I don’t need babysitting.” Hiccup grumbles, sounding like someone who does, very much, need babysitting.

“Well, you’re just lucky Stormfly can’t leave her clutch for more than a meal this soon after hatching,” Astrid sighs, “I told Stoick I couldn’t do it. But I swear,” She leans towards you, poking an accusatory finger at your chest, “If I hear even a whisper that something’s going on with you, she’ll shoot every single one of those spikes into your gut, you got it?”

Astrid points at the nadder’s tail, and your arms cover your vulnerable torso instinctually.

“Alright,” Hiccup laughs nervously, pulling Astrid’s shoulder back so that he puts space between you two, “She already thinks we’re a little hostile to outsiders, let’s not make it worse. Toothless and I can handle it! He’s a night fury! And I’m Hiccup! And she won’t do anything, anyways. She promised.”

Astrid looks at Hiccup like wearing a helmet to protect his brain is a waste of time.

“Oh, she promised! Like Heather promised to-”

“Heather is different!” Hiccup insists, and the two devolve into squabbling that their dragons have to separate. You stand uselessly while the two bicker over each other, and Toothless nudges the dragon beside him with irritation clear in his narrowed eyes. Apparently, dinnertime is over.

They move as one, creeping up behind their riders and plucking them apart like mother cats scruffing kittens. Toothless drags Hiccup five meters backwards, and Stormfly ends up parking Astrid beside you, noticing you for the first time. She drops her rider into the grass in favor of examining you with one of her massive, yellow eyes, and you take a half-step backwards in fright before Hiccup can shout that you’re okay.

“She’s friendly!” He assures you, and to his credit, the dragon does nothing but stare, tilting her massive head towards you while keeping it sideways, “She can’t see in front of her, she’s just checking you out from the side.”

“You’re afraid of dragons.” Astrid notes, almost haughtily from where she’s picked herself up and dusted herself off, “Are you a trapper?”

“She’s not a trapper,” Hiccup scoffs, reaching out to scrub a hand over Stormfly’s nose and hopefully deter her from moving any further into your personal space, “She’s never even seen a dragon before.”

Astrid’s brow creases only further at that, “Never? What island did you come from, anyways?”

“Remember, I don’t answer questions?” You raise a brow at her, but then you remember the part of Hiccup’s plan where you’re supposed to kiss ass, “I- It’s just private, okay? It’s all very dramatic and I wouldn’t want to bore anyone with the details.”

Astrid’s studying you much like Stormfly had, but her arms are crossed in front of her chest, unimpressed.

“Well vikings are fond of storytelling,” She muses, and Stormfly has grown bored of Hiccup itching at her scaly snout, now huffing and puffing at your arm, “Maybe you could regale us with the tale around the dinner table tonight.”

“Astrid.” Hiccup snaps, his voice taut, “Lay off.”

Stormfly snorts, and you choose to ignore the dragon snot now adorning your tunic, because you have bigger things to worry about. The dragon knocks her great head into your side so roughly that you tip over, and you yelp as you hit the grassy ground, the dragon following your descent.

Stormfly barely misses clipping your chin with her horn with the way she huffs into your stomach, dragging her snout up and over you as her two giant legs move on either side of you. All at once there’s a very large dragon on top of you, and she tucks your flailing limbs into the space between her legs and tail with her chin, closing you in.

Your thigh is by your cheek, and your other leg is bent awkwardly away from it, your tendons burning as they strain to stretch and not snap. Your head is cushioned by a scaly dragon foot, and you barely have time to get your bearings before light spills into your eyes again, and Astrid is shoving Stormfly’s giant head out from between her feet.

“Sorry!” Hiccup calls, his voice muffled until one of your ears becomes uncovered, “She has a habit of collecting people she likes. You can take it as a compliment,” Hiccup offers a hand to haul you out from beneath the dragon that Astrid is persistently shoving backwards over the grass so that you can untangle your limbs, “But I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

“She frequently sits on people?” You ask, brushing loose grass from your clothes and stumbling warily away from the two-legged dragon currently squawking at her rider.

“That’s how Nadders protect their young,” Astrid glares sideways at you, like it’s your fault that her dragon had decided you were baby-shaped and tried blocking off your airways, “She’s just very friendly, that’s all.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Hiccup reasons, “It’s a good sign that the dragons are liking you so far. That means we’ll have less problems to deal with in getting you to stay.”

“Stay?” Astrid raises a brow, her arms crossed in front of her chest, “The Chief said she could be here for one night.”

“I know that,” Hiccup hedges, grimacing at his slip-up, “I just mean- well, y’know, if she does a really good job at scrubbing the mead hall, maybe we’ll want to keep her around.”

“She’s leaving tomorrow.” Astrid glares first at Hiccup, then at you, “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” You lie, standing tall with your hands clasped primly behind your back, “No trouble.”

“We’re watching you,” She vows, and Stormfly emphasizes her rider’s point by staring at you sideways again out of one great big eye, “I swear, any suspicion and I’ll fling you out into the sea myself. Stormfly is very good at ditching people in the ocean.”

Despite her threats being empty, just for show, your stomach twists and you edge a step away from the dragon, to Astrid’s satisfaction.

“Yes, and Barf and Belch are good at blowing houses up,” Hiccup drawls, “And Hookfang is good at threatening to swallow Snotlout, and so on and so forth. They’re all capable of dangerous things, but they’re also capable,” He smiles at you, his eyes bright as Toothless burrows beneath his arm and against his side, "-of loyalty. Absolutely unfailing loyalty, at that. If you're kind to us, trust that you’ll be safe here.” He casts a backwards glance at Astrid, “Even if you’re only planning on staying one night.”

Toothless croaks happily at you, and when he carefully steps forwards, considerate enough to take slow steps in case he spooks you, you let him butt his head up beneath your palm for a scratch against his jaw.

“See? You’re a natural.” Hiccup grins, and you’re fairly certain that’s because your cousin had a dog while you were growing up, and they seem to be similar creatures, but you’re not going to talk back any more than you already have. Hiccup seems to be the only one on Berk that’s on your side, so you heave a silent, heavy sigh instead of opening your mouth again.

“It’s dinner time,” Astrid notes, watching the sun sink lower into the sky, as well as the swarm of Berkians headed for the doors to the great hall, “Will you be joining us, or are you late for another disappearing act?”

“Oh, don’t mind her.” Hiccup decides your conversation is over, pushing you firmly but not roughly towards the great hall while the dragons tail you, “In her defense, like I said, we have had newcomers sneak off to conspire against us. But stay where everyone can see you, and try not to be so, well, y’know, stubborn and mysterious at dinner, and you’ll be fine.”

