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anantaru · 1 month ago

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your first time with him — love and deepspace

synopsis. taking your virginity

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

warnings. fem! reader, taking your v-card, reader is a virgin, dirty talk

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne

zayne was anxious, very much so, trembling with his excitement as his forehead presses to your throat, his breath shaky with how hard he's trying to hold himself together, "are you sure?" he whispers at first, even though his hands were already gripping against your hips, like your yes would be the only thing that ever mattered.

and when you gave it to him, a silken sweet, real, response, he exhales like he's on the brink of dying, like you're honestly saving him with your answer.

"you don't get to take this back," he utters within a hoarse tone, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear ever so softly, "you give it to me, you chose me."

he says it like it's something sacred, like he's owed the softness between your legs, the stutter of your breath, the shiver of your thighs clamped around his hips, all in all with his hands slowly spreading you open, bare and exposed beneath him, untouched, and the glimmer in his eyes was honestly luscious, like zayne wanted to burn this moment into you until it scarred.

and then, well, he pushes in as your back arches immediately, the stretch resembling fire— like your body was folding in on itself trying to take him fully.

you cry out without meaning to, your voice cracking, the pain sharp and intimate and new, fuck, you've never felt anything like it. something so thick and overwhelming was repeatedly pushing through you, the friction of him splitting you open— muscle dragging against muscle, tight and wet and far too much.

"fuck, listen to that," he snarls against you with gritted teeth as his hips inch forward again, the sound of him sinking into you beginning to be loud and soaked, not to mention raw as your pussy clenches hard and somewhat instinctive.

zayne groans the moment he feels your body accepting him— he was, in fact, utterly gone by this point, finding himself in heaven in the way you whined for him.

your pussy clung to his length as his hand clumsily fumbles at your hip, trying to slow himself down, trying not to break you, fuck, but his rhythm falters and his mouth finds your throat instead— hot and open kisses battering all over your flesh with teeth scraping just to feel you twitch again.

your legs were out of control, thighs shaking around his waist as you didn't know it would feel like this— like you're being hollowed out from the inside, like there's no room and no air, nothing, no way to separate the ache from the pleasure that's already bleeding in at the edges.

you can feel him for real this time— hot and thick and twitching inside you, truly, feel every vein, every slow drag of his cock pressing against that too sensitive place that made your toes curl, such place you didn't know existed in the first place.

after a while, you adjust a little and get used to the new feeling as he's trying to go deeper, over calculating on how much your virgin cunt could take as you suck in a ragged breath and sob out something broken yet sweet, your fingernails digging into his back and still, zayne never stops memorizing your reactions.

his pelvis presses flush to yours as you cry out again, your stomach tight with unbearable pressure as a dull pulse starts to throb low and hard into your tightness with your nerves fried and limbs shaking.

the pain and heat on your split cunt blurs at the edges and gradually develops into pleasure, everything reduced to the feeling of being full and completely owned as you find solace in the new sensation making you addicted to his touch.

"i told you," he breathes out, his voice tight like he's holding his heart in his teeth, "this isn't just sweet, yeah? it's not just soft, this is real, love, this is you giving yourself to me, and sweetheart, i'm not letting go."

ever so, zayne was careful even now, even with how fast he was going, how ruined you felt around him because, well, he's a doctor, wasn't he? he's spent his whole life learning how to fix what's broken, yet with you, all he wanted to do was feel you, let the control slip just for once, let this moment etch itself into your bones.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier

xavier watches you fall apart like he's taking notes— yet he wasn't frantic, he was patient and methodical, a hunter who's already mapped your collapse long before the first touch as with each squeeze and kiss, he shows you that it wasn't curiosity calling him— it's certainty that he wanted this to be with you. forever.

he's towering over you, his breath caught somewhere between awe and hunger, "you're really giving this to me?" he whispers, almost in disbelief, drowning in the moment with his speech being the only thing keeping him afloat, "i'm so lucky,"

his fingers flex tight against the inside of your thighs with his nails biting in, holding you open like a wound as the warmth of his palms burn through your skin.

you feel him there, right here yeah? feel it everywhere.

his cock splits you slow and brutally, the stretch pulling a sob from your chest as your lungs felt too small to bear it and your ribcage too tight to hold it down, your whole body resisting and yearning in the same breath. although he moves deeper, dragging thick through you and you swear you could feel the shape of him break you, feeling it in every vein and every twitch moving forward, every grind of bone and flesh into your virgin cunt being taken so well.

"see?" xavier breathes, frayed with hunger, "you're taking me, even when you said you couldn't."

but it aches— fuck, it aches, you cannot stop moaning, every press of him grinding up against something electric inside of your cunt making your back arch, your fingers clawing at the sheets.

it's slick too, soaking wet and overwhelming— your thighs all sticky with slick and arousal as his hips slam wet and fast into yours with a rhythm that felt like pain turned to pleasure.

your nerves were on fire and everything from the inside out of your body pulses with your belly drawn taut, consistingly multiplying in pressure as his cock fucks into you drastically, your head empty except for the maddening throbs his erection put inside you. at this point, your voice had become a mess of moans and pleas as all you could hear were grunts and hisses intertwining with your very own noises.

xavier felt just so good— he's out of this world and treating you so well, reaching places you never thought were able to be reached in the first place as he grew quite confident in his movements.

whenever he brushed his cock against your walls, you could feel your high approaching with every new snap of his hips, the position he had you in allowing the tip of his cock to reach deep enough for you to properly get used to it.

sweat clings between your bodies and turns you into one, your skin burning and flushed as the air was thick with pheromones and whines and the soft, saccharine coated sounds of him driving into you over and over and over again.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel

you cannot speak and it's futile to even try.

instead, your lips were parted, with breath stuck somewhere between a gasp and a sob as your chest rose with shallow, shuddering motion when rafayel slides his cock inside for the very first time— slow, of course, with his mouth at your ear, "relax," he whispers as his tip bumps upwards, sloppily thrusting into your folds, "you gotta let me in."

your muscles resist although at last, they seize around the stretch with the burn being intoxicating. you're a little anxious about it and he notices by how hard your nails clawed at his biceps— stabilizing yourself to anything while he adjusted himself, inch by inch making you take more of his cock into the small, untouched part of you.

such place no one else has ever felt, and fuck, rafayel's mouth waters at the thought, and well— he admires you, drinks in your struggles to take him as his breath comes sharp through his nose, although his hands remained steady.

one wraps around the base of your spine, the other cradles your jaw as he keeps your head turned just enough for him to study every flicker of pain that crosses your face, "you feel that?" he asks, voice a little raspy, "that's the shape of me, don't resist it,"

you whimper, your thighs slick with sweat and the mess of him spreading slow inside you and ugh, the pain, without rafayel being so considerate and talking you through the entire process, you wouldn't be able to handle it— it's so sharp and gnawing and too much, it brings you to tears, the unrelenting force of him coiling somewhere deep inside your gut, becoming unbearable.

how flustered you have gotten considering he wasn't even all the way in yet, yet you already felt like you're being broken in half.

with that, rafayel laughs when your hips involuntarily twitch, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand and murmuring so softly it vibrates through you, "you're doing so well for me, sweetheart, so brave, letting me be your first."

his lips trail down your throat as he groans when you shiver around him, every inch dragging liquid fire through the both of you, "you feel that? how warm you are? how soft you are around me? like you were made for this— for me."

your shy gaze averts from his heavy one as he found it so unbelievably cute and amusing that you still managed to feel embarrassed even after taking his cock so perfectly with your cunt by now.

rafayel pauses his hips for a bit, his forehead sensually pressed to yours, "you're not hurting, are you? I can stop— i'd rather die than hurt you," if only he knew you thought if only he could go faster now.

fuck, your head falls back when you urge him to continue moving, his hand dancing over your stomach as he abruptly presses down— always gently, just enough for you to feel him moving deeper inside within an invading force.

"you like that? you want me to do it again?" he smirks, "you're so tight, don't even know how to take it myself, but fuck, i'll teach you, i'll teach you until your body only knows me."

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus

you taste like need when sylus kissed you with your lips swollen, breath catching and the edge of panic sweetened on your tongue as his fingers trail down teasingly, forever feather light when your entire body tenses under the rub of skin on skin.

he treasures the lust in your limbs and the sheen of tears catching light in your lashes as his hands remain careful, but not hesitant, no, sylus was never hesitant.

he's memorizing every inch of you with that predator's patience— every hitch in your breath, every place that made your spine arch and your thighs twitch and now he's touching you like he's memorized the blueprints of your body.

sylus grinds into you with utter patience as he pushes through your sensitive hole, inserting just the head of course, just enough to make you feel the impossible stretch of him as your body betrays you.

a sound escapes and scratches your throat, truly, it was unrecognizable when you moaned his name for the first time, as if your soul had tried to flee through you and kiss his lips.

"you're shaking," his voice was velvet, stretched thin and vibrating desperately, surely about to snap, "do you want me to stop?" a pause lingers between your lips as his hand finds yours, "tell me, and I will, but if you want this, if you want me, i'll be so gentle with you."

sylus cannot take his eyes of you, he's breathless, as if that noise were a sacred thing, a proof of something irreversible— that your body was already surrendering before you'd fully let him in. the man believed you're out of this world, wanting you to feel everything— the swollen stretch of his length, the heat his body permeated, the hefty pressure of being entered this way, inch by inch around something so intimate.

"shh, i know," each of his words dragging deeper as his eyes lock on your face like it's a mirror to his own hunger, "you feel like silk, you feel like you're fighting it."

you are, yes, you're drowning in it.

his cock sinks deeper and the burn starts to slowly blur away, sensation blooming in sickening waves, pain and pleasure curling tight in your belly until you didn't know where one ends and the other begins. the sound of your body taking him was ringing through you and when his hips finally meet yours, you felt split, your thighs immediately jerking up, your stomach knotting as you make another desperate noise, both moaning into the kiss, exchanging your breaths as the feeling of him stretching you was to die for.

sylus doesn't move a lot in the beginning, just a few pumps ever so often to find out what you liked, although staying buried to the hilt, watching the flicker of your lashes and the way your mouth trembles open like you want to say something but cannot remember how to speak.

his pace was slow but steady, every grind of his hips forcing a soft, wet sound from between your legs as his hair brushes your cheek within each thrust, his warm breath prancing over your neck— yet when you finally start to unravel, when the pressure cracks you open and your breath breaks in a thousand shards, sylus seeks for your lips as you moan into them, a sound of you falling apart being the only thing holding him together.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb

you're underneath caleb, your heart pounding with a noise that didn't belong to your body, although not from fear, not entirely, it's due to him, yes— his darling face and angelic voice, murmuring your name like he's never supposed to say anything else.

caleb cups your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your cheek lovingly, your skin already burning from the softness of his hands as your thighs were slightly twinging from the way they've stayed open, aching in the weight of him.

"you're sure, really?" he asks again like he doesn't believe it.

but you nod at him and it kills him, choking up on the storm of sensation as the man moves closer when you take in his scent, the air permeating of pine and sweat and warmth, the dampness of your skin pressed against each other as the weight of his cock repeatedly nudging against your entrance was something fated, something unstoppable.

he kisses you deeply, tongue slow and ravishing your lips, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth before he captures you further, your body flinches when he takes you at last, choking on the sheer breadth of it.

the stretch was cutting, your body clamping down on instinct and body saving energy due to turning overwhelmed and confused.

yes, it was painful, you cannot lie to yourself, and slightly dizzying too, like something too large being forced into a space that's never known intrusion.

caleb's hands were everywhere, one holding your thighs wide open, the other gripping your hand tightly and grounding you as he presses his forehead to yours, his breath stuttering against your lips, "breathe," he whispers, voice slightly cracking when you tense down on his length, "breathe for me, i've got you."

he's barely halfway in, and you can already feel it— stretching deep, dragging against your nerves that have never been touched before, quite literally stealing the air from your lungs.

not to mention that he was big, well, you could've guessed that yet despite that, your body kept pulling him in instinctively, not wanting him to leave anymore.

caleb gasps, "you're so tight, fuck, i can feel you shaking," you were, in fact, your whole body was shaking, belly fluttering with pressure and pain and something else— something lusting and awfully blooming low inside your belly, tight and insistent as he shifts his hips forward, just a little more, and it feels like you're being split.

his cock continues to move, dragging every wet inch against your walls as your muscles squeeze him, your eyes glimmering from how good you were being fucked as you instantly open more for him, trying to accommodate him as good as possible.

"you're doing so good," he breathes, "so perfect, you don't know what you're doing to me," as tears prick your eyes when he kisses them ever so gently, even as he keeps sinking in he whispers your name again, like he's swearing an oath.

truly, he's everywhere, moaning shamelessly like your body was the only thing that's ever mattered to him, inhaling your maddening scent sharply as he kept rutting inside of you.

"i can't believe this is real," he cries out with his mouth against your temple and his hips rocking in and out, the friction too much as you're still too sensitive when dig your nails into his back to sob into his neck.

you're crying, you don't even know why, maybe it's the pain, maybe the stretch, maybe the way he kept whispering your name like it's the only thing he's ever wanted to say. with that, you clutch to him tighter, needing him closer, needing him deeper, and caleb gave it to you instantly, everything you desired— every inch, every rock of hips, every broken word of promises.

"you'll never need anyone else," he speaks as if the air itself was fragile, every word cutting deeper as he places a couple kisses on your cheek before smiling into the skin, "i'm going to keep you like this forever."

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goofygubegubler · 3 months ago

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𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒏𝒆?

Inexperienced doesn’t mean incapable—especially when you’re bent over and begging him to go deeper.

wc: 2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex, mild dominance/submission dynamics, inexperienced but eager Spencer, praise kink, slight hair pulling, deep penetration, overstimulation, mild dirty talk

A/N: I’m obsessed with the big useless dick trope from @esote-rika, so here’s my take—featuring a big, useless dick and a loving, overthinking, but oh-so-giving doctor. (not proof read)

Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.

You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.

And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.

"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.

"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.

His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.

But not tonight.

You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."

His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.

He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."

"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."

"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."

His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.

"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."

You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.

Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.

The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”

A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”

You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”

A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.

“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.

That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.

“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.

“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.

“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.

“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.

Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.

“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.

The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.

Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."

You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."

Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."

He grinned against your skin, pressing another indulgent kiss to your jaw. "What can I say? The data was conclusive."

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laceyfaeryy · 1 month ago

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MDNI 18+

“i hate you” reader x “you don’t feel like you do” simon riley

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ hate sex with simon riley, where your words don’t seem to match your body’s reaction

cw: vaginal sex, degradation, asshole! simon

simon was a cocky man, especially when he managed to turn you into a moaning mess.

“knew sum dick would jus’ turn yer lil attitude around.”

his ego swelled as a moan left your swollen lips, tears streaming down your face as your nails dug into his back, marking it.

“this doesn’t change anything, you’re still an asshole,” your breaths coming out in short and ragged pants as you tried to catch your breath.

simon felt his cock chub at your attitude.

“keep tellin’ y’self that birdie, but yer lil cunnie is sayin’ quite the opposite.”

your attitude filled his desire to wreck you even more, to destroy the pretty little ego of yours.

his cock plunged deep, each thrust hard and calculated as your gummy walls clenched around him, stretched out obscenely like it could barely take him.

“she’s a desperate one i tell ya.”

despite the copious amounts of time you spent telling him to go “fuck himself”, you seemed to enjoy helping him out.

“for a girl sayin’ how much she hates me, yer cunt seems to be a gushing mess.”

his thumb would rub your sensitive clit, abusing the nerve as he watched you whine and shake under him, completely at his mercy.

god he was having fun.

throughout the night he spent his time torturing you, slowly exploring every inch of your body as he found new ways to make you scream.

another finger shoved up your cunt making the stretch burn slightly whilst he spat in your mouth, cleansing it from all the filth you spat onto him.

his large tatted hand wrapped around your throat squeezing the sides gently, whilst the other hand was wrapped around your sides, pulling you flush against him as he thrusted deep inside you.