Shoulders hunched, hair a mess from its rendezvous with the grass, two dragons and a pissed-off rider trailing at your heels, you’re not sure you could look more mysterious and stubborn. But you’ll try to do what Hiccup thinks is best, because right now he's all you've got.

The meade hall is bustling like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Berk is a refreshingly tight-knit community, with people lining up at tables against the far end of the hall to set up dishes they’d brought in communal pots. It seems as though it’s one big assembly line, food brought from here, there, and everywhere for everyone on the island to share. For the most part, people serve their own dishes, and you feel out of place lining up to be served instead of bringing your own portion.

“I told you we mostly barter.” Hiccup hands you a bowl, still wet from having been washed previously, “Berk’s gold is more for alliances than anything. A lot of people make food to share because everyone needs to eat.”

“It’s nice here.” You hum, stew poured into your bowl despite the curious glances from the people dishing out their food, “My home- well, people weren’t cruel, but we had to pay. And some people couldn’t.”

Bread and cheese are handed to you, and you let someone siphon a generous helping of shredded meat into your bowl. It looks delicious, but a smell wafting from the end of the makeshift assembly line has your eyes slamming shut as nausea roils suddenly in your gut.

“Oh no,” Hiccup mutters from behind you, nearly bumping into you where you’ve stopped dead at the smell, “Okay, uh, Astrid’s very... generous! And she likes to contribute to dinner, but some of her recipes aren’t always village favorites. Just- whatever it is, take some and thank her. Please? It’ll help your case.”

The stench is truly horrifying. You weren’t quite aware that anything besides a decaying corpse could produce such an odor, but whatever thick, chunky substance Astrid is pouring into mugs for everyone seems to be more than cadaverous.

“Oh, yaknog!” Hiccup laughs, his voice dead and his eyes despairing, “It’s not Snoggletog, Astrid.”

“I know it’s not,” She rolls her eyes, grinning all the while. She passes you your mug gruffer than she does anyone else’s, but you take it without spilling a drop, even if it makes your stomach churn and your delicious stew less appealing, “But everyone always drains their glasses, so I thought I’d make it as a summer treat.”

“Thank you,” You hum blankly, staring at the noxious substance actively curdling in your mug, and as soon as Hiccup takes his stein, he rushes off to a far corner of the hall to claim an empty bench.

“We can dump that.” Hiccup promises, setting his own cup halfway across the table like it might contaminate his other food, “She’s- we really do appreciate the thought she puts into making food, but…”

“Yaknog.” You nod, still pulling in breath after nauseating breath of the odor, “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Here,” Hiccup glances at Astrid, finding her completely obstructed behind his father’s stocky form, “Quick, while she’s not looking.”

He takes both tankards, dumping them out into what looks like someone’s dirty pot. It blends in with whatever unusable scraps they’d left behind, and he slides it several feet away with the toe of his boot.

“Everyone does drain their glasses," He admits, grimacing, "We chuck it as soon as we get the chance. Just... tell her you liked it. She might stop threatening to kill you.”

“She’s very… spirited.” You continue your directive of ass-kissing, “Is she a part of your father’s council?”

“No, but she should be.” Hiccup digs into his stew, but your stomachache lingers, and you decide to give it a few more minutes before braving your meal, “She’s really smart. And she’s really strong. And she’s really good at scaring people off. Berk could probably use someone like her as Chief.”

“Are you next in line?” You ask, and you swear you see his face pale in the candlelight.

“Technically. It’s just- not really my thing.” He admits, “It’s complicated. But I think Astrid would do a better job than me.”

“I don’t know. You seem pretty smart,” You remember his journal, packed with pages and pages of blueprints and deductions, “And you’d have to be strong to fight off a dragon the size of a mountain. You two nearly scared me off,” You remind them, “But maybe she’s more like your dad.”

Hiccup nods, chewing through a bite of stew.

“That’s not a bad thing.” You add, conscious of the way his eyes have dimmed slightly, “Not being like your dad. I’m sure you are, in some ways. But that’s not the end-all be-all.”

He swallows and clears his throat, and you remember you’re not supposed to be there. You remember you’ve only set foot on Berk hours ago, and fall back into silence, still afraid to touch your meal.

“You know a lot about me,” Hiccup's eyes remain on his food as he tears into his bread, “Or, at least you think you do. And I still don’t know anything about you.”

“You don’t need to. And I’ll leave you alone.” You glance at your own bread, finding its bland flavor appealing to line your stomach with. You leave the cheese aside, but take a tentative bite of the bread, “I shouldn’t have overstepped.”

“If you’re gonna be staying here for more than a night, you’d be better off giving up,” He advises you, “I wasn’t kidding when I said we have stubbornness issues. You’re gonna be asked so many times that you’ll go crazy.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t stay for longer than a night, then.” You consider, “Maybe I’ve already botched my chances here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hiccup frowns, shifting in his seat, “You’re welcome to stay. I believe you. I… I trust you. It’s just- you have to trust us too.”

“Not- not yet.” You plead, fingers pinching the soft bread until it’s flattened, “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

You’re grateful when he shovels another spoon of stew into his mouth.

The bench shakes as someone sits down beside you, and your breath catches in your throat. You hadn’t seen them coming- perhaps you’d been too embroiled in your own thoughts. It feels like there’s a target on your back- and maybe there is, but they don’t know the half of it.

“Something wrong with your stew?” A loud, brash voice comes from the man beside you, and Hiccup grumbles something surely offensive into his spoonful of dinner, “I can go get you another bowl if you want. Or- two bowls. Like, any amount. I can get you whatever you want.”

It’s a dark-haired man, a helmet on his head with horns that spiral and wind. They look intimidating, but his wide, dark eyes don’t, even if he’s trying very hard to make them by accompanying them with a dry smirk.

“This is Snotlout.” Hiccup nearly bites through his name, “And you can ignore pretty much anything he says, all the time.”

“You told me to ignore Astrid, too,” You glance at Hiccup from across the table, “Do you have any friends?”

You don’t mean for it to come out rude, more concerned, but Snotlout barks a laugh, “Not without us, he wouldn’t! He’s just jealous, ‘cause I’m better than him, and Astrid doesn’t like him anymore.”

“I am not jealous,” Hiccup argues, “Your name is Snot. Lout. You have the word snot in your name. I’m just trying to give Y/N a peaceful introduction to Berk, and neither of you are ever peaceful- like Fishlegs is! Fishlegs, sit.” Hiccup offers the blonde man a seat beside him, and you kiss your empty table goodbye once and for all. The man who sits across from Snotlout offers you a wary smile, hesitant but not unkind.

“Fishlegs is peaceful. Just endure Snotlout for one meal,” Hiccup offers, “And I’ll have Toothless burn through the seat of his pants when we leave.”

“Toothless would never do that to me,” Snotlout brags, but you watch the way one of his large hands curls into a fist on the tabletop.

“That’s true,” Hiccup muses, glancing sideways at Fishlegs who grins back, “Because Hookfang would have already done it for him.”

“You’re all jealous.” Snotlout declares, eyes narrowing from beneath his bushy brows and wild hair, “Because the bond that I have with Hooky is far greater than any dragon-rider bond you’ve ever seen before!”

Hiccup and Fishlegs share a glance that tells you Snotlout is speaking out of his ass.

“Do you have a dragon, Fishlegs?” You speak, diffusing the tension by keeping your voice that same timbre of politely interested that it’s been when speaking to anyone but Hiccup thus far.

“Yeah, she’s a gronckle.” Fishlegs nods, scooping meat onto his spoon. Your brows raise, and Hiccup swallows so that he can fill you in.

“Y/N’s never seen a dragon before.” Hiccup reveals, and both men share a startled glance that they don’t keep secret well enough, “A gronckle is- uh, a big boulder-class dragon. She’s super friendly, you should meet her next.”

“Hiccup, you shouldn’t call her big.” Fishlegs frowns, “She’s sensitive.”

“Fishlegs, she eats rocks! She’s- she’s a little tubby.” Hiccup groans, “All gronckles are.”

“I’m sure she’s gorgeous,” You conclude, and both men smile gratefully at you for the effort.

You hope you’re doing enough ass-kissing.

“Yeah, well, Hookfang’s a little more impressive than a gronckle.” Snotlout brags, and you marvel at how you can really hear the narcissism in his tone of voice, “He’s a monstrous nightmare. Probably the most dangerous dragon out there. I tamed him though.”

“Neither of those things are true,” Hiccup glares at Snotlout, “Don’t worry about Hookfang, Y/N. The dragons have seemed to like you so far, and the only one who Hookfang ever has problems with is Snotlout, anyways. Plus, he’s nowhere near the most dangerous dragon out there.”

“There’s worse?” You ask, stomach now twisting for a different reason. You can’t possibly fathom a creature worse than one named a ‘monstrous nightmare’. Maybe you should leave Berk come morning.

“None that you’ll encounter.” Hiccup assures you, “And none that would hurt you even if they could.”

You’ll take his word for it, because you need to stop worrying or you’ll never eat.

You’re starved from nothing but rations on your boat, dried meats that hadn’t filled you the way you’d wanted them to, and bread you’d had to gorge on before it got moldy. You welcome the warm, steaming stew, and try to clear the smell of yaknog from your senses while eating.

It’s delicious stew, and you let the cheese get gooey on the bread before dragging it through the dregs in your bowl. Your almost non-stop nausea since departing from being rocked constantly by the waves had put you off of food, but you hadn’t realized just how much of a difference a hot meal could make until now. You wolf down the rest of your dinner, and Snotlout eyes you like he thinks you might tear into him next.

“Did you want another bowl?”

“No, thank you.” You straighten in your seat, your belly stiff, bloated and uncomfortable now that you’ve stuffed it for the first time in a week, “I shouldn’t overdo it.”

“You can have more later, if you want.” Hiccup smiles at you, stretching out in his own spot, “I’ll have them keep just the one fire going.”

“If the twins left any,” Fishlegs groans, “Here they come.”

All heads turn towards the pair of blondes headed your way, mid-squabble about who gets what spoon. They look identical to you- the spoons, not the twins - but you suppose siblings have to bicker about pointless things else they wouldn’t be close.

“-my spoon! I always take this one!”

“No you don’t,” The man practically roars at his sister, “This one doesn’t have a chip in the handle and yours is chipped from when I bit it.”

“I had to get a new spoon after you bit mine! It was giving me splinters. The new one's not chipped."

“Ruff, Tuff,” Hiccup tries, arms outstretched placatingly, but he nearly gets whacked on the head with a non-chipped spoon handle for his efforts, so he chooses instead to duck and cover.

“Fine. Then I want the one with the knot in the handle.” The man throws his spoon at his sister, smacking her square in the nose, “That one.”

He points to the spoon in your bowl, and seems to realize that he doesn’t recognize it’s user.

“Woah. Fresh face,” He notes, and his sister blinks owlishly at you from where she’s rubbing her stinging nose, “I’m Ruffnut.”

“No, I’m Ruffnut,” The woman scoffs, “He’s Tuffnut. The lesser twin.”

“Lesser? I’ll have you know, sister, that I’ve pranked more people than you have. That’s clearly not lesser.”

“You have not.” Ruffnut snarls, “You’re lesser because you have less of a brain.”

“Here’s the spoon.” You briefly rinse it with water from a jug on the table, wiping it dry with the hem of your tunic, “Please don’t start a food fight. I have to clean this hall later.”

“We heard you got a nasty punishment,” Tuffnut grins mischievously, “I think the last time this hall was cleaned, it was by fourteen-year-old Hiccup after he blew up the forge. There’s probably, like, spiders everywhere.”

You shoot Hiccup a concerned glance, but whether it’s more about his explosive tendencies or the Berk’s arachnid presence, you’re not sure. Either way, his ears flush red and you can’t see his cheeks because he hides behind another mouthful of stew, shoulders shielding his face as he hunches.

“I won’t throw anything.” Ruffnut promises, meeting your eye curiously, “But I can’t guarantee my brother won’t.”

“If I throw anything it’s gonna be at you, not at the wall.” Tuffnut grouses, kicking her beneath the table, “And I have, like, such good aim, it would never make a mess.”

“Your whole room is a mess.” Ruffnut scoffs.

Tuffnut yelps, “It’s your room too!” and you’re fairly certain that you’ll be scrubbing stew off of the walls hours from now.

“Guys.” Hiccup cuts in, his voice sterner now, “Guys!”

“What?” The twins shout in unison, brows furrowed as they seethe at the interruption.

“I have something for you two to blow up.” Hiccup pitches, and all at once it’s like they’ve been tranquilized. Their expressions relax, then kick up into pleasant grins.

“You’re speaking our language.” Tuffnut encourages, “So what is it? The hatchery? Mildew’s yard? Snotlout’s house?”

“We were already gonna do that,” Ruffnut shrugs, “But we can move our schedule around.”

Snotlout, who looks justly alarmed at this information, can’t get a word in before Hiccup continues.

“We need you to bomb Y/N’s boat.” He drags his journal out of a pocket on his pants, flipping to the appropriate pages, “And we also need you to not tell Astrid. Or my dad. Or- anyone, really.”

Tuffnut blinks awkwardly at you, a grimace twisting his features, “She’s not gonna be in the boat, is she?”