“after this yer gonna come begging for more, gonna ruin every man for you.”

watching you come on his cock was pure bless, the usual sharp remarks that came from your mouth gone as you moaned loudly, your throat sore from the screaming.

he never thought that the girl who was always talking about what an asshole he was, would also be the girl whose cunt was milking him dry.

“this lil cunnie knows where home is yeah?”

tag list:

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oozedninjas · 11 months ago

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Fucking after they thought they lost you.

WARNINGS: NSFW | 18+ | thirtysomething ninja turtles | Drama? |

Leo holds you so tight it hurts. His thrusts are slow and sensual, sweet. Needy in a way that makes your heart ache. It's all soft moans, ragged breaths, and soft kisses ghosting your neck. Don't ever scare him like that again. Don't freakin' dare to leave. You belong here, warm and safe under him.

Raph kisses you as his very life hangs on your breath. Relentlessly bucking his hips, making sure to reach every sweet spot inside that pretty cunt until you're begging him to let you come. He will, so fuking good you'll be a mess when he's done with you, But first, you have to promise never to be that reckless again.

Donatello: What are the odds of a human surviving that? Little to zero, according to his calculations. Yet, here you are. And he’s learned something valuable: his heart is no longer only an internal organ. It's right here, in every breath you take, in the softness of your skin, in the beautiful way you squirm as he keeps abusing your clit. Fuck, he's never going through this again. He'll do better at keeping you safe.

Mikey: The tip of his cock kisses the softest part inside you as he keeps your legs wide open, rubbing his lower half over your clit as he moves. It feels so fucking good you don't care if you're drooling. Mikey bites your shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses on the warmth of your walls sucking him deeper, needier—

"I'm close- "

"I know, I can feel it. Let go, angel— come for me,"

All the worries are drowned right there. You're here. You're his, you'll never be at such a risk again, it's a promise.

3K notes · View notes

pomegranatelifethis · 3 months ago

Text

Why doesn't anyone see me?

Warnings before you start There are disturbing elements, self-harm, eating disorders, and implicit mentions of harassment.

The grand hallways of Wayne Manor looked magnificent from the outside, but to you, they were nothing more than cold stone. You were sixteen, and in this house, in this family, you had always been just a shadow. The man you called your father — Bruce Wayne — had left you to drown in his darkness. The marks on your body, on your arms, back, legs... each was a silent scream. Each one reminded you how a world you once trusted had torn you apart. And the worst part? The one who did this wasn’t a stranger. It was someone who had existed in the background of your life, like a ghost.

You tried to speak up once. That night, you opened the door to his study. Bruce sat at his desk, surrounded by files and glowing monitors. His Batman suit hung in the corner — as if that costume was his real face.

“Dad,” you said, your voice trembling. “I need to talk.”

He looked up, his blue eyes tired, distant. “What is it?” he asked, but there was no real curiosity in his tone.

You took a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in your chest. “I... Something happened. A while ago. And it still…” The words got stuck in your throat. You didn’t want to show him the scars — but maybe, just maybe, he would understand. Maybe he’d see you.

But Bruce lowered his head back to his files. “Now’s not the time,” he said, voice flat. “A lot’s going on in the city. We’ll talk later.”

Later. Always later.

You closed the door behind you, and tears began to slide down your cheeks. Batman could save Gotham — but he didn’t even try to save you.

The next day, you turned to Jason. The rebel of the family, a soul forged in his own pain. Maybe he’d understand.

You found him in the garage, working on his motorcycle.

“Jason,” you said, stepping closer. “I need to ask you something.”

He looked at you, wiping his hands with a grease-stained rag. “What do you want, princess?” he said with a mocking lilt.

You swallowed hard, gathering your courage. “Something happened to me. Something bad. And no one’s listening. I have scars—here,” you said, pulling up your sleeve slightly to show a faded mark.

Jason fell silent for a moment — then laughed.

“Everyone’s got issues, little lady. Go outside, see what I’ve seen. Then come back and cry.”

His words hit like a blade.

“But this is serious!” you cried, your voice cracking.

“Serious?” he snapped, standing and getting close. “You mean your little princess trauma? Grow up.”

Under his sneer, you felt yourself shrink. He didn’t see you either. He left you, too.

You decided to try Damian. Despite his young age, he had a sharp mind. Maybe he had noticed something.

You found him in the training room, practicing with a sword.

“Damian,” you said from the doorway. “Do you have a minute?”

He turned to you, green eyes cold and calculating.

“What do you want?” he asked, stabbing the blade into the floor.

“I… Something happened to me. And it’s hard to carry,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

He frowned, then smirked. “You’re weak,” he said, flatly.

“What?” was all you could manage.

“If you can’t carry it, then you don’t belong in this family. I know pain — but all you do is complain.”

His words were poison. His scorn felt worse than Jason’s mockery. Because Damian saw you as a burden. And in that moment, you felt the final thread tying you to this family snap.

You found Tim in the library, headphones in, eyes on his laptop.

“Tim,” you said, sitting beside him.

He pulled out one earbud. “Yeah?” he replied, eyes still on the screen.

“I need to ask you something. It’s important.”

“One sec, let me finish this line of code,” he mumbled.

Minutes passed. You sat there, waiting.

Eventually, he said, “Just tell me later,” and put his headphones back in.

He hadn’t even heard you.

Dick seemed different — or so you thought.

You found him in the lounge, laughing, mid-conversation.

“Dick, can we talk?” you asked, voice faint.

He turned to you with his bright smile. “Of course, little one! What’s up?”

But before you could say more than “I…” his phone rang.

“Hold that thought — I gotta take this,” he said, walking away.

He never came back.

That night, in your room, you stood before the mirror. You looked at the scars — each one a story no one wanted to hear. Tears wouldn’t stop. This house, this family, was a prison. Bruce didn’t see you. Jason mocked you. Damian belittled you. Tim and Dick didn’t even notice you were there. You might have been Batman’s daughter, but in this place, you were nothing.

You walked to the window and looked out at the lights of Gotham. Maybe it was time to leave. Maybe you couldn’t escape your family, but you could escape this silence. You packed a small bag — a hoodie, some money, a long-sleeve shirt to cover the marks. At the door, you paused. Maybe someone would notice. Maybe someone would stop you.

But the hallway was quiet. No one came.

As you stepped into the street, the cold air slapped your face. Were you free? Or just stepping into a different kind of shadow? You didn’t know. But at least now… now, you were trying to find your own voice.

Gotham’s streets swallowed you whole. You had escaped Wayne Manor, but the darkness inside you came along for the ride. What you thought was freedom was just another kind of prison — this time, one built within your own mind. With your bag slung over your shoulder, you walked under the flickering streetlights. The cold concrete beneath your feet was a warning: No one here is coming to save you. But you weren’t expecting to be saved anyway. Your family had never seen you; maybe you really were invisible.

Days passed. You holed up in a cheap motel, using the credit card your father once gave you. You knew the money would run out — but you didn’t care. Under the dim lights of the room, you stared into the mirror. The scars were still there — on your arms, your back, your legs. Each one whispered that you were something filthy, something ruined. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms.

“Why me?” you murmured.

No answer.

The reflection staring back filled you with disgust. This body, these scars… it was all your fault, wasn’t it? If you had been stronger, if you had spoken louder, maybe your family would have heard you. But you hadn’t. You were weak. Damian was right.

---________________________________________---

Days blurred into weeks. Gotham’s gray sky felt like a mirror to your soul. In the motel’s small bathroom, you sat with a cheap razor in your hand. You stared at your scars… and added new ones. Thin lines of blood appeared — but they didn’t bring relief. Pain couldn’t fill the emptiness. Every cut echoed the rejection you’d endured. Bruce’s cold “Not now.” Jason’s mocking laugh. Damian’s “You’re weak.” Tim and Dick’s silence. It all etched itself into your skin.

Every time you looked in the mirror, the hate grew.

“This is my fault,” you whispered.

Your eyes were swollen. Hair tangled. You’d stopped eating — your stomach turned at the thought of food. Sleep brought nightmares. Again and again, you relived the trauma — shadows, hands, the silence of your unheard screams.

When you woke, clutching your pillow, all you felt was emptiness.

Your family hadn’t called. Maybe they didn’t notice. Maybe they didn’t care.

Batman saved Gotham.

But not his own daughter.

Depression wrapped itself around you like a blanket — cold and heavy. Hurting yourself became a routine. Your arms were covered in cuts, but even that wasn’t enough.

“I’m worthless,” you said one night, your voice breaking.

“No one wants me. Not even me.”

You punched the mirror. Glass cracked. Your knuckles bled.

Still, you felt nothing.

Then, one day, everything stopped.

You lay on the stained motel bed, razor in hand again. Sirens wailed outside, but your world was quiet. You looked at your scars one last time.

“It’s over,” you said.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Tears slid down your cheeks as you thought of your family — Bruce buried in files, Jason fixing his bike, Damian swinging a sword, Tim staring into his screen, Dick laughing…

None of them had seen you.

None of them had heard you.

This time, you used the blade one last time.

There would be no coming back.

The blood soaked the sheets — slow and silent.

You stared at the ceiling. Through the window, Gotham’s gray sky watched over you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure to whom.

Your breathing slowed.

Darkness closed in.

The sirens faded.

Bruce Wayne’s daughter vanished into the shadows.

---________________________________________---

The next day, the motel worker knocked, but there was no answer.

They opened the door — and found you.

The police report was brief:

“Female, aged …, suicide.”

When the call reached Wayne Manor, Bruce finally put his files down.

Jason went quiet.

Damian dropped his sword.

Tim turned off his screen.

Dick’s smile faded.

But it was too late.

They hadn’t seen you.

They hadn’t heard you.

And now… they never would.

---________________________________________---

1K notes · View notes

buckysleftbicep · 6 days ago

Text

under wraps 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, semi-public sex (garage, gym), voyeurism, oral sex (f and m rec), sneaking around

summary: you and bucky have kept things secret for months, stolen glances, quiet hookups around the compound and well, the team finally catches on.

word count: 3.6k

author's note: hi loves, its been a rough day today, so this is my second fic of the day, enjoy and stay safe out there 💖

You and Bucky had been sneaking around for months.

It started with a single night after a mission went sideways, just stress relief, you both told yourselves. A moment of weakness. Something physical to numb the adrenaline.

But then it happened again. And again. A look across the room. A brush of fingers during training. Then his mouth on you in the backseat of a black ops van while the rest of the team slept in their rooms, completely oblivious.

You never talked about what it meant. Never said the word relationship. But it felt like something dangerous. Something intimate. Something that belonged to just the two of you.

So you kept it quiet.

No one on the team knew. Not Ava, with her instincts and uncanny ability to read a room. Not Yelena, whose smirks were always a little too knowing. And definitely not John, who would run his damn mouth about “inappropriate fraternisation” and threaten to report you both to Val like he was the damn school hall monitor.

So you lied. You snuck around. You hid the bruises Bucky left on your thighs like they were some damn state secrets.

Which is why you should’ve said no when he cornered you in the gym that evening, when everyone had supposedly cleared out, when your legs were still sore from the mission, and when Bucky looked at you like he was one second away from taking you against the nearest surface.

And then he did.

“You sure they’re gone?” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the low hum of fluorescent lights.

His lips twitched with that crooked little smirk of his, the one that always meant trouble. “If they’re not,” he murmured, already stepping in close, “they’re about to get one hell of a show.”

You barely had time to laugh before it turned into a gasp. He dropped to his knees behind you, hands tugging your leggings and underwear down in one fluid, practiced motion.

The rush of cold air made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth, hot, slow, hungry, licking through your folds like you were the first drop of water after a month in the desert.

“Fuck, Buck—” you whimpered, already falling apart at the first swipe of his tongue.

“Shh.” His breath ghosted against your soaked skin, his voice laced with lust and control. “Be good for me, princess. Let me taste you.”

Your fingers curled tight around the bench, knuckles white as he dragged his tongue up your center again. His grip on you was firm and commanding, one hand on your thigh, the other spreading you open with deliberate care, like he was savouring every second of the view. And in that moment, he owned you. Completely.

You were already drenched, trembling, your thighs tense and threatening to give out. He licked with slow, torturous strokes, groaning into your cunt like your taste was something divine. His mouth moved with the kind of precision only he could master, calculated, focused and relentless.

“You’re always so sweet like this,” he murmured against you, tongue flicking your clit before wrapping around it. “Bet you were wet the second I looked at you.”

You whimpered, voice cracking, hips rocking into his face without your permission.

“God, Bucky—please—”

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

His voice was ragged, thick with lust and control, like he was balancing on the edge of restraint just to hear you beg.

“Your mouth,” you gasped. “Don’t stop, just—fuck—”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, before sucking your clit hard enough to make your knees buckle. His metal hand slid up your belly, pressing you down against the bench to hold you still, to keep you steady as he licked you with single-minded focus.

You couldn't stop the way your hips rocked into his face, couldn't silence the moans tearing out of your throat no matter how hard you tried to muffle them. He knew your body well, too well, when to suck harder, when to flick faster, when to groan just loud enough to send vibrations through your cunt.

You were spiraling, right there on the edge. Every muscle in your body coiled and tight.

And then, you came.

It hit you hard.

Your thighs shook, vision blurring as your body convulsed against his face. But Bucky didn’t stop, he kept licking you through it, soft and slow now, gentle in the aftermath, savouring every twitch and gasp and tremor like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

You were still gasping for breath, legs quivering, when it happened.

The door creaked open.

“Hey, forgot my water—”

You froze. Bucky froze. And standing in the doorway was Walker.

He stopped mid-step, blinking, expression blank as he took in the scene. Your leggings were up your thighs, barely covering the mess you and Bucky just made. Your hair was a mess, and your face was burning.

The brunette was already on his feet, back turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.

Too casual. Way too casual.

Like his lips weren’t shiny with your slick.

“Uh…” John squinted, his eyes darting between the two of you. “Everything okay in here?”

You cleared your throat, voice embarrassingly high. “Yep. All good. Just… stretching.”

John’s gaze lingered far too long. His brow furrowed, shifting from your flushed cheeks to Bucky’s relaxed posture like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t want to solve.

“Uh-huh.”

The silence dragged out, thick and unbearable.

You didn’t dare look at Bucky, and hell, you didn’t dare look at John.

He took a slow step backward, picking up his water bottle from the bench. “Well, I’ll just… grab this and go.”

He backed out of the gym slowly, footsteps echoing down the hallway. And then, he paused in the doorway, turned halfway back.

“You should maybe, uh…” His hand gestured vaguely toward your legs. “Cool down. You’re looking kind of red.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

A beat of silence. And then Bucky snorted—quiet and smug.

“Think he bought it?”

You turned to glare at him, still breathless, body humming with leftover aftershocks. “Your mouth was glossy, Bucky. Glossy.”

He wiped it again with the corner of his shirt and smirked. “He didn’t see anything.”

“He definitely suspects something.”

“Let him.” He came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, lips brushing your jaw with infuriating calm. “Maybe next time, we leave the door open and really give him something to wonder about.”

You smacked his chest, half-laughing, half-mortified. But your heart was still hammering.

Because John might not have caught you red-handed.

But your face? It was definitely red enough to raise hell.

The base’s garage was always dead quiet in the morning.

Most of the team avoided it unless something needed patching up, something loud, mechanical, oily. The kind of thing that left your hands blackened and your patience frayed.

Not Bucky. He liked the silence. The hum of fluorescent lights, the scent of metal and grease, the scratch of a socket wrench against steel. Said it helped him think.

Said it helped him feel.