“No! Why would she-” Hiccup rears back, hands waving wildly, “Oh, whatever. No, she will not be in the boat when you two blow it up. My dad’s only offering her one night on Berk. And she needs more than that. We’re trying to make her a permanent resident, and he can’t send her away tomorrow if her boat’s in chunks throughout the coast.”

“I like where this is going,” Ruffnut nods, her voice gruff and enthusiastic, “And after we blow up her boat, everyone will flock to the ocean to see what happened. It’ll be the perfect time to strike Snotlout’s house!”

“Don’t blow up my house!” Snotlout shrieks, and Hiccup, for once, agrees with him.

“Don’t blow up Snotlout’s house.”

“Fine.” Tuffnut grumbles.

“Whatever,” Ruffnut sighs into her hand.

“So just- in the morning, sneak out before my dad wakes up. Make sure there’s witnesses though- we don’t want anyone thinking Y/N was responsible. Barf and Belch can do their thing, it’ll be dismissed as one of your regular escapades, and Y/N can get comfortable here.”

Tuffnut’s face twists into a pleased smirk, “Oh, but Hiccup, Barf and Belch don’t have to do their thing.”

“Indeed they don’t,” Ruffnut chuckles sinisterly, “We have a better plan.”

“Introducing!” Tuffnut reaches for a bag resting on the seat beside him, a messenger that’s bulging from the inside, “Thorston Productions' newest invention: The Zippleblasts!”

He shakes the bag, and the flap opens, letting tens of round, metal objects fall to the floor. They scatter around the hall, rolling this way and that, and Ruffnut laughs again, “We made bombs.”

Hiccup’s eyes widen, and so do the rest of your tables’, “You made bombs?”

“We made bombs!” Tuffnut shouts, louder than the crowd, and the hall falls silent. He doesn’t seem to notice or care, and no one moves to pick up the explosives at their feet, frozen in fear. “Ruffnut got Barf to breathe a bunch of gas and I kept Belch asleep so he didn’t light it.”

“You made bombs.” Hiccup repeats, “And you brought them into the meade hall?”

“We wanted to show them off,” Ruffnut huffs, as if Hiccup’s the crazy one, “Plus, it’s just gas in there. They’d need fire to get them going.”

“Right, so you brought them to the communal oven.” Snotlout scoffs, warily eyeing the fires still blazing at the head of the hall, “Nice going, geniuses.”

“I-I’d like to take a look at your production process,” Hiccup’s tone is, frankly, terrified, “But that’s a problem for another day. Ruff, Tuff, pick those up and keep them away from any flames. They might be useful if we ever have to fight again, but let’s not tempt fate by carrying them around the village.”

“As you wish, wise leader.” Tuffnut stands to bow dramatically, “Sister! Retrieve the bombs.”

Ruffnut’s already scooping them up from where they’ve rolled off to, and she flings one at Tuffnut’s ankles. It hits bone, and he drops to the floor to clutch at the instantly reddening skin.

“Ow! Hiccup, she bombed me.” Tuffnut gripes, “Can’t you throw her out or something? You’re the son of the chief.”

“Stop throwing them!” Hiccup exclaims, “Tuffnut, help clean them up. Ruffnut, stop throwing them. Just- help. For once. Please.”

“He’s exaggerating.” Ruffnut pops up beneath the table by your feet, snagging one of the explosives that had rolled under your bench. One of the horns on her helmet nearly stabs you in the stomach and you fling an arm around yourself to protect it, “We help all the time. Which is why we can definitely help get you an extra-long vacation on Berk by-”

“By what?” Astrid’s piercing voice cuts through the amicable chatter, Ruffnut’s eyes widening as she snaps her mouth shut. Evidently she's done dishing out yaknog, and is now standing with her food at the head of your table looking entirely unimpressed.

“Nothing!” Ruffnut and Tuffnut declare in unison, physically incapable of sounding more suspicious. Ruffnut disappears beneath the table again, and Tuffnut decides that he has to check on his smarting ankle again, whistling faux-casually all the while.

“Right. Nothing.” Astrid huffs, slamming her own food onto the table beside Hiccup’s, shoving him to the side despite his yelp and squishing him between her and Fishlegs on the bench, “You two are always doing nothing.”

“Astrid, don’t you think you’re being a little rude?” Fishlegs questions, but he seems to regret it when her eyes flash dangerously.

“Have you forgotten what’s happened to us every time someone new shows up out of the blue? Heather tried stealing my dragon her first night on Berk. You really think I’m gonna hold Y/N’s hand and teach her the quickest escape route?”

“Heather was… complicated at first.” Hiccup admits, shoulders around his ears with the way he’s compressed between his friends, “But let’s just try to keep an open mind here. Y/N’s gonna do a fantastic job scrubbing the hall, and we’ll send her off with rations in the morning.”

“Yes, we will.” Astrid speaks through a mouthful of stew, lessening the bite that her tone could have had, “Whatever you're planning, Hiccup, drop it, now. And Ruffnut, Tuffnut?" The twins glance warily at her as she meets their gazes head on and steady, "Stay out of this.”

“So they’re gonna do it?” You ask, your knees aching and your palms smarting from the way you’ve been hunched on the floor for three hours, “They’re gonna blow my boat up tomorrow?”

“They’ll use one of their Zippleblasts, I guess,” Hiccup nods, his eyes widening as his shoulders heave with a sigh, “Don’t worry about Astrid. The twins are the only two people on Berk that won’t listen to her. They don’t listen to anyone.”

“They’re certainly entertaining,” You groan, straightening up to find Hiccup scrubbing his own portion of the hall, “You don’t have to help me, you know? I’m supposed to be doing this all myself.”

“I’ve scrubbed this hall a thousand times.” He admits with a sheepish grin, “I know what I’m doing, and I know how to do it. Besides, we can get it done in half the time. We’ll already be finishing late, I’m not going to leave you hanging all the way until morning.”

“I appreciate it.” Is all you can huff before hunching over again to get a stubborn stain out of the floorboards. One lone fire crackles beneath a pot of stew beside Hiccup, and you can’t wait until you’re finished cleaning and get to indulge in the stuff. It provides warmth, too, but mostly an enticing aroma that keeps you motivated to finish scrubbing.

“So,” Hiccup calls, “Now that we’re alone again, away from the prying eyes of the Berkians, is there anything you feel like sharing?”

“Nice try.” You don’t mean it, “How about instead, we talk about why you’re an expert at cleaning duty?”

“I got in trouble a lot as a kid,” Hiccup admits, shrugging his shoulders while soaping up the wood around the fire, “I’m- clumsy. And I’ve always been imaginative. And bold, I guess. So those were really a recipe for disaster.”

You grimace, “I can imagine. So, what, you blew up the forge every week?”

“No! Just three times.” He grumbles, “And there were a few other incidents, maybe, but hey! This seems completely unfair. You won’t answer any of my questions, but you want me to humiliate myself for entertainment?”

“Fine. I’ll stop asking.” You nod resolutely, tossing water on another expanse of the floor, “I just thought we could make conversation.”

“You can keep asking.” Hiccup offers, his voice suddenly pointed, “If I can get just one honest answer from you.”

“What?” You snap, irritated, shoulders hunched and aching, sweat beading at your brow.

“Were you being honest with my father when you told him whatever you're running from isn't going to disrupt Berk?”

You glance up at Hiccup, surprised by both the question and its tone, and you find him kneeling in your direction, sponge forgotten on the floor and fire illuminating his expression. It’s concerned, but resolute, his brow drawn low and his jaw set tight. He looks chiefly in this light. Like his dad.

“I was.” You promise, sincerely as you meet his eye, “It was- listen, whatever you’re thinking it was, it wasn’t that crazy. Just- they would have hated me. When they found out. It was something stupid I did, and they would have excommunicated me anyways, so I just got it over with and ran away myself. Just some silly, interpersonal drama, and that’s it. It won’t come to Berk.”

He nods once, his face softening in the firelight.

“Good.” He rises to his feet, stumbling slightly with his prosthetic as he hobbles his way over to you on sore limbs, “I know what it's like, you know? Being a social outcast. You’re safe here,” You hear a clinking sound as his metal foot collides with something behind the table leg he walks past, “-and we’ll convince my dad to let you stay.”

“Hiccup.” Your eyes widen, and your stew-filled stomach drops down to your aching feet, “Bomb.”

“What?” His face scrunches in confusion, but at the sound of metal scraping wood, his eyes drop to find one of the twins’ stray, forgotten bombs rolling across the floor of the hall, beelining fast and true straight towards the only fire left in the hall.

Hiccup must have accidentally kicked it open, because a seal in the metal has come undone, leaking noxious green gas that kickstarts your fight or flight response. You’re on your feet in seconds, and you repeat yourself, shouting ‘Bomb!’ as you dash for the door.

“Run!” You scream, as if it might not have occurred to Hiccup. He’s already racing after you, the bomb too quick and close to the fire to stop, and as the blast sounds from behind you, you cross the threshold of what was once Berk’s great hall, but is now a pile of timber as the whole thing collapses.

You’re safe from the blast, but there’s smoke pouring from the building already. You trip and land on your knees outside of the hall's perimeter, and Toothless, who had been asleep outside, exhausted from the day’s patrol, jerks awake, his eyes wide and his ears alert.

“Toothless!” You exclaim, coughing as he bolts upright and rushes towards you, “I- I- It blew up! Hiccup, oh my god, are you okay- Hiccup?”

He’s not behind you.

You freeze, not for long, only for a split second, but long enough to realize that Hiccup hadn’t made it out.

God, you hope he’s not dead.

“Hiccup!” You cry, calling out into the wooden building already fully ablaze, itching to do something but faced with a roaring fire, “Hiccup, can you hear me?”

There’s no answer. Toothless is already rearing back to shoot what’s presumably more fire out of his throat but you push his head aside, “No, no, no! More won’t help! Are you fireproof?”

He screeches angrily at you like you’re not very helpful and he can’t understand you, both of which are probably true.

An alarm bell rings, high up in the village as a watchman shouts, ‘Fire!’

Within seconds, villagers in their pajamas pour from their houses in alarm, and you’re already prying at fallen planks of wood to try to locate Hiccup. They’re scorched, some still on fire, and you hiss as the flames lick at your skin.

“Hiccup!” You shout again, and thundering footsteps appear behind you as you dig through the rubble you can get to, “Hiccup, can you hear me?”

“Hiccup!” Stoick’s voice booms from behind you, “Hiccup’s in there?”

“He didn’t make it out,” You shout, tears beading in your eyes as you find a microscopic opening in the wood, “Help- help me! Help me find him!”

“Get out of the way,” Stoick shoves you aside, roughly enough to send you sprawling on the grass, “I knew you’d be trouble. Gobber! Help me get Hiccup.”

“I’m trying to help him! It wasn’t me!” You scream, and Toothless dashes forwards and picks you up by the neck of your tunic to run you around to what used to be the side of the building. There’s a larger opening there, not enough for a dragon to weasel through, but just barely big enough for you. It hasn't been engulfed in flames yet, but it will be soon. You don't have much time.

You dive in without a second thought- what do you have to lose?

The mass of broken wood is hot and still aflame, and you dodge the roaring fire as you scramble to find Hiccup amidst the carnage. You’re looking for a thick boot, a scruff of brown hair, a scaled shoulder pad, but what you manage to find is a leg, metal and glinting in the firelight.

“Hiccup!” You shriek, grabbing and pulling. To your horror, it slips right off of his body, leaving the most important parts of him still buried.

You groan and toss the metal behind you, digging further through the rubble to unbury him enough. You don’t mean to hit Toothless with the prosthetic, but it manages to alert him that you’ve found his rider, and he bashes a larger hole in the wood with his head to help you unearth Hiccup, thankfully not trying the fire-breathing approach anymore.

“I’ve got his leg!” You screech, your face ashen and sweaty as you fight through the fire, “Toothless, grab hold of his torso, and pull!”

To do this, Toothless retracts his teeth and practically swallows Hiccup’s head. He has to get a good grip on the man, for fear of injuring him without removing him, and you decide you’ll apologize for the spit in his hair after he wakes up.

If he wakes up.

His unconscious face is just as soot-covered as yours, but it’s quickly eclipsed by Toothless’s gummy maw, and you and the dragon work together to pry Hiccup out from the ruins of the hall. The fire blazes around you, and you feel the back of your tunic catch, but you use all of your energy to heave Hiccup out of the rubble before it’s too late.

When you smell fresh air again it’s because Toothless wraps his tail around your middle and helps compensate for your weakness. He drags Hiccup out by the torso and you out by your belly, grunting with exertion as he brings you both to safety away from the fire.

You’re coughing and your back hurts, but Toothless is slapping his tail against your tunic to put out the flames before you can think about dropping and rolling in the grass. It leaves you to worry about Hiccup, and you fall to your knees beside him.

“Hiccup?” You shout, grabbing his face and jostling it back and forth, “Hiccup!”

“Son!” Stoick’s voice reaches your ears again, and you feel the ground shake slightly as he parts the crowd to bound over to you both, “You found him.”