You’d come looking for him because he hadn’t answered your text. Just a vague “in the garage” sent an hour ago at nine. And you knew what that meant, shirt damp with sweat, sleeves clinging to his biceps, forehead smudged with oil, fingers blackened from handling tools. irresistible

You should’ve turned around the second you saw him on his back under one of the team’s tactical SUVs, his arms flexing as he reached up to tighten something with a ratchet, the edge of his shirt riding up to reveal the sharp curve of his hipbone.

But you didn’t. You were already dropping to your knees beside the car, smirking.

“You just gonna lay there looking good or are you gonna say hi to your girlfriend?” you teased.

He shifted slightly under the car, wrench clanking to the ground. “You calling yourself my girlfriend now?”

“Would you rather I said secret hookup partner with benefits?”

He groaned, head tipping back briefly. “Jesus.”

You ducked under the vehicle, sliding into the narrow space with him. And then your hand was on his zipper.

He barely had time to breathe. “Fuck—here?”

You looked up at him, eyes dark, fingers already pulling him out. “Unless you want me to stop.”

The response was instant: a sharp inhale, jaw clenched, hips twitching into your hand. “Not unless you plan to kill me, sweetheart.”

You took him into your mouth in one slow, filthy stroke. Bucky’s head thunked against the cold concrete floor.

His reaction was immediate—one hand shooting up to brace against the underside of the SUV, the other curling tightly in your hair as his cock hit the back of your throat.

“God—your fucking mouth,” he hissed. “Every goddamn time.”

You hummed around him, slowly bobbing your head, letting your spit coat every inch as you worked him with your tongue. His hips jerked reflexively, and you pressed a hand to his stomach, keeping him grounded.

“Easy,” you whispered against his tip, voice thick with teasing. “You’ll draw attention.”

His eyes flashed. “You are the attention.”

You smiled, then sucked him in deep. He nearly choked.

The slick, obscene sounds of your mouth on him echoed through the garage, mixing with his ragged breathing and your muffled moans. You could feel him straining to stay still, muscles tense, thighs trembling, his metal hand clenching into a tight fist above you.

“You love this, don’t you?” he muttered, voice raw. “You love making me lose control.”

You didn’t answer. You just took him deeper, gagging slightly as you let him slide fully into your throat, holding yourself there until your eyes watered. You felt his entire body stutter.

“Fuckk, baby”

He came fast and hard, biting down on his glove to muffle the growl that ripped from his chest. You swallowed it all, messy, and needy, gasping for breath as you licked him clean, eyes fluttering shut at the taste of him.

But then—

Voices. Footsteps. Close. Too close.

You froze.

“I swear Walker left it down here,” Ava’s voice rang through the garage, sharp and echoing. “He said toolbox by the west end.”

You barely had time to react before Bucky pulled you back—both of you scrambling to your feet and slipping behind the SUV. He pressed you flush against the cold metal, his body caging yours in. One hand over your mouth and the other gripping your waist tightly.

His chest heaved against your back, breath hot and erratic.

You couldn’t see them, but you could hear them—boots clanking against the floor, the squeak of Ava’s glove on a handle, the soft clatter of tools being shifted.

“This place is a maze,” Bob muttered. “He probably meant the other west.”

“That’s not how directions work, Bob.”

You nearly choked on a laugh, only for Bucky’s hand to press more firmly over your mouth. His head tilted, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re gonna get us killed,” he whispered, voice thick with post-orgasm haze.

“You looked too good,” you tried to say through his palm, but it came out muffled and unintelligible.

The footsteps grew fainter, going further away, until finally, a door creaked open and slammed shut behind them.

Silence.

You exhaled hard as Bucky slowly lowered his hand. He glanced down at you, still panting, eyes flickering over your swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

“You swallow every drop?” he asked, smug.

You rolled your eyes, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Obviously.”

He leaned in, brushing his mouth against yours. “That’s my girl.”

You shoved him lightly in the chest. “Don’t say that with your dick still hanging out.”

He laughed, quiet and breathless. Then tucked himself back in and kissed you again. Slower this time. Sweeter.

“You’re seriously going to be the death of me,” he whispered.

You smirked. “Guess you’ll die happy.”

Movie nights at the compound were sacred.

Ava always brought the best snacks, Alexei yelled at the screen no matter what was playing, and Bob somehow managed to fall asleep sitting up within the first twenty minutes. Yelena ran commentary and John insisted on keeping score of every plot hole. It was chaos. Loud. Familiar. Weirdly comforting.

You were tucked into one corner of the couch, legs curled beneath you, pretending to watch the movie while Bucky sat across the room, pretending not to look at you.

Except you could feel him.

That slow burning stare. The twitch of his jaw every time you shifted. The way his thigh bounced just slightly, like his patience was fraying by the second. You had both kept it together since the garage yesterday, but just barely. His texts this morning had been pure filth. His voice in your ear during training had been worse.

And now? He was one more teasing look away from snapping.

So when the credits rolled and everyone groaned about bedtime, you waited. Fifteen excruciating minutes.

Long enough for Yelena to raid the fridge. Long enough for Bob to grumble something about brushing his teeth. Long enough to hear John shuffle off down the hall to his room.

And then you slipped out of the living room, your bare feet silent on the marbled tiles, heart hammering.

The hall was dim, quiet. The soft white glow of a single overhead light buzzed as you crept toward your room, every creak of the floor underfoot sounding too loud. You passed Alexei’s room—snoring. John’s door—closed and Ava’s light still on, faint music playing behind it.

You reached your room. And he was already inside.

Bucky leaned against your dresser, arms folded tight across his chest. His shirt clung to every line of muscle, veins prominent and dusted with smudges from earlier drills.

The soft amber light from your bedside lamp cast golden shadows across the sharp cut of his jaw and the slope of his shoulders, his expression was controlled, almost, but his eyes were nothing but.

They raked over you slowly. Deliberately. Like he was deciding exactly how fast he wanted to ruin you.

“Ten minutes late,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You trying to tease me, princess?”

You swallowed, shutting the door softly behind you. “Did it work?”

He pushed off the dresser in one smooth, deliberate motion. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He crossed the room slowly, stalking you like something feral. “After what you pulled in the garage yesterday princess,” His voice dropped, dark and hoarse. “I’ve been hard all fucking day.”

You shivered under the heat of him, your back brushing the closed door as he stopped in front of you, leaving only inches between you. His scent—sweat, leather, soap curled around you like smoke. Your pulse thundered.

He didn't touch you. Just leaned in close enough for his breath to graze your lips.

“Wanted to drag you onto the hood and fuck you right there,” he murmured. “Let them watch. Let them hear you scream for me.”

“Bucky—”

His hand came up, brushing your jaw, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “You know how crazy you make me?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

“Take your shirt off,” he ordered, eyes dropping to your chest.

You obeyed instantly, yanking your tank top over your head and tossing it aside. His fingers were already slipping under the waistband of your shorts, pushing them down with agonizing slowness.

“These too.”

They hit the floor with a soft rustle.

You reached for him—but he was already dropping to his knees.

“Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

You turned, bracing yourself on the cool paint, breath hitching as he spread you with both hands and leaned in to taste you. His mouth met your folds in one hot, deliberate stroke, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out.

“Been thinking about this,” he groaned, licking deeper. “The pretty sounds you make for me”

You whimpered, legs already trembling. His tongue was relentless, broad licks through your slit, tight circles around your clit, filthy groans vibrating against your core like he needed you to fall apart.

“Fuck, you’re soaking,” he muttered, mouth slick. “So sweet for me, baby.”

He buried his face between your thighs like a man starved, pulling you apart with his tongue until your knees started to give out. His metal arm wrapped around your thigh to hold you steady, fingers digging in, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Bucky, please—”

You could barely think. His tongue worked you closer, closer, until your stomach tightened and heat surged low in your belly.

And then he pulled back.

“Not yet,” he growled, standing behind you now. You gasped at the loss, legs shaking. His cock pressed hard and heavy against your ass through his sweatpants.

“Please,” you whispered, head falling forward.

“You want me inside you, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically.

“Say it.” “Please, Bucky, I need you—I need your cock, please—”

He didn’t make you wait another second.

He shoved his sweats down just enough, lined himself up, and sank into you in one smooth, hard thrust. You cried out, arching into him as his hand clamped over your mouth.

“Quiet, princess. You want them hearing what I do to you?”

Your moan vibrated against his palm.

He fucked you hard, relentless, his hips slamming into you, every thrust punching a moan from your chest. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the room, filthy and raw. His free hand slipped up to wrap around your throat, firm, possessive, just enough pressure to make your breath catch and your pulse stutter under his palm.

The stretch of him inside you was merciless—thick, deep, every inch dragging along your soaked walls in perfect rhythm. He didn’t let up, didn’t give you time to recover, just fucked into you like he was trying to carve himself into your body. Each stroke hit your sweet spot with ruthless precision, stealing the air from your lungs and replacing it with nothing but him.

“So fucking tight,” he panted into your ear. “God, I missed this.”

“Missed you,” you choked out.

“I know, baby. I know.” He groaned as you clenched around him. “That’s it. Take it. Let me feel you.”

The sounds were obscene, wet, frantic, every thrust echoing through the room. You were close again. So close.

“Always so fucking good for me,” he murmured, biting your shoulder. “You know you’re mine, don’t you?”

“Yes—fuck—yours—”

His hand slid down to your clit and rubbed tight, perfect circles. You shattered instantly.

Your orgasm ripped through you, blinding and hot, your legs trembling as you cried out into his palm. He didn’t stop. Just fucked you through it, chased his own release, his voice ragged and low.

“Where do you want it?” he gritted out.

“Inside,” you gasped. “Please…please inside—”

He came with a broken groan, hips jerking, his release spilling deep inside you as he buried his face in your neck, breath ragged.

Silence followed.

He didn’t move. Just stayed there, arms locked around your waist, breathing hard. The only sound was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then, gently, he pulled out, caught you when your knees gave. You sank onto the bed together in a tangled heap of sweat and breath and heat.

“You okay?” he asked softly, brushing his fingers along your cheek. You nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m so in love with you, it’s gonna kill me.”

He smiled, leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Same.”

You barely noticed him peeling your shorts back up, pulling the sheet over your legs as you curled into the pillow.

“Stay?” you mumbled.

He kicked off his sweats, tugged off his shirt, and slid in beside you. His arms wrapped around you tight.

Safe. Warm. Home.

And then—

The bedroom light flicked on.

“Okay, what the hell,” came Yelena’s voice, loud and smug.

You bolted upright, the sheet clutched to your chest. Bucky sat up beside you, half-naked, blinking like he had just woken from a coma.

Ava stood in the doorway with a bag of pretzels. Alexei looked disturbingly proud and Bob held up a ten-dollar bill. John just shook his head, arms crossed, smirk on his face.

“Knew it!” Ava grinned.

“You owe me,” Bob muttered to John.

“I told you they were fucking,” Yelena added.

“Come on,” Bucky grumbled, dragging the blanket up higher.

Alexei gave a nod of approval. “Barnes deserves good woman. Strong thighs. Good for warrior.”

You groaned. “How long have you guys—?”

“Since Romania,” Ava said dryly.

“We heard you in the van,” Yelena added. “That time you said her name and then moaned? Real subtle.”

“Also,” John said, “you came back once with your shirt inside out and lipstick on your neck. Not exactly covert.”

You turned to Bucky. “You had lipstick on your neck?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t notice.”

Alexei slapped his shoulder. “Atta boy.”

The team filed out, talking over each other.

“I said it weeks ago.” “You said they were secretly married, Bob.” “Still counts!”

Yelena was last. She paused in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

“Next time, try locking the door.”

You stared at Bucky. He stared at you.

“So,” you said eventually, voice flat. “That went well.”

He snorted. Then pulled you into his arms, his mouth brushing your ear.

“Guess we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because next time? You’re fucking me on top of the SUV.”

He groaned. “You’re a menace, you know that?"

You smiled into his chest. “I’ll make it worth your while.” And you would.

a/n: have the best day or night my loves 💓

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comicbooksaregood · 2 years ago

Text

Identity Crisis

Volume: 1

Issue: 7

Chapter Seven: The Hero's Life

Writers: Brad Meltzer

Pencils: Rags Morales

Inks: Michael Bair

Colours: Alex Sinclair

Covers: Michael Turner, Peter Steigerwald

3 notes · View notes

enhaflixer · 3 months ago

Text

bf!Enhypen x f!reader - the faces and sounds they make during sex + pt.2 of pornstar material!Sunghoon

ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI jungwons part has belly bulging so if ur not okay w that dont read it pls. and sunghoons part has filming. yk this ish is nasty so dont expect anyth else tbh

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

At first, Heeseung tries to keep himself together. Tries. His jaw is clenched, his brows furrowed, and his fingers dig bruises into your hips as if sheer force alone will keep him from falling apart too soon. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, sweat dampening his hair at the edges of his temples, and his teeth sink into his bottom lip, hard, trying to suppress the low, guttural groans that threaten to escape with every slow, deliberate roll of your hips.

But it’s pointless.

The moment you tighten around him, drag your nails down his chest, whisper filth into his ear, he’s done for. His entire body jerks beneath you, a broken gasp leaving his lips as his composure shatters in real time. His head falls back against the pillow, exposing the long line of his throat as his lips finally part, releasing the kind of deep, wrecked moanthat reverberates in his chest, sinful and raw.

“You like this, don’t you?” you murmur against his ear, voice thick with amusement. “Letting me ride you like this, letting me take whatever I want from you.” You bite down on his earlobe, tugging slightly, and his entire body shudders. His grip on your hips tightens reflexively, like he’s trying to take control again, but the moment you slam your hips down on him just right, his breath catches, and his jaw goes slack.

“Fuck—” His voice breaks, deep and rough, his brows furrowing tighter as he drowns in the feeling of you. His hands tremble against your skin, and when you lean in close, pressing your lips right against his ear, you feel the way he physically tenses beneath you, how his body twitches every time you whisper something filthier than the last.

“You hear that, baby?” you tease, rolling your hips in slow, calculated movements that have him gritting his teeth, groaning deep in his throat, every muscle in his body pulled taut. “That filthy sound you’re making? So desperate, so fucking wrecked. I love hearing you like this.”

His eyes squeeze shut, his forehead creasing, his breath coming out in shaky, uneven pants as his self-control slips through his fingers like sand. His lips part, forming your name in a choked, needy groan, his chest rising and falling erratically beneath you. He looks so fucking beautiful like this— strong arms tense, veins prominent, jaw slack, brows still pinched in pure, overwhelmed pleasure.

The closer he gets, the more helplessly filthy his expression becomes. His thighs tremble, his hands dig into your hips so tight you know you’ll feel it tomorrow, and his mouth hangs open completely, lips swollen and wet from all the times he’s bitten them raw. His breath comes in ragged, wrecked gasps, and every time you drop down onto him, every time your walls squeeze and flutter around him, his moans turn low, deep, nearly feral.

“F-fuck—baby, I’m—” His voice catches, the deepest, filthiest sound leaving his throat as his entire body jerks beneath you, every muscle coiling so tight it’s almost painful. He holds onto you like a lifeline, his face the perfect picture of a man absolutely destroyed by you— jaw clenched, brows furrowed, lips parted in deep, guttural groans as his climax rips through him, violent and all-consuming.

Heeseung doesn’t just come quietly.

He gasps, groans, moans your name like a prayer, head thrown back, mouth wide open as his body trembles beneath you, thick fingers still gripping you tight, holding you close, refusing to let you go. His skin is flushed, glistening, damp with sweat, and even after, even when he’s still struggling to breathe, his lips stay parted, brows still furrowed like he hasn’t come down yet, like he’s still lingering in that wrecked haze of pleasure.

And when he finally opens his eyes again, when he meets your gaze with hooded, fucked-out eyes, his voice comes out gravelly, wrecked, almost teasing despite how completely ruined he is.

“Shit, baby,” he breathes, licking his lips, looking you up and down with pure hunger. “You’re not done with me yet, are you?”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

Jay likes to talk. He always has something to say—cocky, teasing, throwing in some smug little remark about how he’s the one wrecking you, the one making you fall apart.