“He was buried,” You pant, coughing at the smoke filling your lungs, “But he’s- I tried, I swear I tried to help-”

Stoick takes the boy from your arms and nestles his ear against Hiccup’s chest, eyes squeezed shut in a silent prayer.

“He’s alive!” Stoick shouts, eyes springing open, and tears of relief and adrenaline bead at your eyes, “He’s alive, he’s- he’s not-”

“Thank the gods.” You breathe, your chest heaving with a sob.

“You.” Stoick grunts, gruff again, cradling his son protectively to his chest. Hiccup begins stirring, coughing the same way you are though his eyes remain closed. Stoick glances at your singed tunic, and the way blood is smeared up your arm from a jagged plank of broken wood, “Why’d you go in after him?”

“Because I didn’t set the fire,” You growl, panicking even though it’s miles away from the politeness you’d promised Hiccup, “It was them!”

You gesture roughly to Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who have shown up beside their two-headed dragon, which you’re sure is the aforementioned Barf and Belch.

Their eyes widen at the accusation, but they don’t deny it, “Uh, you wouldn’t have happened to see one of our bombs, have you? We counted when we got home and one was missing.”

Stoick’s eyes squeeze shut again, this time in exasperation. He clutches Hiccup tighter as the man rouses, eyes blinking open, arms trying to reach his face to rub smoke and ash out of his eyes. Stoick mutters, “Odin’s beard.” Then shouts, “Ruffnut! Tuffnut! Put out the fire. Then, you’ll rebuild the hall. Plank by plank. And I’m confiscating those bombs of yours.”

They protest, but it’s not meaningful- they’d blown up the great hall. They seem to know this and get to work without much fuss, grumbling instead of causing a scene as their dragon takes them all the way to Berk’s water reserves.

“I can-” You pant, fiddling awkwardly with your fingers as you come down from your adrenaline rush, “I can help rebuild it. If you want.”

“I suppose it wasn’t your fault.” Stoick eyes you with a narrowed gaze, peering down at Hiccup who’s barely conscious. He sits the man up against his chest, tipping his head back to open his airway, “Still. It doesn’t help your case that the village blows up the same day you get here.”

“I- I know, but,” You try explaining, but before you can get far a black-and-red tail crosses over your face, and you find yourself pulled backwards against Toothless’s side. The dragon leans his great head over your shoulder and chitters at Toothless, all sass and gruff grumbles.

“That’s rude.” Stoick grunts. “I don’t know what you’ve said to me, Toothless, but I know it’s rude.”

“He said,” Hiccup wheezes, his voice interrupted by a trembling cough as the twins return with water, dumping it over the flames, “That Y/N’s been nothing but helpful so far. She saved my life and it’s only fair that we save hers. He said we should let her stay.”

You’re fairly certain the dragon didn’t say that, but you appreciate both of their efforts anyways.

Stoick sighs deeply, glancing down at his weakened, frail son. Hiccup does look especially pitiful, and you’re sure that’s why Stoick heaves a great sigh, eyes flickering upwards towards you where Toothless is keeping you tightly held against him.

“Right. You did save my son’s life.” Stoick acknowledges, “And that means a great deal to me. You can stay. But-” He points a thick, accusatory finger at you, “Not unconditionally, and not forever. You earn your keep, you stay out of trouble, and we’ll find you someplace else to stay.”

“That’s all I ask.” You breathe, shoulders lifting as Stoick releases their burden, “I’ll work for my food and wherever I sleep. And I won’t cause trouble. I swear on my life. And- and thank you. For helping me.”

“You’re welcome.” Stoick meets your gaze, his eyes deep and soulful, Chiefly the same way Hiccup’s were a mere ten minutes ago as he clutches his son to his chest, “Don’t make me regret it.”

#excuse me barmaid #hiccup haddock x reader #hiccup haddock imagine #hiccup haddock fanfiction #hiccup haddock fluff #hiccup haddock angst #hiccup haddock oneshot #hiccup haddock drabble #hiccup haddock blurb #hiccup haddock headcanons #hiccup haddock headcanon #hiccup haddock x you

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jigglyjeon · 3 days ago

Text

god -> jjk

summary: in an attempt to prove that you aren’t a total goody-two-shoes, you commit to a dare that your friends take too far; they leave you in the middle of the woods, wet naked and alone with no light source. in a turn of events, you come face to face with what lurks beneath the depths of the lake at night.

rating: R18+ MATURE, minors please do not interact

genre: fantasy au, smut

wc: 3k+

warnings/tags: siren!jk, readers got fake ass bitch ass friends, brief nipple play, dumbification of reader, allusions to jk having powers?, manipulation, unforgiving jk, isolated jk, straight up just sex, allusions to death?

notes: it’s not really significant to the story 'plot' using that lightly because this is just one big smut scene lol, but it is based in the 60s because i listened to a song from last night in soho (which is a 60s au film) on repeat the entirety of writing this lol

soundtrack: downtown (downtempo) – anya taylor joy

⋆ ࣪. masterlist ˖ ࣪⭑

“Y/N wouldn’t do it— she’s a total square.”

Your bright smile sinks into a sullen pout. Your friends gathered around the fire are snickering, looking at you with judgement and pity as they whisper behind their hands. You shift on your spot on the log, your nice capris sure to have dirt marks because they were white and the only pair you owned. You look down at your feet clad in your favourite pair of pink flats, feet turned inward as they swirled in the dirt. “I–I’m not! Really, I’m not.”

“It’s okay, Y/N. You’re a peach and that’s all that matters!” Judy pouts dramatically, her tone is whiny as she mocks you, but it doesn't slip by you. “In your pretty little bows, and light colours,” She tugs harshly on your ponytail, which was indeed held up by a ribbon that matched with your shoes. You gasp, snatching your hair over your shoulder with lowered brows.

“Hey, come on Jude, play nice. She’s fragile.” Taehyung snickers, throwing arm over her shoulder to tug her toward him and away from you. You’d deem it as him trying to save you, but he’s the one that called you a square in the first place. Just because you lived in a pink bedroom and wore light colours a lot, and liked ribbons, and still slept with your stuffed animals at night– that was aside the point.

There was more to you than a stereotypical depiction of innocence. Not that you needed their approval, but deep down you wished they were kinder to you. They were the first people to insist on you being their friend when you had started college, and somehow you wound up in situations like this with them; with Taehyung and Judy upright bullying you while Jimin and Jiyoon kiss their asses. All because you were unapologetically – to put it simply – yourself.

You let your hands fall to your lap, head following with it as you stare down at your fiddling fingers as if it were the most interesting thing you had seen to date. Your thoughts waver for a moment as you wonder what time you’ll be snuggled up in bed; something tells you not any time soon.

“M’not…” You grumble under your breath, avoiding the eyes all glued to you; limp posture and a frown to boot. You suck in a deep breath, “I’ll do it.” You puff out, shrugging with fake nonchalance “I don’t care.” You stand up, dusting off your dirtied pants and turning on your heel toward the lake nearby.

From behind you, your friends holler at you, following after you as you peel off your clothes the closer you come to the water, leaving a trail of your clothing behind you. Suddenly, your rush of adrenalin blinds you from the fact you’re in nothing but your underwear, and you drown out the cat calling and whistling coming from the men behind you. You take a step back before jumping in without another thought to stop you.

As you suspect, the water is freezing. You the moment your skin collides with the cold temperature. Your friends are howling from above the water as you plummet through the calm waters. You're quick to swim up toward the surface as soon as you regain control over your body. When you come up, you're gasping for air, coughing up water and shivering at the cool air nipping at your wet skin. “Are you all happy now?!” You shout into the darkness, your voice echoing around you. You're wiping at your face frantically, a slight panic coming over you when you struggle to regain focus with the stinging in your eyes. There's no answer.

You’re met with silence.

And your friends are nowhere to be seen.

You swim toward the edge of the lake, your heart thrumming in your chest when you realise, they’ve left you here. “This isn’t funny!” You call out, but the moment you go to push yourself out of the water, something catches your ankle, and you slip back into the water. Your fingertips dig into the dirt as you brace yourself for submersion, but it doesn’t come. There’s a grip on your ankle from below you and you’re too scared to look at what it is. It’s dark and cold and your friends are jerks. They’ll be sorry when you’re dead. You quiver, frozen in place, your grip in the moist dirt beneath your fingers the only thing keeping you above the water. Whatever has you doesn’t tug you hard enough, but it’s wrapped around your ankle snug.

Then you feel it.

It bumps against the back of your thigh. You gasp loudly, your fingernails drag through the dirt when it pulls you back, slow, antagonising— like it’s playing with its’ food.

“Guys, please!” You cry, tears welling up in your eyes, “H-help–” You screech when your body is pulled back into the water, gasping for a breath and squeezing your eyes shut as you prepare for the water to consume you once again. It doesn’t come. It feels a lot like two hands that grab at your waist, stationing you up so just your head is above water.

There's a scale-y texture grazes your skin below, wrapping around your legs to stop your legs from kicking. You forget how to breathe when bubbles bloom in the water in front of you. Your eyes are wide, given no choice but to watch when the culprit emerges from the water to reveal itself. Serpent eyes, dark and serene bore into yours the moment they’re visible. Higher, he comes; a boy – a man – there’s scales scattered over his skin, his temples and cheek bones adorned in blue and purple hues, iridescent and glistening in the moon’s light. His wet waves drape flat over his forehead that is, for the most part, match the dark of his eyes.

When his face is level with yours, he keeps his distance at first. He tilts his head forward, inspecting yours the same way you did his before drawing back. He has an entire grip on you still, hands falling slowly to your hips, a slimy and scaley appendage tightening around your bound legs. It pulls you closer to him, strong and sure. “I thought humans were intelligent,” His voice slips past his lips like silk, like he’s whispering a gentle song to lull you into slumber. “Disrupting my waters when the moon is bright, big ang full is a foolish thing, you know?”

He spoke to you in your language as if it were his first, and only. His words were clear; he dragged them out so tenderly in a way that makes you blink heavily into his eyes. You can’t think, you’re heaving, and your panic slows down steadily, and a sense of safety washes over you. He removes one hand from your body, raising it from the water to reveal more of his scales, dancing up his arm in harmony with the rest of them, stopping just about his shoulder. His fingers push your heavy locks behind your shoulder, and he hums lightly. Approval? Curiosity? You can’t find it in you to overthink the details of his actions. “It’s been so long,” He sighs longingly, “It’s been so lonely.” The part of him those locks against your legs pulls away, his warmth removed from you. You don’t mean to whine at the loss. He takes your frozen arms, moves you gentle through the water, further away from recognisable terrains, and the place that whence you came. Against your instincts you let him take you, the instinct that is swallowed whole by a sense of obedience. Don’t fight him, this voice tells you, he was powerful.

He places your hands to rest against the new rocky terrain, and you watch him closely as he pushes himself out of the water. The vision of him only confirmed your stuttering thoughts. A thick, large tail, a wide thin at the end that twitches beside you. It brushes lightly against your shoulder when it dips in and out of the water, like it longs to be consumed by it.

The same beautiful patterns and colours that litter his skin is the entirety of his tale, the place when his torso ends and tail begins melded perfectly, fading naturally into one another. This couldn’t be a prank, nor a dream, because when your hand moves on its own accord to touch it, it feels far too real to be fake.

The creature leans back with nonchalance; the side of his lips upturned with a knowingness as you admire him in all his unique beauty. He rests his palms behind to keep himself upright so he can watch as your fingertips explore him. “Come, pet.” It’s demanding, but it’s nurturing in a way that makes you obey. You come out of the water, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips that were growing drier from being out of his natural habitat. He drags himself further up the terrain, removing himself from the water fully. You crawl towards him wantonly, pupils blown out as you chase his touch again. He laughs with a mockery to the tone, and his eyes flickering over your exposed body in a hunger that had long been dormant. Like he had told you, he had been alone for the majority of his life. Protecting— guarding the home in which he had grown accustomed.

One of your breasts has spilt on of your bra, the material sopping and soaked and heavy, growing slightly see through as your underwear had. White cotton, leaving not much to the imagination. A shame, really. He liked a good chase, but the effect he had on a human hadn’t allowed that of them— his spellbound eyes and regal prose that sang to them in dangerous hymns.

He reaches for your upper arm, his grip sure but not threatening. He uses your weight to pull him closer to you, “What do they call you, little human?” He whispers, his lips ghosting over your cheek just by your ear. Your chest moves rapidly, heavy breaths harmonising with his. He riles you up and the closer contact, and your reaction riles up his growing desire. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have you— not when you were needier than most.

“Y/N” You mumble in your trance-like state, your eyes rolling back when he noses at your jaw, and he inhales when he feels your blood thump against your neck. His hands dance over your skin, hooking his fingers in the middle of your bra, pulling it forward. He furrows his brows when it snaps back against your skin, you yelp at the slight impact. He looks down at the contraption that gets in his way, using his other hand to snap the wire in half with ease. He roughly tugs it off your body, tossing it away with frustration that you would have found cute if you hadn’t been so entranced with him.