But not right now.

Right now, Jay can’t say a single fucking word.

His head is tipped back against the mattress, jaw slack, lips parted in an utterly ruined, breathless moan. His arms—usually so strong, so in control—are trembling beneath you, hands weakly gripping your waist like he’s barely hanging on.

And his eyes?

They’re shut tight, completely screwed shut, his brows furrowed in pure, overwhelming pleasure. His chest rises and falls erratically, his abs tense and flexing beneath sweat-damp skin, and his lips twitch slightly, trying so hard to form words that just won’t come.

He looks like a man who’s been completely fucked brainless.

But you want more.

“Jay,” you whimper, bouncing on his cock at a filthy, punishing pace, grinding down against him, watching his head loll back further, his mouth falling open as a helpless, deep groan slips from his throat. “Baby, look at me. Open your eyes. Please.”

He makes a wrecked, desperate noise, something between a whimper and a choked curse, his fingers twitching at your hips like he wants to take control but can’t. His lashes flutter, his brows knit together tighter, but he still won’t look at you.

“Jay,” you gasp again, leaning down, lips brushing over his jaw, his cheek, his ear. “Please. Just one look, baby. Let me see you. Let me see how fucking good I’m making you feel.”

A deep, shaky breath leaves his lips, his head rolling to the side, cheeks flushed, jaw tense, but his eyes stay firmly shut. His body shudders as he breathes out a low, broken “fuck”, his voice shaking so much it makes you clench around him even tighter.

That’s what does it.

The moment you squeeze around him, his eyes fly open for half a second before rolling back completely, eyelids fluttering shut again as a deep, wrecked groan rips from his throat. His entire body jerks, his grip tightens painfully around your waist, and his hips snap up into you desperately, helplessly, like he’s chasing a high he can’t handle.

“Angel, I—” His voice is completely fucked, breathless and shaky, words slurring together like he’s lost all motor function. He tries to open his eyes, tries to obey you, but the pleasure is so overwhelming, so brain-melting, that his lids just keep slipping shut over and over again.

“Fuck, I c-can’t,” he stammers, his voice breaking, breath stuttering hard as his body tenses, twitches, spirals closer and closer to the edge.

“Yes, you can,” you whisper, licking into his mouth, moaning softly against his lips as you keep riding him, keep taking him, keep watching him come undone beneath you. “Look at me when you cum, Jay. Let me see you.”

It takes everything in him, every ounce of strength he has left, but his lashes flutter just barely open, and you catch the barest hint of his dark, glossy eyes—glazed, wrecked, overwhelmed—before they roll back again, his mouth falling open in a deep, desperate, completely ruined moan.

His orgasm hits him like a truck, his body jerking up into you, shaking, his breath catching mid-moan as he completely loses control. His fingers dig into your hips so tight it hurts, his abs flexing hard, his head tilted back against the pillows as his jaw drops open, lips forming helpless, broken curses.

He’s gone.

So fucked-out, so utterly wrecked, so deep in pleasure that he can’t even function.

When it’s over, when the last tremors leave his body and you finally let him catch his breath, he still can’t open his eyes. His face is slack, completely blissed-out, his lips still parted, chest heaving, body twitching with the aftershocks.

And when he finally manages to flutter his lashes open, to look at you through half-lidded, exhausted, pleasure-drunk eyes, his voice comes out hoarse, wrecked, and so fucking low it makes you clench again.

“Fuck, angel” he breathes, licking his swollen lips, looking like a man who’s just been destroyed.

Then his eyes flicker shut again, his head tipping back with a weak, blissed-out smirk.

“You almost fucking killed me.”

𝐒𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

Jake never stops watching you.

From the moment he sinks inside you, he’s completely fixated, eyes dark, wild, blown-out, lips parted as he gasps, his chest already heaving, sweat already glistening at his temples.

When you start moving, when you grind down slow, teasing, dragging it out just to watch him suffer, he whines. Loud.

“Princess, f-fuck—look at me.”

His voice is already shaking, so wrecked, so needy, and it makes you clench down around him just to see what it does to him.

His mouth drops open, his brows scrunch tight, his thighs tremble beneath you as he lets out a desperate, high-pitched moan, fingers digging into your hips, gripping tight like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

But then you close your eyes.

Just for a second, just because the pleasure is so intense, just because it’s too much

Jake fucking breaks.

“No, no, no, no—baby, please—” His hands fly up to your face, cupping your cheeks, desperate, frantic, breathless.“Look at me. Fucking look at me while you use me—please, please, princess, I need to see you.”

You force your eyes open, and the moment your gaze locks onto his, he whimpers so loudly it sounds like a sob. His body twitches violently beneath you, his lips wet and parted, trembling, his expression completely wrecked, helpless, slutty.

“Oh, f-fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby, please, please don’t stop,” His voice catches mid-moan, breaking apart, raw and high-pitched. His stomach flexes hard, his jaw goes completely slack, and he lets out this long, drawn-out, whiny little gasp as you grind down harder.

You lean in close, whispering against his parted lips.

“So needy, Jakey,” you tease, letting your nails drag down his heaving chest, watching as his body jerks violently. “You really wanna watch yourself get fucked that bad?”

Jake nods so fast it’s pathetic, his eyes fluttering, barely able to stay open but still trying.

“Yes, yes, baby—please, fuck, I can’t— I need to see you, need to see your face when you break me,” He gasps again, shaking, his breath catching in his throat, his fingers twitching against your skin.

You start riding him rougher, faster, and he wails.

Loud. Whimpering. So fucking desperate it makes you dizzy.

“O-oh, oh my—f-fuck,” His mouth hangs open, panting, moaning, completely overwhelmed, completely gone. His hips stutter, his thighs shaking uncontrollably, and his voice rises, breaking into a string of whiny, high-pitched moans.

But the moment you start to close your eyes again,

Jake grabs your chin, hard.

“Princess, please—keep looking at me, please, please, please, I need you to see how fucking ruined I am for you.”

His head falls back against the pillows, his jaw dropping, his lips parted so wide in a wrecked moan that it’s almost obscene. His eyes flutter but stay open, his fingers digging into your skin like he can’t handle it.

“F-fuck—oh, God—p-please, princess—” His voice breaks entirely, breath stuttering, body trembling beneath you. “Oh my God—f-fuck, I’m cumming, I’m cumming—baby, please look at me while I fucking cum.”

The moment your eyes stay locked onto his,

Jake wails.

His entire body tenses, shakes, jerks violently, his chest heaving, abs clenching, his lips forming your name over and over again in breathless, desperate, whimpering moans.

He keeps his eyes on you the whole fucking time.

Even when he’s spilling inside you, even when his voice cracks into gasps and whines and helpless, filthy pleas, even when he looks so utterly fucking ruined that he can’t even function,

He still won’t look away.

Even after, when he’s panting, shaking, body twitching from the aftershocks, he still has the strength to hold your face in his hands, breathing hard, swallowing thickly.

And with his voice raw, hoarse, completely wrecked, he grins up at you, lips swollen, eyes still full of hunger.

“God, princess,” he breathes, licking his lips, sweaty, flushed, still desperate for more.“You almost fucking killed me. But at least,” His voice drops, filthy, teasing, needy .“You looked me in the eyes while you did it.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

You knew Sunghoon would be hot on camera.

But you didn’t know he would look this fucking good.

It starts as a joke, a teasing little comment you make while you’re riding him, slow and deep, dragging it out just to watch him break. His glasses are slightly fogged, his head is tipped back against the pillows, and his lips, God, his lips, are parted, wet and swollen from how often he’s been biting them.

“Let’s make a movie,” you whisper, grinning breathlessly, reaching for your phone.

Sunghoon doesn’t say a word.

He just smirks, but the expression shatters immediately when you start rolling your hips again, taking him deeper, dragging your nails down his abs just to feel how fucking tight they’re pulled. His head lolls back, his jaw going slack, lips parting even wider as a low, shaky groan spills out of his throat.

You aim the camera right at his face.

Fuck, he looks unreal.

His brows are furrowed, tightly drawn together in pure, aching pleasure, his cheeks flushed pink, his eyes fluttering shut every time you squeeze around him. His mouth hangs open, but at some points, no sound even comes out—just sharp, shallow breaths, his throat working as he swallows hard, trying to hold himself together.

You bite your lip, watching him through the screen.

“You should see yourself, baby,” you murmur, free hand reaching down to stroke over his jaw, tilting his face toward you. His skin is hot, damp, trembling beneath your fingers. “You look so fucking pretty like this. All ruined for me.”

Sunghoon groans, low and deep, the sound vibrating through his chest. His fingers flex against your thighs, like he wants to grab you, take control, flip you over and fuck you senseless.

But the second you start grinding against him harder, faster, making the bed creak beneath you.

He shudders violently, his entire body tensing, his breath catching hard in his throat.

And then he falls completely silent.

For a few seconds, he doesn’t make a single noise.

His head tips all the way back, jaw dropped, brows still furrowed so tight they look painful. His lips part wider, but he’s so fucking lost in it that no sound even comes out anymore, just deep, desperate breaths, shaky and broken.

Then finally a low, guttural groan escapes, long and drawn-out, his abs contracting beneath your hands, his thighs tensing under you. His fingers clutch at your hips, but he’s too fucked-out to even hold on properly, his grip slipping every time you move.

“Doll, fuck,” he gasps, his voice wrecked, completely gone. He still doesn’t lift his head, still doesn’t open his eyes.

But you don’t need him to.

Because the camera is catching all of it.

The way his chest rises and falls unevenly, the way his lips stay wet and parted, the way his throat works every time he swallows around another wrecked, whimpering moan.

And when you tilt the camera slightly, making sure to catch the way his stomach flexes every time he jerks his hips up into you, trying to chase his high,

He completely falls apart.

His breath hitches sharply, his whole body going taut, his hands gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles turn white.

Then comes the sound.

The deep, gritty, almost pained groan that tears from his throat as his orgasm crashes into him full-force, making his hips stutter, his chest heave, his head tilt back even further.

His lips stay open, still breathing heavily, his lashes fluttering but never fully closing, his brows still furrowed in that agonizingly beautiful look of pleasure-pain. His body shudders uncontrollably, his breath coming out in deep, ragged gasps, his entire expression wrecked beyond belief.

You stop recording.

For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. Sunghoon still hasn’t moved, hasn’t opened his eyes, his face still frozen in that stunned, pleasure-drunk expression.

But then you press play.

Suddenly, his own moans are echoing back at him.

Sunghoon’s eyes snap open.

His gaze immediately drops to your phone, watching the way his own jaw drops, his own chest heaves, his own body writhes beneath you like he’s completely helpless.

He loses his fucking mind.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, swiping the phone from your hands, sitting up, gripping your ass as he watches himself come undone. His lips are slightly parted, his pupils blown-out, his breathing still uneven, but the way his eyes darken as he watches himself on camera is filthy.

He licks his lips, a slow smirk curling at the edges as he glances up at you.

“You turned me into a fucking slut, doll.”

His grip tightens, and the next thing you know, you’re being flipped onto your back, your knees pushed up to your chest. “You better be ready,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, his lips still swollen from moaning so much. “Because I’m about to return the fucking favor.”

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

Sunoo is so quiet at first.

Not because he’s holding back—he physically can’t make a sound.

The second you sink down onto him, his whole body shudders, his chest stuttering with shallow breaths, his head tilting back against the pillow as his lips part in pure, soundless bliss. His fingers twitch against your waist, like he’s trying to grab onto something, anything, but he’s too weak, too shaky and overwhelmed to do more than let them rest there.

The noises he makes? So fucking pretty.

Soft, breathy little moans, helpless whimpers, tiny gasps that he can’t even hold back.

His eyes don’t meet yours—he’s staring at your body, at the way you move on top of him, completely mesmerized. His brows furrow, his bottom lip trembles, his abs tighten, and when you roll your hips just right, his lips part even wider, his breath catching in his throat like he’s forgotten how to exhale.

You lean down, pressing your lips to his ear, your voice low and sultry as you whisper,

“What’s wrong, baby?” You let your tongue flick against his earlobe, and his whole body twitches violently beneath you. “Too much? Can’t handle how good this pussy feels?”

Sunoo lets out a high, broken gasp, his fingers digging into your thighs, his chest rising and falling like he’s struggling to breathe.

Still, no words.

Just whimpers, breathless and desperate, moans that get higher every time you grind down on him.

“You like watching yourself disappear inside me, don’t you?” you tease, dragging your nails down his stomach, feeling the way his abs clench tight beneath your touch. “You like watching me ride you like this—watching me use you?”

His eyes flicker up to yours, glassy, dazed, ruined, and he looks so fucking gone that your stomach clenches.

But he still doesn’t speak.

Instead, he lets out the prettiest, quietest little moan, his hands twitching against your hips, his thighs shaking as he struggles to stay grounded.

“You sound so pretty, baby,” you murmur, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his throat, feeling the way his pulse is racing beneath your lips. “So fucking desperate, whining for me like this. I bet you don’t even know how wrecked you look right now.”

His breath catches violently.

His body jerks beneath you, his lips falling open in a choked, shuddering moan, his head pressing deeper into the pillow. His eyes roll back for half a second before refocusing on your body again, completely dazed.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

Only moans.

Whines.

Helpless, shaky little sounds, breathless gasps, tiny, needy whimpers that slip out every time you clench around him.

But when you start moving faster, bouncing harder, chasing your own high,

His body locks up beneath you.

His thighs tremble violently, his fingers grip at your waist so tight they shake, and his moans turn into a soft, helpless string of high-pitched gasps, each one getting louder, more desperate.

You lean down, whispering, “Be a good boy and cum for me, baby,”

He completely breaks.

His back arches, his jaw goes slack, his brows draw together painfully tight, his eyes lock onto your body one last time before rolling back as he finally fucking lets go.

He still doesn’t speak.

He just moans through the whole thing, soft, breathy, completely overwhelmed, his breath stuttering violently as his hips jerk up helplessly beneath you.

His fingers twitch, his stomach flexes, his legs shake so bad he nearly sobs from overstimulation.

When it’s over—when you press a soft kiss to his lips, pulling back to look at his wrecked, blissed-out face,

His lashes flutter, his eyes barely opening, and he finally whimpers out one tiny, breathy little word, voice barely above a whisper.

“More.”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

Jungwon is your sweet baby—until he’s balls deep inside you.

Then he’s nothing but a fucking animal.

No hesitation, no restraint—just pure, wanton, gut-wrenching, brain-melting depravity.

And his face when he fucks you?

Fucking disgusting.

His lips are parted, wet and pink and swollen, his teeth digging into his bottom lip so hard it turns red, his entire expression contorted in sheer, unhinged pleasure. His brows furrow painfully tight, his cheeks flush deep pink, his jaw clenches, unclenches, his throat working hard as he gasps for air.

But he doesn’t look at you.

Not at your face.

His eyes are glued to your body—watching your tits bounce every time his cock splits you apart, watching your stomach bulge every time he bottoms out.

“Holy f-fucking shit,” he gasps, voice wrecked, raspy, primal, his fingers digging so hard into your waist you know you’ll bruise. “Look at you, baby—look at this fucking mess.”

Your body shakes, your breath hitches, and when your eyes start to roll back,

Jungwon grins.

It’s filthy.

“There it is.” His voice drips with satisfaction, with something possessive, dark, depraved. “That’s what I fucking wanted. That’s what this pussy’s made for, taking me so deep you can’t even fucking think.”

And he does it again.

Slams his cock into you so deep you feel it in your stomach, presses his palm against the bulge just to make you feel every inch of it, watches the way your tits bounce, the way your entire body convulses beneath him.

“Fucking take it,” he grits out, hips slamming into yours, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest. “Take it. Fucking take it. Let me hear you scream for it.”

You do. You fucking wail.

And it just makes him go harder.