His hands find your skin again, a hand sliding to your lower back to pull you closer, dipping his head to kiss on your collarbones with feather light lips. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He muffles against your skin, you look down at him, your fingers taking purchase in his waves, still damp but softer to touch now that the air has dried it more. Your fingernails massage gentle into his scalp, looking up at you when he flickers his tongue out against your already hardened nipple. You struggle to keep your eyes open, “Do you want me, Y/N?” He asks with a cheek to his features, wrapping his lip around the sensitive bud to suck gently, swirling his tongue against it.

You throw your head back, arching your back as you push your chest further into his face. He releases your nipple, another gentle kiss to your chest when he shuffles his heavy weight toward you slightly. “What are you?” You keen, eyes watery with need, your hand sliding from his hair, down his shoulder, over his scales. He was strangely warm for a creature submerged by cold depths. He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t react— he just pulls you into a kiss that takes your breath away.

Deep down you knew what he could be. You’ve heard the fairytale many a time, in fact, it was one of your mother’s favourites; it was the story she read you on sleepless nights, because it was also the one that ensured you could rest your eyes with a smile on your face. A fair maiden who wished to grow legs, to experience life above water, torn between two worlds. In some ways you felt as if you could relate to her; she longed to be part of something, unsure of where she truly belonged. Right now, you were exactly where you wanted to be, but there’s an emotional clawing in the pits of your stomach that you can’t put your finger on.

You knew of two things: mermaids were benevolent, while sirens were vindictive and malicious. You can’t decipher the truth when you’re being dragged deeper into the pits of his stare.

He kisses you like he’s eating away at your sanity, the thoughts that fight to come to the surface and snap you back into reality. You don’t notice the way his tail splits in two, how he groans heavily against your slips, hardening the kiss as his tail disappears, in its place now a pair of legs. He endures the seething pain that shoots through him, only for a moment, all in turn for a night of pleasure.

A night of being wanted— a night in which he was no longer alone.

How selfish of him.

When he pulls away, you look down at his new form, bare but just as strong. He examines himself too, he hadn’t seen himself like this in years, not since the last time he had selfishly consumed the presence of someone human. That was far too long ago now, and he was much younger— naïve, even. You don’t dwell on it for too long, not when his cock is long, hard and twitching against his abdomen like that. His thighs twitch under your stare, a droplet of your saliva slips past your parted lips and dripples down your chin. His fingers dip beneath your chin forcing your gaze back to his face. “You can have me, little human.” He leans forward, his tongue darting out to collect what secretes from your mouth. Up your neck, licking over your lips, kissing you briefly. “You will have me.”

He was smug and sure, evident in his slowly growing grin. It’s sinister, it doesn��t quite reach his eyes, but in your state of mind you take it as a formal invitation for you to climb on top of him. Your palms shake against his chest, knees digging into the hard ground. Your damp, covered heat rocks against his cock, and he hisses at the feeling, intense and so forgotten it was nearly foreign to him. His hands soothe up your back, and you whimper. He coos; your pouty lips endearing to him. “What is it, my pet?”

“Aches–” you shudder, his attention turned to your breasts, each hand closing around the perky mounds, fingers brushing against your sensitive nipples.

“What aches, dear girl?” He asks, rubbing his thumbs over them. You stare down at him with lowered brows, making him click his tongue. “So dumb.” He chuckles, “You long for me this much?”

He guides your back against the ground, switching your positions. He tugs your underwear down your legs, patiently this time, inhaling your scent like a drug, consuming your desperation like it was his lifeline.

Because the more emotions you fed him, the longer he was able to roam this earth.

He ruts his hardness against your slick, and he growls because your pussy is so soaked, reminiscent of a place where he belonged, which has him longing for more of it—submersion. He laughs against your neck, prodding it at your entrance messily, his eagerness evident in his hurried movements. He pushes into you, wincing at tightness of your walls, his teeth baring to drag lightly against your throat. Your jaw falls slack, fingers digging into his hard biceps that tense when you clench around his thickness. “M-my God…” You keen, baring more of your throat for him to lick and suck upon, his slow thrusts are agonising but the indulging your fluttering hole that takes him like you were made for him. “Oh my God!”

He feeds off your praise, an expression of pleasure or not. Perhaps he was a God; God of the waters, with power to control the minds of unsuspecting victims. The thrill of the hunt, to kill— to fuck. Jungkook was a God in his own rite: a seeker of feelings, who stole the light from the eyes of those full of life in turn for power and strength.

He had not a benevolent bone in his body.

The wet sounds of him pulling in and out of you leaves him ravenous, picking up his pace, hardening the force of his hips. You arch up to meet his thrusts, frantic to feel more of him. Your stickiness drips all over your thighs, it transfers onto his thighs, relishing at the liquids you cover him in. He pushes your legs back, hands beneath your knees, head falling with eyes screwed shut in concentration. His resolve falters when you squeeze yourself around him, cry out for him to fuck you harder, faster, beg him to give you more when he was giving you all he had.

“Humans are so fucking selfish, fuck.” He seethes, “Be quiet.” He huffs, slowing his hips, kissing you harshly, his tongue wrestling yours, pushing down on it in hopes to silence your noise. A hand slides up your body, squeezing at your breast, until he reaches your throat, and tightens his fingers so much you so that you have to fight for a breath. He pistons into you quickly, growling and grunting as he uses your cunt how he pleases. He can’t think, he moans loudly against your mouth when he can feel it rising within him. Then it snaps.

He cums harshly into your cunt, and you cry out, sobbing when he pulls his mouth off yours. Your cries are caught in his grasp, coming out in small squeaks as you stare up at him with damp eyes, glistening with a worship that sates him nicely. Your legs ache, but he pushes down on your thighs as he empties himself inside you, twitching and throbbing against your walls so harshly it makes you cum soon after. His weight falls against you, and you wheeze. Not from the sheer mass of him, but because you feel sucked dry. “My god…” You whine tiredly.

He hums in approval, resting against you, listening to slow of your heartbeat. It’s beautiful, he thinks, a welcomed rhythm to his greedy ears. Your eyes are closed, pacified in the sleep that weighs on you after being used. He looks at your face just for a moment longer, fingers tracing your soft features, humming a haunting melody as you rest beneath him. When he’s satisfied, sated in his endeavours. He lifts himself off your limp body, your chest rising and falling so peacefully. It’s a pretty sight; he admits it to be.

Quietly, he sits himself down at the water’s edge, looking over his shoulder at you as he falls back into his, patiently awaiting his return.

The night is quiet, no chirping of the crickets, no hooting of the howls, no breeze that howls. The water is the only thing that remains alive, its’ soft babbling and your quiet breaths melding into one amidst the silence of the night. The harmony of the moment is disturbed, a hand grasping at your ankle, dragging you under.

The night breathes on without you.

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fan fiction #jigglyjeon #jungkook imagine #jungkook fic

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