Makes him lose his fucking mind.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, head falling back for a second, a deep, primal moan ripping from his throat. “Taking me so fucking deep, letting me ruin this fucking pussy.”

And then his eyes drop back down,

Right to your stomach.

Right to the place where he’s stuffed so deep you can see the outline of him.

He presses his palm against it again, harder this time, growling when your walls clamp down around him.

“Oh my f-fucking God—” His breath stutters violently, his abs contracting, his lips parting wider, his voice cracking mid-moan. “You feel that, baby? Feel how deep I am? Feel how I’m wrecking your fucking insides?”

You can’t even speak anymore.

Can’t even breathe.

You’re just writhing beneath him, sobbing, shaking, too fucking gone to do anything but take it.

And he fucking loves it.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he grits out, his pace turning brutal, relentless, obscene. “I can’t stop, baby—I can’t fucking stop. I need this pussy. I need to fuck you like this. I need to keep fucking you until you can’t fucking walk.”

His voice is so raw, so wrecked, so needy it sends you spiraling.

And when you start cumming again, when your body convulses violently, when your walls clench so fucking tight around him that he nearly collapses,

Jungwon loses it.

His moans turn loud, desperate, frantic, his fingers shaking, his thighs trembling, his breath hitching, his stomach flexing so hard he looks like he’s in pain.

His cock throbs, his rhythm breaks, his moans turn ragged and raw as he slams into you one last time, stuffing himself so deep you swear you can feel him in your fucking throat.

“Oh f-fuck—fuck, baby, fuck, fuck, f-fuck—”

His entire body locks up.

His back arches, his jaw drops open, his breath catches mid-moan, and then he groans deep from his chest, low and long and so fucking filthy you feel it vibrate through your entire body.

He keeps fucking into you, even as he cums, even as his thighs shake, even as his moans turn into breathless, whimpering gasps, even as his grip on you goes slack.

Even when it’s over, he’s still panting, still groaning softly, his head falling forward, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, his fingers twitching against your waist.

Finally—finally—he lifts his head.

His lips are red and swollen, his brows are still furrowed, his cheeks are flushed, his breath is ragged, and he just looks at you.

He slowly lifts his head.

And smiles.

It’s sweet. Soft. Gentle.

The kind of smile he’d give you in passing, the kind that would make anyone else think he’s just a boy in love.

Then he kisses your forehead, presses his lips to your temple, and murmurs—so lovingly, so tenderly,

“You’re so good for me, baby. I just love making you feel special.”

𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢

Sex with Riki never starts serious.

It always starts with smirks, teasing, little half-laughs and cocky remarks that make you want to wipe that stupid fucking grin off his face.

Tonight is no different.

He leans back against the pillows, completely relaxed, arms folded behind his head, legs spread wide, his cock standing hard and flushed between you. His eyes trace your body, lazy and smug, lips curled into that slow, teasing grin.

“You’re taking your sweet time, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tilting his head, watching you hover over him, letting his thick cock drag through your slick folds. “You scared or something?”

You roll your eyes, settling onto his lap, grabbing his cock in your hand just to make him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“You talk so fucking much,” you murmur, dragging the thick, leaking tip against your clit, teasing the both of you.

Riki smirks, watching the way you slide him against your swollen pussy, but his lips part slightly when you start to sink down onto him.

When you take him all at once, no hesitation.

His face completely drops.

The smirk dies.

His lips fall open in a silent, breathless moan, his chest stutters against yours, his fingers fly to your hips, gripping them hard like he just lost control of himself.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, head tilting back against the pillow, throat bobbing, breath shuddering.

His voice?

So soft.

Barely there, a ghost of a whisper, like the pleasure just ripped it straight from his chest.

You can see him trying to fight it—trying to hold onto that cocky confidence.

But the second you grind down onto him, slow and deep, rolling your hips so he’s completely buried inside you—

His breath catches again.

His chest stutters, his lips part even wider, and his voice comes out in the quietest, most trembling little whisper,

“Oh, sweetheart…”

His lashes flutter, his hands squeeze your hips like he doesn’t know if he wants to stop you or pull you down harder, and his head lolls forward slightly, jaw slack, eyes barely open.

“You always get so quiet when you’re about to fall apart,” you murmur, grinning as you reach up, dragging your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

Riki lets out a small, breathy laugh, tilting his head slightly so your fingers drag along his scalp.

“Mm.” He hums, voice airy, distant, still breathless. “Or maybe I’m just enjoying myself, my love.”

Just when you think he’s still in control,

He grabs you.

Pulls you down.

Presses his forehead against yours.

His lips barely brush yours, but he doesn’t kiss you—he just holds you there, his nose nudging against yours, his breath shaky against your mouth.

He whispers again—so soft, so quiet, so fucking intimate.

“Stay right here, sweetheart. Keep your forehead against mine.”

Your breath shudders.

Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his damp, sweat-sticky skin, because he’s holding you so close, so tight, so desperate.

Neither of you open your eyes.

Neither of you break apart.

Just forehead to forehead, noses brushing, lips trembling against each other’s breath, completely lost in the feeling.

You move again, when you start fucking him properly.

His moans turn into choked, breathless little gasps.

“F-fuck,” he pants, his voice shaking, breaking apart. His hands twitch at your hips, pressing you down harder, forcing you to take him even deeper.

And then he lets out the softest, most delicate little whimper.

So soft.

So breathless.

So wrecked.

His lips brush against yours as he moans, his eyelashes flutter against your cheek, his breath stutters every time you squeeze around him.

And then, so quiet, so trembling, so completely gone,

“Don’t let go.”

His fingers press deeper into your back, his forehead presses harder against yours, his breath turns shallow and erratic.

The moment you whisper, “I won’t,”

His moans cut off into choked little gasps, body jerking, thighs twitching, stomach flexing as he completely fucking falls apart.

He still doesn’t let go.

Even as he cums, hips stuttering, breath hitching, body writhing beneath you, forehead still glued to yours like he physically can’t pull away.

Even as he whimpers your name, voice shaking, breathless, completely wrecked.

Even as his entire body trembles through the aftershocks, gasping for air, clinging to you like he needs you to keep him alive.

He finally collapses back against the bed, still holding onto you, still breathing hard, still moaning softly against your lips,

You pull back, just a little.

Just enough to see his face—his swollen, parted lips, his flushed cheeks, his dazed, heavy-lidded eyes, completely blissed-out and ruined.

When he finally opens them, finally blinks up at you,

A small, breathless laugh escapes his lips.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, still panting, voice so wrecked and hoarse you barely recognize it.

You grin, teasing. “What happened to being in control?”

Riki lets out another weak, exhausted little laugh, his fingers twitching against your skin as he pulls you back down against him, lips brushing your ear.

Then—so quiet, so soft, so fucking filthy,

“Shut up and keep fucking me.”

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @beariegyu @zzhengyu @annybah @seonhoon @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

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rafessecret · 3 months ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ step¡sister reader && rafe cameron

OH LOOKING SO SWEET CURLED UP IN THOSE LITTLE SLEEP SHORTS.

You’re curled up in his bed again.

It’s nothing new. You always end up here. Pressed against him, trusting him, like you don’t know any better. Like you don’t realise how wrong it is. Like you don’t know what it does to him.

You’ve been Rafe’s stepsister for years now. Thrown together by your parents’ rushed marriage, forced into the same house, the same routines, the same spaces. You grew up around him, but he never really treated you like a sister. Not really. Not with the way his eyes always lingered, how his fingers would brush against your bare skin just a second too long. Not with the way he’d look at you when you were stretched out in your little skirts, your glossy lips parting when you laughed. Not with the way he needed you.

And now, he has you. Right here. In his bed. Again. Your tiny sleep shorts ride up as you shift, your warm skin brushing his. You don’t notice the way he stills, how his breathing turns heavy, uneven. You don’t notice the way his cock twitches under the sheets.

His palm rests against your hip, fingers teasing beneath the hem of your shorts, not quite touching but close. Too close. He’s warm against you, broad and solid, his grip firm but not forceful. Not yet. His lips brush against your ear, his voice low, deep, coaxing. ❝Just let me, baby,❞ he murmurs, the words sinking into you, soft and syrupy, a slow drip of something sickly sweet.

You barely stir, too sleepy to process, too used to the warmth of him, too trusting to see what’s really happening. He shifts closer, the hard press of him nudging against you. There’s something needy about the way his hips move, the slow, steady grind that makes his breath hitch. You don’t stop him. Maybe you don’t even realise what he’s doing—how wrong this is. How wrong he is.

His fingers flex against your hip, pulling you closer, guiding you into it. There’s no space between you now, just heat, just the slow rock of his hips against yours. He exhales a shaky breath, his lips pressing into the back of your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin there as he groans. His cock is so hard. And it’s all for you. Because of you.

His movements are slow and calculated, but there’s desperation in the way his fingers tighten against your skin. Like he’s trying to hold himself back. Like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he’s too far gone to care. You’re so warm, so soft, so fucking perfect against him. His hand drifts lower, knuckles brushing between your thighs. Just barely. Just enough to make him bite his lip, to test the waters. But you shift—a little whimper slipping past your lips.

His cock throbs. You felt that.

Rafe’s breath turns ragged, his fingers moving again, this time pressing. Just the lightest pressure against your sleep-warm pussy, teasing, circling, testing. And fuck—he can feel how warm you are.

❝It’s just me, pretty girl,❞ he whispers, his voice thick with need. ❝Feels good, doesn’t it?❞ Your lashes flutter, a soft sigh leaving you as your hips shift ever so slightly. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe you think it’s something else. But your body reacts, and that’s all he needs.

His fingers stroke again, right over your clit this time. A slow, lazy motion, barely there, but your breath catches. His cock aches. He can feel himself leaking, soaking his boxers, desperate for more. He grinds into you again, harder this time, the friction making him shudder. ❝Fuck, pretty girl,❞ he breathes, voice wrecked, strained.

His hips rut into you, his cock pressing against your ass through the thin fabric, wet with precum, needy, throbbing. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows he should stop. But then you whimper again, a sleepy sound of pleasure. And that’s it.

His grip tightens on your hip, holding you still as he grinds harder, his breath hot against your neck. His body shudders, his cock twitching as he cums, spilling into his boxers, into the sheets, into the space between you.

And you’re still asleep.

Still fucking trusting.

Rafe exhales sharply, forehead pressing against your shoulder, panting, wrecked, guilty, and not at all sorry. Because this won’t be the last time.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : Hey, pretty. How do we feel about this? I’m not entirely sure if it’s the one I want to share as my first piece, but I thought I’d throw it out there anyway. I’m probably overthinking it, but I’d really love to hear your thoughts, materialist for the coming soon. If you've made it this far, thank you! If you're thinking about checking out my account, please do, but it's pretty empty since I'm still setting up my nav.

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

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heliosunny · 4 months ago

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Hello. If it’s not too much trouble can you expand on the mydei marriage of convenience fic with reborn reader? I like it when there’s a lot of groveling so is there any chance maybe mydei remembers his past life and apologizes but reader still decides to leave him? I just wanna see him beg tbh. Thank you for all your hard work!

Yandere!Mydei x Reader

[artist]

Visit [previous]

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the training grounds, the clash of steel and the thunder of hooves filling the air. You stood at the sidelines, arms crossed as you watched Mydei spar with one of his knights. His movements were as precise as ever, every strike measured, every defense calculated. It was almost frustrating how effortlessly perfect he always seemed.

You hadn’t wanted to come, but after his last stunt, drugging you to keep you by his side, he had insisted you accompany him today. "To ease your mind" he had said. You knew better. He just didn’t want to let you out of his sight.

You tried to ignore the way he would glance your way between exchanges, as if gauging your reaction. He always did that now, watching you, reading you, craving something you refused to give.

Then, one of the knights charged him too aggressively, their swords locking with a sharp screech of metal. Mydei twisted to avoid the blow, but his horse reared up at the wrong moment.

You saw the shift before it even registered in his eyes—the sudden loss of balance, the panic. He fell.

The world seemed to slow as his body hit the ground with a sickening thud. His head struck the packed dirt first, and for a terrifying moment, he didn’t move.

"Mydei!" someone shouted, knights rushing forward.

You felt yourself take an involuntary step closer, your breath caught in your throat. You had seen him fight countless times, had watched him walk away from battle unscathed—but now, he wasn’t getting up. When they turned him over, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple. Then, he let out a sharp, strangled gasp—his entire body going rigid.

You frowned. "Mydei?"

He blinked rapidly, his breath coming in shallow pants. His hands clutched the ground beneath him as if trying to anchor himself.

And then, his gaze landed on you.

A choked sound left his throat—something between a sob and a gasp. His eyes widened in sheer terror, his fingers trembling as they reached toward you.

"Y-you’re here…" His voice was raw, broken. "I thought—I thought I lost you."

"What…?"

He struggled to sit up, his entire body shaking. "I remember—" He swallowed hard, his breath ragged. "I remember losing you. I remember everything."

"What are you talking about?"

"You died," he rasped. "I never got to tell you.....I never got to.." His voice cracked completely.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. You stared at him. Mydei—always so in control—was now trembling, eyes wide with something you had never seen before. True, genuine fear.

"I—" His breath hitched, hands gripping his chest as if something inside him was breaking. "You left me. You were gone, and I—" He shut his eyes, as if the memory physically hurt him. His voice, raw and desperate, trembled when he spoke again. "I tried to bring you back, but you were gone."

Your fingers curled into fists. He had to be lying.

"You expect me to believe that?" Your voice came out cold, sharper than you intended. "That you suddenly—remember a life where I died?"

Mydei let out a shuddering breath, his hands pressing into the dirt like he was barely holding himself together. "I was a fool" he whispered. "I was blind, selfish, and I didn’t see it until it was too late. Until I was standing over your grave, wishing I had just—" He cut himself off, sucking in a sharp breath.

You wanted to call him out on the dramatics, wanted to accuse him of manipulating you again.

But his eyes... His eyes weren’t filled with calculation. There was no smugness, no amusement, no control. Only raw, undiluted agony.

What if he was telling the truth?

"So what? Even if that's true—I’m alive now."

Mydei’s gaze snapped to you, frantic. "And I won’t make the same mistake."

He struggled to push himself up, despite the dizziness that made him sway. The knights around him hesitated, unsure whether to help or give him space. But Mydei didn't seem to care—his focus was solely on you.

"I won't let you go this time."

"You can't keep me here forever."

He took a step forward, his lips parting—but then, he faltered. His breath hitched, his body wavering unsteadily. And then, he collapsed.

The knights rushed to him, calling for a healer. You stood frozen, watching as he was lifted from the ground, his grip on consciousness slipping. Even as his vision blurred, his fingers twitched toward you.

"Don't… leave me again…"

----

The air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faintest trace of blood from the practice field. You barely registered it, your mind still tangled with the weight of Mydei’s words.

"I remember everything."

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t. The Mydei from your past life never cared—not when you loved him, not when you gave him everything, not even when you left him to his cold, indifferent world.

But this Mydei… this Mydei had fallen to his knees. He had begged. He had looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to sanity.

No. It had to be a trick.

If he had been controlling before, this new desperation would make him unstoppable.

A sharp noise cut through the quiet.

Yelling. Inside the estate.

Without thinking, you turned on your heel, striding quickly back through the halls, your breath shallow as the shouting grew louder.

"My Lord, please—!" One of the servants' voices wavered in distress.

"WHERE IS Y/N?!"

You reached the entrance to his chambers and froze.

The room was in ruins. Tables overturned, drawers pulled from their places, glass shattered across the floor. Papers and books were strewn about, some crumpled, others torn.

Mydei's breath came in ragged gasps, his normally pristine attire disheveled. His hands trembled as they flipped through papers, knocking over more things in a frenzy. His eyes, wild and filled with a darkness you hadn’t seen before, darted around the room.

"Where is y/n?" he growled, his voice unsteady.

"M-My Lord— I believe they will return shortly-" The knight who had been tending to him took a cautious step back.

"LIARS!" Mydei roared, slamming his fist against the wall. The crack of impact echoed through the chamber, and the knight flinched. "You think I don't know?! You think I haven't seen this before?! Y/n left me!"

His voice broke, the fury in it twisting into something far worse. Something desperate.

It was then that he turned—and his eyes landed on you.

The moment he saw you, everything stopped. For a moment, he just stared, as if confirming you were real. He was already in front of you before you knew.

"Where did you go?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Why—why did you leave?"

"I didn't leave" you said, trying to stay calm. "I just went outside."

But that did nothing to ease him. His hands clenched at his sides, his expression crumbling further. "I woke up, and you were gone."

"You can’t do that" he whispered. "You can’t leave me—not again."

Mydei stood before you, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his hands trembling at his sides as if he was barely holding himself together.

He’s losing it.

The room around you was still in ruins. He had torn through the place like a storm, like a man searching for something he thought he had lost forever.

"I thought it was happening again" he rasped. "I thought—" His breath hitched. "I thought I had woken up too late. That you were already gone, just like before."

"Mydei..." you started carefully, but he wasn’t listening.

"You don’t understand" he continued, almost frantic now. "I watched you die. I—I buried you. I swore, if I had another chance, I wouldn’t make the same mistake, but—" He clenched his fists. "But when I woke up and you were gone, I—I thought I lost you again."

"You’re scaring me" you admitted.

Something in him shattered at that.

For a moment, all the tension in his body seemed to crumble, his face twisting in agony. His hands—ones that had wielded swords, ones that had always been so steady—lifted slightly, reaching toward you before stopping just shy of touching you.

Then, he dropped to his knees.

The great and powerful Mydei—the same man who once viewed your love as nothing—now knelt before you, pleading.

"I’m sorry" he whispered, his voice trembling. "I’m so sorry. Please—don’t leave me. Don’t go. I’ll do anything."

For the first time, you didn’t know what to do.

The days that followed were suffocating. After the accident, after when he had fallen to his knees and begged you to stay, he was different.

He wouldn’t let you out of his sight.

His eyes constantly followed you—through the halls, across the gardens, even in the quiet moments of the evening when he was supposed to be resting. He would wake in the middle of the night, breath uneven, searching for you as if expecting you to vanish. And when he found you still there, his entire body would sag with relief.

But you stayed.

You told yourself it was because of duty, because it would be cruel to leave someone so vulnerable. Even if that someone was him.

So you took care of him.

You changed his bandages when he was too dazed to do it himself. You sat beside his bed when fever burned through him. You placed food before him even when he refused to eat, your words clipped but firm—"Eat, Mydei." And he always obeyed.

There was no smugness in his gaze now, no arrogance—only an almost childlike fear. Every time you so much as stepped away, his hand would twitch, as if fighting the urge to reach for you.

One evening, as you stood by the window, lost in thought, you felt the weight of his stare once more.

"You’re still here"

You turned to him, meeting his eyes.

"I said I would take care of you" you replied.

"If I had realized it sooner," he said slowly, his voice almost fragile, "that I loved you… would you have stayed?"

The silence stretched between you like a fragile thread, threatening to snap under the weight of his words.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you looked away, fixing your gaze on the flickering candle by the bedside.

"Mydei" you said evenly, carefully, "once you recover, I still want a divorce."

The room went deathly still.

When you finally dared to look at him, you saw it—the way his knuckles had turned white from gripping the sheets.

Then, ever so slowly, he laughed.

It was a broken, hollow sound.

"You…" His voice wavered, his golden eyes darkening as he forced himself to sit up despite his lingering dizziness. "You really don’t believe me, do you?"

"Even now," he murmured, running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. "Even after everything, you still want to leave me."

"And if I say no?" he asked quietly.

"You don’t get to say no, Mydei. This marriage was never about love. It was more of a contract—one that should have ended long ago."

He clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his robe.

"You think I care about that? You think a piece of paper ever mattered to me?"

You knew Mydei. You knew how he thought, how he worked.

And now?

Now, he was desperate. And desperate men did dangerous things.

"You’re not leaving me"

The tension never left after that night.

Mydei didn't argue with you anymore. He didn't beg like before. Instead, he acted.

Two weeks later, he left for war.

It happened so fast. One day, you were tending to his injuries, watching him pretend to be fragile under your care. The next, he was standing before his armored horse, fastening his sword to his hip, his gaze unreadable as he looked at you.

"Stay here."

That was all he said before he rode off, leading his army into battle.

And then, everything changed.

The night of his return was filled with thunderous celebration.

The palace was alive, tables overflowing with wine and food, nobles and warriors alike cheering Mydei’s name. He had crushed his enemies, strengthened his borders, and returned more powerful than ever. And yet, despite the laughter and praise surrounding him, his eyes never left you. You sat stiffly at the grand table, feeling the weight of his gaze from across the room. He hadn’t spoken to you yet, hadn’t approached. But you knew better.

Then, the room fell silent as Mydei stood.

A goblet in one hand, with his favorite drink-pomegranate juice, his other resting against the pommel of his sword, he cast his gaze over the gathered crowd. And when he spoke, his voice carried through the grand hall like an unbreakable decree.

"Tonight, we celebrate victory. Strength. The future."

A roar of approval filled the hall. But then—he looked at you.

And suddenly, the room felt too small.

"But there is something more important than war. More important than power."

He raised his goblet higher.

"My spouse."

No.

"The one who stood by my side, who has always belonged to me.. and always will."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Every noble, every knight, every single person in the room understood what that meant.

No one would dare touch you.

Because Mydei had just declared, before his entire court, that you were his. Forever.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

The ride back was tense.

The moment the palace doors shut behind you, the celebrations fading into the distance, you felt your breath grow heavier. You had barely spoken a word since his public declaration—since he had stripped you of any chance of escape in front of his entire court.

The carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets, the dim glow of lanterns casting long shadows against the walls. Mydei sat across from you, legs crossed, one arm draped lazily against the cushioned seat, his gaze locked onto you.

He was waiting.

Waiting for you to break the silence. Waiting for you to react.

You clenched your fists. Fine. If he wanted a reaction, you'd give him one.

"You had no right"

"No right to what?"

"You know what" you snapped. "You stood in front of everyone and acted as if I belong to you."

"You do."

Of course, he’d say that.

"You made sure no one would ever propose to me" you bit out. "Made sure that even after this, if I left, no one would dare take me in." Your eyes narrowed. "If I’m incapable of marrying anyone else, then I’ll live alone."

The words had barely left your mouth when he moved.

You barely had time to react before he caged you in, hands braced against the seat beside you, his face so close you could feel the warmth of his breath.

"You think I would allow that?" he murmured.

"You can’t control everything, Mydei."

"But I can control this."

"You don't get to disappear. Not into someone else's arms, not into isolation, not anywhere I can't reach you."

"You're mine" he continued, softer this time, as if speaking a sacred truth. "Even if you hate me for it."

The days after his declaration were unbearable.

Everywhere you went, his presence suffocated you. Servants eyed you carefully, knights stationed themselves near your quarters, and Mydei himself—always watching.

You had no more choices. No more options.

So you made one.

You locked yourself in your chambers and refused to come out.

No food. No water. Nothing.

At first, Mydei didn’t react. He knocked. Spoke through the door with that infuriatingly patient voice.

"This is childish, love."

You ignored him.

By the second day, his voice had lost its amusement.

"Open the door."

By the third, there was desperation.

"Please."

The fourth day was the worst.

He stopped knocking. He stopped speaking.

When you finally approached the door just for a quick peek.

He was still there.

Not standing.

Kneeling.

The great, untouchable Mydei—kneeling outside your door for days.

"I’ll stay here." His voice was raw now, hoarse from exhaustion. "I’ll wait. As long as it takes."

Let him beg. Let him suffer the way you had suffered.

But your body disagreed.

Weakness overtook you too fast—dizzy, lightheaded, breath slipping out in shallow gasps. You barely registered the way your legs buckled beneath you.

"No—!"

Then, the door shattered. Arms caught you before you hit the ground.

After ensuring you’re treated, Mydei refuses to leave your side. He sits by your bed, watching your pale face with an unreadable expression, fingers lightly brushing your wrist to feel the weak pulse beneath. The realization that you were willing to destroy yourself just to be free from him stirs something deep inside him. You would rather waste away than stay with him?

When you wake up, your body feels unbearably weak. Before you can even attempt to sit up, Mydei is already there, pushing you back down with gentle yet unyielding hands.

“You must be out of your mind” he murmurs. “To think I would ever allow you to leave me like that.”

He strokes your face, his touch both tender and suffocating. “I suppose I have been too soft with you.”

From then on, Mydei takes complete control. You are not allowed to leave the bed without his assistance. Meals are fed to you by his own hand, his sharp gaze watching your every bite, ensuring you don’t try anything reckless again.

Any protests are met with a condescending chuckle and an almost pitying look. “You thought starving yourself would make me agree to a divorce? Foolish.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “You will never be free of me.”

If you had hoped to escape him, all you did was cement his resolve.

---

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows across the walls. You sat on the grand bed, feeling trapped beneath Mydei’s intense gaze. In his hand was a spoon filled with warm broth, yet you stubbornly pressed your lips together, refusing to take it.

Mydei sighed. “Still being difficult?”

You turned your head away. “I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry? Do I have to remind you that you collapsed in my arms, barely breathing, and now you’re not hungry?” He set the bowl down beside him with a deliberate slowness before leaning in close, his breath warm against your cheek. “If you won’t eat willingly…”

Before you could react, Mydei scooped up another spoonful, bringing it to his own lips instead. Without a moment’s hesitation, he grasped your chin, tilting your face toward him. You barely had time to shake your head before his lips were on yours. The taste of the broth spread across your tongue as he deepened the kiss, his fingers tightening just enough to keep you from pulling away. Warmth, rich and lingering, forced its way into your mouth, and despite your resistance, you swallowed out of instinct.

He pulled back slowly, watching you with a satisfied smirk. “There,” he murmured, thumb brushing against your lips as if savoring the sight of you like this—breathless, defeated. “Was that so hard?”

You glared at him, but it only made his smirk widen. “If you refuse again,” he mused, taking another bite for himself, “then I’ll just have to feed you like this every time.”

“Now” Mydei purred, holding up another spoonful. “Shall we continue?”

You swallowed thickly, the taste of the broth still lingering on your tongue. Mydei watched you with patient amusement.

“I should punish you for making me resort to such methods” he mused, twirling the spoon between his fingers. “But I suppose the sight of you like this makes up for it.”

You turned your face away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing your expression. Your heart was pounding, a mix of anger, shame, and something you refused to acknowledge twisting inside you.

“Still refusing to speak? How stubborn.” He leaned in again. “You can glare at me all you want, but you will eat.”

Your hands clenched the sheets beneath you, frustration bubbling up. “You can’t keep doing this” you muttered, voice hoarse from disuse. “You can’t keep controlling me.”

“Oh? But haven’t I already?”

His hand cradled your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You gave me no choice, love. If you had simply stayed by my side like a good spouse, none of this would have been necessary.”

“You’re insane.”

Mydei laughed “I know.”

He took another bite of the broth and kissed you again, slow and deliberate. You shivered, unable to escape the warmth of his lips, the slow press of his tongue against yours. When he finally pulled away, he tilted your chin up with a single finger.

“Now, swallow.” he murmured, voice dangerously soft.

Satisfied, he ran his thumb across your bottom lip, tracing the slight quiver there. “Good” he praised, as if speaking to something fragile. “We’ll do this as many times as it takes for you to learn.”

Then he picked up the spoon again, and you knew the night was far from over.

----- The days passed, and you gradually regained your strength. But Mydei’s presence never wavered— always ensuring you ate, slept, and stayed within the invisible cage he had built around you.

At first, you remained quiet, resigned. But the more you recovered, the more your old self crept back in, the sharp tongue, the scoffs, the sarcastic remarks meant to push him away, if only a little.

One evening, Mydei sat beside you, offering a plate of food like always. You sighed, arms crossed. “What, are you going to spoon-feed me again? Should I just sit here and let you chew it for me too?”

Instead of being irritated, Mydei simply smiled, as if amused. “Would you like that?”

You scowled. “Absolutely not.”

He chuckled, setting the plate on your lap. “Then eat.”

You huffed but complied, stabbing at the food with more force than necessary. Mydei rested his chin on his palm, watching you with lazy satisfaction.

“You seem much livelier now” he observed. “I was starting to miss that sharp tongue of yours.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually like it when I insult you” you scoffed.

Mydei merely tilted his head. “I like anything you do, as long as you stay by my side.”

Your grip on the fork tightened. “And if I don’t?”

He smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Then I’ll simply remind you why leaving isn’t an option.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will.”

Mydei only chuckled again, leaning back in his chair. “Go on, fight me all you want,” he mused. “Scoff, glare, push back—I’ll allow it.” His golden eyes darkened slightly. “But you will never ask for a divorce again. That, my dear, is something I will not tolerate.”

You met his gaze, something unspoken passing between you. The more you tried to escape him, the more he tightened his grip. And yet, in his own twisted way, he was letting you have this small act of defiance, as long as you stayed.

You hated how well he knew you.

Scoffing, you shoveled another bite of food into your mouth and turned away. “You’re insufferable.”

Mydei smiled.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #yandere mydei #mydeimos #hsr mydei #mydei x reader #mydei #honkai star rail mydei

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entitled-fangirl · 4 months ago

Text

Mind and Body.

Cregan Stark x chronic illness Targaryen!reader

Summary: Cregan visits King's Landing, spotting a princess who'd been hidden away due to her constant illness. He's enamored.

A/n: based on an ask!

Masterlist

...........................................

"Lord Stark," Alicent greeted. "How wonderful for you to journey so far."

There was an agreement for the Warden to visit every five years to ensure his loyalty to the Realm and vice versa. Not that King Viserys was ever worried about Cregan. But the North was far and it was important to each side to check on the development of the other.

"'Tis only my duty to the North," he answered.

The two walked quietly to the council room. Viserys had quickly grown ill, so most business would be conducted there. When he was well enough to go.

Which meant Alicent and Otto were in charge of their meetings when the king was absent.

…

The initial greeting was pleasant, even if the king was slowly decaying in front of him.

But Cregan had been free to wander around the castle as their guest. The next talk of business would not be until the morning, so he decided to take advantage of that.

The sun was beginning to set, just a hint of the dark creeping onto King's Landing. Cregan stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Even their cold nights here were hotter than the chill of a warm Northern day.

"Princess, surely you should rest!"

His head snapped back towards the open doors behind him. His curiosity was beyond peaked. Princess Helaena was fine. He'd given her a brief nod and a polite acknowledgement hours ago.

And soon enough, a ghostly presence passed by the doorway. Cregan felt his breath catch.

Silver hair. Grey complexion. And a gown and cloak that dragged with every step.

He was struck.

Her guard followed behind, a resigned look in his eyes.

"I feel fine," her voice softly commented. It was weak, like she never used it.

As they journeyed down the corridor, the voices faded and Cregan found himself following them.

"You've still yet to regain your strength from your scare last week. You'll catch a chill," her guard reprimanded. His armor clunked together with each step, a reminder of the life he abided by.

She was like a gust of wind that chilled you from the bottom to top of your spine. And Cregan quite enjoyed the cold.

"I only wish to leave my chambers for a moment." Her movements were slow and lethargic, yet graceful and calculated.

"You should have waited for me to gather your boots. I have no doubt the stone is freezing over. Please."

Cregan noted just how comfortable this guard was with telling the Princess off. They'd obviously gotten to know one another well.

She released a ragged sigh, pausing in her steps to look over her shoulder. "I-" She froze completely at the sight of Cregan behind them. She hadn't even heard him following, and he didn't make himself known.

Her guard followed her line of sight with ease, immediately moving into a defensive position at the sight of the large stranger.

"Forgive me," Cregan immediately covered, holding his hands out to show he wasn't a threat. He took cautious steps forward more into the light of the nearest window so he could be more seen. "My curiosity got the better of me."

Her guard turned, relying on the princess for her answer to the situation. It was up to her, after all.

Her head tilted to the side and she stepped past him to close in on Cregan.

As she neared, he noticed just how shallow her cheeks were sunken in. The grey in her complexion was an unwelcome one. Her eyes held a dullness to them, despite the intensity of their gaze.

"Cregan Stark, my princess," he greeted, tipping his head down and holding out a hand. He only hoped she'd accept it.

She stared for a while before remembrance ran through her. "Stark of the North. Right." She took his invitation, a shaky hand falling on his.

He noted how cold they were. But he stashed that fact away and kissed her knuckles gently as any gentleman should.

He also noted the ready look in the guard's eyes. Like he'd pummel him just for stepping a toe out of line.

"I can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting you," Cregan continued, letting her hand fall back to her side. "How the Crown has hidden a pretty girl away, I cannot understand."

For once, her lips quirked up on the ends, a soft breath escaping her nose. She finds his comment humorous. "You mustn't lie."

True, she's a bit worse for wear, but she still holds the Targaryen beauty that's so coveted.

"I have not yet," he insists. "Nor do I intend to."

She gets antsy, unsure what to say. Her guard catches on and steps up to the pair. "Excuse us, Lord Stark. Princess Y/n much needs her rest."

"Of course. Excuse my ignorance. Please." His last word is directed right at her as if assuring she'd understand that he meant no harm in his actions before.

She still doesn't speak, only staring as her guard gently turns her back to where they were coming from. "Please start moving back to your room. I will catch up with you in a moment."

She doesn't fight, beginning the willowy trek back to her room. Slow steps once again.

Both watched until she turned the corner, and her guard's worried face switched immediately to questioning. "Ser Criston Cole, Commander of the City Guard," he introduced himself. "Might I ask your reason for following the princess?"

"I only saw her pass through the doorway. Curiosity truly got the better of me. I've not seen her around-"

"-and you won't," Criston finished. "Between you and I, it would be better if you forgot her entirely."

The Stark was thrown off by Criston's sudden aggression. And so he got defensive. "The Crown cannot simply hide away a vital member of its lineage!"

Criston grabbed Cregan's collar with both fists. "I'd warn you to walk away from this now." He was older than him, clearly trying to use that as an intimidation tactic.

Too bad nothing intimidated the Wolf of the North.

"And if I do not?"

"The Crown doesn't take it lightly when its weakest member is targeted."

"What is wrong with her?"

Criston, realizing his intimidation is doing nothing, lets go of him. He gives a glare that clearly says 'none of your fucking business' and begins to walk off in the direction of the princess. "Stick to snow and barbarianism, Cregan Stark!" He calls over his shoulder.

If anything, the guard's gall encourages Cregan. He loves a challenge.

…

The next time he spotted her was while sparring. The training courtyard of King's Landing was very different from that of Winterfell, but he took the opportunity to train with gratitude.

It was quite amusing to see Cregan sweating profusely in a thin tunic while the others wore multiple layers.

Not that he would brag about his adherence to the cold. Out loud, anyway. In his head was different.

And when his eyes wandered up the castle walls, there she was.

Seated in a comfortable chair on her tiny balcony that was clearly drug in and out every night she sat. She was covered in a thick fur, but there she was. Maybe the outdoor air brought her comfort. Her handmaiden brushed through the woman's overly shiny locks.

It was hard to tell exactly what she was looking at, but it was clearly in his direction, so he did his best to avoid staring.

Easier said than done.

Every few hits, he'd find himself looking up to make sure she was still there. She truly felt like a ghost, potentially disappearing now that he'd spotted her.

But she didn't. She only watched from above.

…

By the fifth day of meeting with Alicent and Otto, he brought it up.

"I also couldn't help but notice the princess you keep hidden from sight. I want to ask about her."

Alicent had been waiting for this. Criston had tattled on the man that first night.

Otto was more amused. "Ah yes. I believe it's time we spoke of her. For once."

The queen gripped the chair tightly, earning a small 'tsk' from her father. "What is there to say? She's sickly."

Cregan leaned forward in his chair. "Why keep her locked away from the people?"

"She is not-" Alicent calmed herself and began again. "She is not 'locked away.' She is too ill to attend matters. That is all I wish to say of it."

"Humor the boy," Otto reprimanded. "Once you've spotted her, she's hard to forget."

"Forgive me for my bluntness," Cregan continued. "What illness does she carry?"

Alicent forced herself to keep speaking. "The maesters don't know. We've brought in every kind of maester and septon we could find. It just… comes and goes like the tide. You've not seen her at her healthy side, and for that, I am sorry. She can be a joy when she feels alive."

"She looks like death, no doubt," Otto asked Cregan.

"Like she's seen through its eyes," he agreed. "But not completely dead. There's still a small flame."

Otto liked that answer, smiling. "I like that. Now, back to the North…"

Cregan couldn't wait for the next sighting.

…

Had he stayed up late in the library, just hoping to see a glimpse of her during the dark hours? Yes. But he wouldn't admit that to anyone.

But it paid off.

Like clockwork, she journeyed through the open doorway to the library, pausing when she spotted Cregan.

And she changed her course, moving into the room.

He felt that gust up his spine again, though it eased within moments.

She looked a little better. There was just a tiny increase of color to her cheeks than the last encounter.

Perhaps she was getting better.

"Do you always watch the men train from your balcony?" He braved to ask. He wanted the answer. He needed to hear if it was a special occurrence for him.

"No," her soft answer came.

He felt thrill warm his face. "Then why do it now?"

"I had to… cool myself. I was feverish."

Well, now he feels like a dick for trying to flirt with a woman close to death.

"Forgive me. I meant no offense."

"'S alright." Her attention turned to the vast shelves aligning the walls.

He looked around too, though not in that direction. "Where's Ser Criston?"

She manages a smile and gazes back at him. "Think I can't outrun my guard dog?"

He exhales with a guilty look. "I truly don't believe you can, Princess."

"Good. You're right." She moves past him. "He was excused for the night. I snuck out during guard change."

"Quick," he remarked, watching her journey one of the large wooden tables there and sit. "I want to know more about you."

"There is not much to know." She rested her head in her hand. "Though, I can entertain your questions enough."

"Alright. Your age."

"Eight and ten."

He nodded. That was only a two years difference. "Have you always been sick?"

"No. I developed a horrid fever when I was four. No one thought that I'd make it. And I never really recovered. I've been stuck in this… state."

"And the kingdom just… forgot?"

She shrugs. "When the King never announced the recovery of his daughter… they make assumptions."

"Do they believe you to be dead?"

"I don't know what they believe. I don't talk to them."

A sadness filled Cregan at her declaration. He was beginning to realize just how much he takes his health for granted. He couldn't imagine a day without greeting his people. It felt like a stake in his heart. "Then I apologize for disrupting that when I spotted you in the hall that night. I should have kept to myself."

"No," she mused. "I'm grateful that you did not."

His head tilts. "Truly?"

She grows a tired smile. "I've never met a Northerner."

"And now that you have?"

Her eyes lazily travel over his body, taking her time to appreciate every part. When her eyes met his again, her smile only grew.

…

Cregan's three week stay was now entering its final week. He had found himself over and over again running into the silver-haired princess.

He tried to keep their meetings stashed away in his mind, but the look Otto gave him over dinner had told him he'd done a poor job of it.

So, there they all sat. Cregan Stark and the Targaryen dynasty- Otto and Alicent, Aegon II, and Aemond. Helaena found herself often staying within her chamber, eating with her young children. Sometimes eating with her ill sister when the two grew lonely.

Cregan was never good at small talk. He was a man that always got straight to the point. And the arrangements between the Crown and the North were at a standstill. It caused a light tension over the food.

They just couldn't agree. With the death of Viserys nearing, Cregan wished for reassurance that the next King or Queen would hold the North's arrangements. Alicent's word wasn't enough to reassure him. He needed more.

But that argument was hours ago, and now they all sat awkwardly over their plates.

Cregan had managed to bond with Aemond briefly over discussions of blacksmiths and longswords. It was something he knew well, and the prince clearly had an interest in it. It was better than sitting in silence.

Aegon had no interest whatsoever. He drank away his worries, no doubt planning his next trip out into the night.

"We all heard the rumor," Aemond mused through his quirked lips.

"Rumor?" Stark asked, sipping from his cup.

At the sudden question, each of the royals heads tipped up. They needed to know the truth.

Aemond smirked and leaned forward. His voice lowered. "That you killed a bear with nothing but a club and your hands."

He looked around the table, seeing everyone's eyes on him. He cleared his throat and set his goblet down with a light thud.

A nod.

A collective intimidated breath fell across the table.

Aemond was impressed. He tipped his cup to the Northman and took a swig.

"Your Grace," a guard interrupted, bowing his head. "Princess Y/n," he announced.

Cregan didn't catch the others reactions, instead turning as much as he could in the direction of the door.

He'd feasted with them for over two weeks and only now did the ill princess join them.

She had color to her cheeks now, the light pink standing out beautifully. Lively.

She was finally in a gown fit for a princess, deciding to uphold her appearance.

She clearly wanted to be there.

It was quiet as each step echoed until she reached the seat next to Aegon. The prince reached out, tugging her chair back to encourage her to sit.

Now seated across from Cregan, her eyes met his.

And she smiled.

"It's good to see you up," Otto announced. "I didn't dare to think you'd recovered this well."

She watched the servants tend to her. "Neither did I, but Criston was nearing the idea of simply locking me in my room to get me to rest."

They all found that relatively amusing. Except for Alicent, who only stared with a guilty look. They all knew the queen was sleeping with the Commander of the Guard. She ordered him around like a dog, having him watch her ill daughter like a hawk.

"It is," Cregan spoke, clearing his throat again, "It is good to see you." His voice was softer, clearly meant for her. His eyes took her in a way the gods would scorn. Like she was something to worship.

When healthy, he thought she was a version of the earth itself. Like the warmest day in Winterfell when the wind was just cool enough to remind you to be awake. Or the beauty of falling snow. It bites when you get too close, but he wouldn't be frightened of death in its embrace. She was not sunshine or light, but she was beautiful in her own way, dragging death alongside her wherever she went.

His eyes only left hers when he heard Aegon clear his throat obnoxiously.

"Sister, I thought you were dining with Helaena tonight?"

"The twins were… rather tiring today and she wished to rest instead."

He nodded, accepting that answer, but his eyes were trained on Cregan now, squinting as if he could read him. His fingers picked the meat off of a bone on his plate absentmindedly.

Alicent was about the same, recognizing the longing look in the Wolf's eyes.

…

The princess had excused herself early from dinner, still not entirely up to the usual standard of supping like the others.

That gave Cregan no excuse when Alicent dismissed everyone except for him.

So here he is, stuck sitting at the large table and Alicent paces around it like a lion and its prey.

"I don't like the way you look at her," she started. "She is ill. Have you no morals?"

"Like what?" Cregan challenged. "Look at her in what way?"

"Like you want her."

Her bluntness is not something he expected. He's a bit thrown off. But the queen isn't entirely wrong. "Your Grace-"

"-Do not give her false hope," Alicent says in a lower tone. A pleading one. "She cannot take a heartbreak. She cannot take any outside occurrences tormenting her. She'd surely die."

In truthfulness, Cregan had not considered what would happen if she did grow attached, only for him to leave. The thought hurts. "I mean no harm to her. She is magnificent."

Alicent pauses like the words were poison. "Do not lie to me." Her anger grows. "She is ill. She will always be ill. She'll spent her life in her chamber, in her bed. Do not act like that is not the case."

"Meaning what, my queen?"

"That she could never be a wife."

…

The queen's words had haunted Cregan more than he cared to admit. He mostly hated that she might be right.

When he saw the princess again the next day, she was more chipper than he'd ever seen her before.

"Lord Stark!" She greeted, her steps a bit quicker than before, though still not he'd consider fast.

He gave a brief smile, continuing his walk down the corridor.

Her face fell a bit. "I-Is something wrong?"

"No. I'm only rushing to meet with your mother."

She sighed, trying to keep up with him. "I thought you did not meet again until the morrow."

"You'd be correct in that."

His tone was matter of fact, no room for the gentle pronunciations he'd used before. It was clearly hurting her. It hurt him, too. But he was on a mission.

So she stopped, watching the Northerner walk away with heavy footsteps.

…

He threw the doors open, not waiting for the guards to do it. "I've decided you're wrong."

It was a bold move, causing the Queen to stand and frown. Not many challenged her, especially in this way. To arrange a meeting midday and then enter in this fashion? Suicide.

Otto was amused, not moving from his seat. He gestured to a chair in encouragement.

But Cregan stood, his hands flat on the tabletop. "You've promised the agreement will continue to the next ruler in line, and I said I could not take your word. That I needed more proof of your insistence. Well, I know what I want."

"I appreciate a man who is bold, Lord Stark, but I implore you not to make demands of the Crown," Otto tried to ease.

"No," Cregan began again, his anger turning to Otto. "Though I doubt there will be much fight to this demand. After all, it seems you will not notice its absence."

"And what is that?"

He paused. "The princess. The one hidden away from prying eyes. I will make her my wife. If she'll have me."

Otto was genuinely not expecting that. Alicent grew angry. "That is my daughter! You will not take her away like a bartered cow!"

"That was not my intention. But fine. Let me rephrase." The Wolf rolled his shoulders back, standing tall before the two. " I wish to court your daughter. No alliance involved. No quill to parchment. No deals. This is not part of our agreement."

"How is it not?"

"If you let me court her, it means you have faith in the North. In me. I don't need a parchment to say that."

Otto sighed. "Let me get this clear. You wish to marry a princess of whom will spend her life half dead?"

Cregan shrugged. "Half dead is half alive. And I like the odds. I like her."

"Surely she won't last in the North," Alicent reasoned. "The second the air seeps through your window, she'll die."

"The same way she's dying here?"

That shut Alicent up.

"There are great maesters in the North. They know the effects of the cold on the body. I have no fear of that. I'll tend to the fires in her chamber myself if I must- even collect the wood myself if you're so frightened. I am no idiot. I can keep her alive and happy."

The two considered the man's proposal. It was a strange one. But they recalled the look between him and her at dinner the night before.

"She'll never give you children," Alicent said with remorse.

He nodded. "I'm prepared to deal with that."

Otto look to the Queen, giving a tilt of his head.

She sighed. "If she wants you, she's yours."

…

Three days left in his stay, and he had spent two days without seeing her.

He didn't wish to go to her chamber. She deserved the privacy. That and… he didn't know where it was.

So instead, he resorted to staying up late, hoping she'd appear.

She didn't.

…

Criston Cole passed Cregan, a glare in his eyes.

Cregan followed, grabbing the guard from behind and pinning him against the wall. "Where is she?"

Criston hissed through his teeth. "Why do you assume I've hidden her?"

"Tell me."

He spit in the Wolf's face.

Cregan only blinked, the rest of his face unflinching. "Where is she?"

"In her room. Where she always is," he seethed.

Cregan's head tilted menacingly.

Criston continued. "West wing. Up the stairs, the door at the end."

He slammed the guard against the wall one more time for good measure, then stormed off.

…

He knocked on the door, and her handmaiden answered. "Oh. You're not the maester."

He frowned. "The maester?"

A soft voice came from inside the room, catching the handmaiden's attention. She nodded and opened the door for him.

He stepped in.

The princess laid on her bed, looking quite literally like death. It was worse than the first time he'd sighted her.

She was thinner, her cheeks sunken in again, her skin the dull grey he hated. Her hair was greased with sweat. Yet at the sight of him, she tried to give a weak smile.

Nearing her side, he sighed. "I had… I had no idea, Princess."

Her handmaiden moved to the other side of the bed, going back to dabbing the princess's forehead with a wet cloth.

Y/n hummed at the chill. "'S alright."

"So, these are the ill spells you were speaking of." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"Yes," she sighed. "'S so sudden."

"I see that." He reached out to her hand, brushing his fingers over hers. He didn't want to overstep. But she was the one to intertwine their fingers.

He spent the rest of the day in there, leaving when the maester entered. He stopped him, leaning in to speak lowly to the doctor. "I want you to feed her meat. Lamb, pig, I do not care. But have it brought to her."

…

The maester did as he commanded. And the next day when Cregan visited, she was chipper.

Was she entirely well? No. But the protein had her sitting up in bed, speaking to her handmaiden as her hair was being braided.

It warmed Cregan.

He grinned when he entered, sitting at her side comfortably now. "You look much better."

"I feel better," she smiled. "The maester said you helped."

"That's ridiculous. What do I know about health?"

But they both knew. They all knew.

"Mother told me something odd."

He froze. "Oh?"

"That you wish to marry me."

He took a deep breath, trying desperately to calm his nerves. Perhaps she's rejecting him.

"Is that true?"

He nodded, his fingers playing with hers. "It is. If you'll have me."

She smiled, gently waving her handmaiden off now that her hair was done. The girl left with a knowing grin.

"I'll have you, Cregan Stark."

He cupped her face, brushing his thumb over the light pink in her cheeks. "Then I am a lucky man."

…

And in the North, she blossomed.

He kept a steady diet of red meat for her, watching as she no longer spent every day in their chamber, even getting to journey out to the courtyards and sit through petitions.

The two spent every night cuddled under the furs of their bed. The fire always burned, he made sure of it.

Her mind loved Cregan, and now her body could too.

................................................

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writersdrug · 9 months ago

Note

I NEED waitress!reader accidentally letting it slip that she’s got a date after her shift and so when bartender!simon overhears, he suddenly has a list of things she needs to do after work, causing her get to stay late ))): missing her date ))):

ANGST TIME

He's been watching you like a hawk for the past two hours - and rightfully so. You've been rushing through your tasks, rolling more than enough silverware, keeping your tables happy and stocked - you somehow managed to convince Soap to mop front of house for you. He doesn't like it. Why are you trying to get away?

"Got a date tonight." You tell him, skimming through your receipts as you sit at the bar and calculate your tips. You're not off the clock yet - you still have thirty minutes left. But the restaurant's empty, and all your tasks are done. Your makeup is a little nicer today, softer and less "morning after a deftones concert".

Simon's thankful for the mask, or else his frown would be impossible to miss. Is he dumb? Haven't you been flirting with him all week? Was this another one of your games, pretending to act innocent and coy, messing with him, then announcing you're going out with someone else?!

He feels his shoulders tensing as he watches you tap away at your phone's calculator. He shouldn't be so bothered by this - some things just need to be let go. But he can't. He wants to keep you in his back pocket, or in an empty whiskey bottle on his liquor shelf - not the one behind the bar, but the personal collection in his room on the third floor.

"That's nice," he grumbles, slicing through a lime. "Jus' make sure you finish your chores 'fore you head out."

"Already did!" You chirp at him with a smile. "Just need to do my tips, and I'll be done."

"Did ya clean the ice bins?" He asks.

You furrow your brow. "Huh?"

He jerks his head to the whiteboard on the wine fridge - sure enough, your name is scribbled in, right next to "drain and wash/sanitize ice bins + buckets", along with today's date.

You look back at Simon, your expression now crestfallen. Your date is in an hour, and you still have twenty minutes on your shift. "Don't you usually do it?"

Truthfully, he does. He could do it today, in fact. But his brain is acting on thoughts before he has the chance to consider the consequences. "Can't today, luv. Preppin' for a bigger crowd tomorrow."

Your shoulders slump. "How long does it take?"

"Well, you got to turn 'em off - one by one, I can't have two empty ice bins durin' a shift - then ya dump the ice, wait for 'em to warm up, then ya go in there with soap n' a rag, rinse 'em out, then-"

"God, can this please wait until tomorrow? I'll come in early and do it, I promise."

He looks at you sternly, and you suddenly feel ashamed for asking. "Wot, so I can pay you overtime?"

"Simon, please - if you do them, I'll give you half my tips for today."

"Now y' dumpin' your work on me?"

"I've got a date!"

"I've got my own shit too!"

You snap your mouth shut. He's never been this stern with you, but you know it's well deserved. It's your chore, after all. You'd been wrong to assume he would do it himself, despite that being the usual. You quickly hop out of the barstool and make your way behind the bar, unplugging the first icebin.

Simon watches as you scurry around, running to and from the ice bin into the kitchen, filling up bucket after bucket of ice and dumping it into the sink in the back. You pace as the machine warms up, glancing at your phone every few minutes, then touching the inside of the ice maker to check the temperature. After a few minutes, you're scrubbing the machine as fast as you can with a soapy rag and a bucket of sanitizer eater next to you.

Twenty minutes have gone by. You're supposed to be on your way to your date, but you're biting your lip, staring angrily at the ice machine as it cools down again. You need to wait for it to be cold before you refill it with ice, and only then can you start on the other machine.

You make another attempt towards Simon. "If I just do one tonight and do the other in the morning-"

"No." Simon snaps, his eyes angry as he drops a container of sliced fruit onto the bar. "This is part of havin' a job."

You look away from him, tears stinging your eyes now. You're so frustrated you want to snap back at him - but he's right, isn't he? Maybe you could ask him if you could just call Max and let him know you'll be running late - but the thought of asking Simon for anything right now (other than more chores) makes you queasy.

Simon doesn't know where the anger came from, but it's still simmering. He watches as you continue to run back and forth, filling up the old ice bin, unplugging the second one, dumping the ice in the back... he's refilling the bloody Mary mix and restocking the bitters. Simple things. He's got nothing to do after this besides go up to his flat and sit in front of the telly, or maybe chat with Soap before he heads home. Why didn't he just do it? Because you had a date, and that was a problem for him. Why? Now you're upset, and it's that knowledge that makes him finally feel the shame that he'd been swallowing down.

You finish dumping the last bucket of ice into the second machine. It's forty minutes after your shift ended. You still have to get to the restaurant you and Max were meeting at, which is a twenty minute walk. You were supposed to be there ten minutes early - now you're going to be an hour late. Frustration mingles with anxiety and burns in the forefront of your mind. But you can't be mad. You should've done your job.

Simon doesn't say anything when you run to the back, your phone pressed to your ear and tears in your eyes. You barely manage a wave to Soap as you grab your bag and jacket and flounder back into the restaraunt. You don't look at Simon.

"I'm leaving now, I'm so sorry- I had to finish up at work and it too longer than I-" you slowed to a walk, then a stop, standing in the middle of the floor. Simon was frozen, watching your shoulders shake.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I had-... it's not an excuse, I promise I'm-... listen, we can go for a walk or something, right? Or go get fast food, someplace still open, just you and me, and we can try again another-"

His eyes burn in his skull as he watches you stand there for a few more seconds, staring at your phone as the call disappears from the screen. He wants to say something - but what can he say? He's already fucked you over. And he doesn't feel any better than when he first discovered your little date. He feels worse.

You stuff your phone in your back pocket, unable to hide the single, choked sob that escapes your throat. You shoulder your bag and stomp your way out of the restaurant, door clanging behind you. Your bike is still in the alley out back, and your unfinished tips are still on the bartop. He wouldn't be surprised if you never come back to collect them.

Soap emerges from the kitchen breaking Simon from his thoughts and wiping his hands on a rag. "Real feckin' kind of ye, Ghost. Never seen such a right cunt." He glares at Simon, before slapping the rag on the table and heading back into the kitchen. His shift was over, too.

Simon has three more hours left to deal with himself before the bar closes.

#bartender ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod #ghost cod #call of duty #cod x reader

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fanficsat12am · 6 months ago

Text

Where the little lamb frolics (the little wolf follows)

As blood is spilled in the palace halls, Telemachus' greatest fight is not against the suitors, but against the helplessness that comes as he watches his beloved in the grasp of danger wc: 1.6k warnings: mentions of blood, violence, death, and implications of harassment credits of the art goes to the wonderful @gigizetz and @saradika-graphics for the dividers ❤️

As you ran through the palace's corridors, the sound of screams echoed off its marbled walls. Arrows sliced through the air with a sharp hiss, followed by a sickening squelch, a piercing shriek, and then, with grim finality, a heavy thud. The suitors who had parasitized the halls for decades were now either clambering to get to the doors or dead, their blood staining the previously white floors.

“Telemachus!” You frantically called out, head whipping in every direction as you continued to scan every face that passed by you in your search.

Your terror mounted with every step you took. The thought of your beloved joining the bodies lying on the ground sent a wave of dread that engulfed the pit of your stomach.

As you passed one of the palace’s storerooms, you heard the unmistakable striking of swords. Despite your instincts telling you to run, you knew that even if there was the slightest chance he’d be in there, you’d rather take that over nothing. Running inside, you find Telemachus locked in a fierce struggle, battling off more than a dozen suitors with a fiery determination in his eyes. The sounds of clashing swords and desperate grunts filled the air as your betrothed fought with a fire that left you both in awe and terror, each move calculated and precise, yet the odds seemed stacked against him.

You sighed in relief to see that the boy was at least alive, but the moment of respite was cut short as one of his opponents successfully disarmed him, his weapon skidding to the side.

Before you could call out to him, a rough tug at the back of your chiton cuts you off, sending you stumbling backward into something. Your blood ran cold as an arm wrapped around your torso and arms with a vice-like grip, their hot breath fanning the nape of your neck. As you tried to writhe your body from your captor's hold, you were met by the cold metal of a blade that pressed deeper into your throat with every move.

The man called out to a familiar face that stood in the middle of the room, Melanthius. You’d recognized him to be the king’s goatherd who provided the suitors the finest food and bent to their every will. His loyalty to the king had long been drowned, if it wasn’t obvious enough by how he had practically become one with the other suitors. A disgusting grin formed on the corners of Melanthius’ mouth as his gaze met yours, a dangerous glint shining through.

“It seems we’ve caught ourselves a little lamb” he taunts, stalking towards you.

Little Lamb. Telemachus knew that nickname anywhere.

His words made Telemachus’ head turn sharply your way, his eyes widening, brows drawing together. Despite all the training and lessons taught to him by the Goddess of Wisdom herself, his heart will always trump his mind when it comes to you. He felt the world stop as he saw the glistening metal drawn against your skin.

The momentary distraction had given the other suitors ample time to capture him, seizing his arms as their fingers dug into his skin like iron chains before pushing him onto his knees. He struggled against their hold, his gaze locked on you as his chest continued to rise and fall in ragged breaths.

Melanthius lets out a low chuckle, “Wherever the little lamb frolics, the little wolf will always follow suit.”

Each stride Melanthius took felt like a weight pressing down on Telemachus' chest, and with every inch the man drew nearer, Telemachus found himself aching—not just wanting, but needing to be by your side. In the prince’s eyes, the scene before him was no different from that of an innocent lamb poised to be pounced upon by a pack of ravenous wolves.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on them!” he screamed, lurching in every way possible if it meant getting to you. Melanthius turned to look at the struggling prince, finding his futile display entertaining.

“You have no power here, young prince,” he snickered, pausing from his advance to you and instead walking to him, bending down to meet his eyes.

Telemachus glared at the man, “You may bleed the palace dry of its fortunes for all I care. But no harm shall befall my mother and my beloved for I swear by the gods that I shall make you and your men pay with your life” he growled, the fire of his fury continuing to blaze like the forge of Hephaestus that wanted to consume all that dared to stand in his path to you.

The suitor laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes glinted with a mix of arrogance and amusement as he stood again, making his way back to you. His footsteps fell heavily on the floor as he drew nearer as the air between you thickened with a tension so palpable it could almost be touched.

“Oh, Little Wolf, did you, in your naivety, truly think of them as fools who seek only treasure?” his voice was even and relaxed, masking how poisonous his words truly were.

“Your presence here has doomed the old king. And once we’ve slain him, noblemen shall rightfully take the throne. Along with it, Ithaca, the crown…” he pauses, taking hold of your chin. His stare held a sinister gleam, “and more.”

“No!” Telemachus screamed, the word cracking in the air, sharp and jagged.

Yet, beneath the force of his cry, there was an unmistakable sense of vulnerability, for he understood his helplessness. Despite having the goddess Athena by his side, he wasn't strong enough to shield you. And now, because of that, you were going to suffer. Amid the echo of his cry, there came a sickening squelch followed by a grunt of pain, laced with disbelief.

The grin that had once spread across Melanthius' face had twisted into a frown, crimson blood trailing from the corners. No one had noticed the king who now stood behind him, the attacker’s blade piercing through his chest.

Melanthius sputtered, the thick liquid rising in his throat making the task of speaking almost impossible.

“M…Mer-”

“Mercy?” Odysseus growled, his breath heaved as his teeth grated together. Beneath the unkempt locks of his hair concealed a gaze that flickered with intense rage.

“Mercy?” In a split second, an arrow had found its way to another suitor’s head, the sight leaving the others terrified.

The hands that once held Telemachus with a firm, iron grip had now loosened, now frozen in fear of their inescapable death. You saw the prince move with a speed so unmatched, it was as though the gods had blessed him with the swiftness of Hermes himself. For a brief moment, his eyes locked with yours, and you saw it—the same burning fury that consumed his father. It was wild, untamed, a storm that raged in the depths of his gaze. The prince was no longer a son or a man—he was a force of nature, unstoppable and fierce, bound only by the fierce will to protect what he loved.

With a speed that could only be born from the gods, he shot toward the nearest dory, his hand steady as he seized the weapon. In one fluid motion, he hurled it toward your attacker, its flight a blur of lethal intent. His once-compassionate regard for the suitors had vanished. Mercy had been swallowed whole by a tidal wave of unrelenting vengeance, a wrath so fierce it seemed to rise from the depths of the underworld itself.

You let out a shaking breath of relief as the chilling bite of the blade finally withdrew from your skin, leaving behind a lingering ache like the ghost of its touch. The sharpness of the metal still seemed to hum in the air, a haunting reminder of the danger you’d narrowly escaped. Your body trembled, weak from the shock, as if your very soul had been tested. The ground beneath you seemed to shift, threatening to give way as your legs buckled, but before you could falter, Telemachus’s strong arms enveloped you, pulling you into the shelter of his protective embrace.

As you pulled away, his hands gently cupped your face, tilting it with a quiet urgency.

"Are you alright, my love? Did they hurt you? Please, tell me you're safe."

His eyes searched every inch of your skin, scanning for any trace of injury, any sign of pain that might have been hidden. The touch was tender, yet the fear in his eyes was unmistakable. The world seemed to fall away as he focused, desperate to ensure that nothing, nothing had touched his beloved in any way that might cause hurt for it will only further cement that he had failed. Placing your hands atop his, you give him a gentle squeeze.

"I am well, Tele. Do not worry—" The words were cut short as a suitor’s shrill scream pierced the air, sending a shiver through the stillness. Without hesitation, Telemachus pulled you close, his strong arms wrapping around you as he shielded you from the chaos. As your cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest, you could feel the rapid thrum of his heart, pounding like a war drum in the silence between you. The scent of sweat and earth clung to him, a stark contrast to the cold fear that had gripped you only moments before. His body trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the tension that came with knowing danger still lurked nearby. Yet, within the strength of his embrace, you knew there was no place safer in all the world.

"As long as I live, I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear it to you," he whispers, drawing you closer to him for he will not make the same mistake again.

#epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #reader insert #x reader #reader x character #telemachus x reader #telemachus #telemachus of ithaca #odyssey #the odyssey #epic telemachus #telemachus epic the musical #epic the ithaca saga #epic musical #epic ithaca saga #epic odysseus #ithaca saga

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