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luna-azzurra · 2 months ago

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Character Movements #1

╰ Sighing

Not just “he sighed.” That’s lazy. Give us the why behind the air. Is it the kind of sigh that deflates their whole chest, like they’ve been holding the world on their lungs? Or one sharp exhale through the nose, all frustration and fed-up energy? Maybe it’s quiet—barely audible. Maybe they don’t even realize they’re doing it. But the room shifts a little when they do. Sighs can mean “I give up,” or “finally,” or “not this sh*t again.” Just depends on what’s dragging at their ribs.

╰ Shivering

This isn’t just about cold. A character can shiver in a warm room if they’re scared enough. Maybe their skin prickles before it starts, like tiny goosebumps racing up their arms. Maybe it hits in a full-body tremble, their breath catching like something primal in them just screamed “danger.” Or maybe it’s subtle, like a soft internal quake they’re trying not to show. It’s the kind of movement that betrays the truth they won’t say out loud.

╰ Trembling Hands

Shaking hands are so intimate. They’re not dramatic—they’re revealing. It’s the way their fingers fumble to light a cigarette. The way they have to tuck their hands under their thighs so no one sees. Maybe they keep reaching for the glass but can’t quite get a grip. Or maybe they do grip and the tremor runs through the whole glass like a warning. It’s not about the shake. It’s about the fact they wish they weren’t shaking at all.

╰ Clenching Fists

This one? Its tension incarnate. And it doesn’t always mean someone’s about to punch something. Sometimes they ball their fists just to keep from crying. Or because they’re trying so hard not to say something they’ll regret. Look for the subtleties: white knuckles, nails digging into palms, fists flexing open and closed like they’re trying to wring out emotion. It’s control. Rage. Determination. Or the act of stuffing all that inside a cage of fingers.

╰ Biting Nails

It’s more than “they’re nervous.” It’s compulsion. Habit. A survival tic. They might not even realize they’re doing it—just fingers to mouth, chewing down without looking, like their body’s trying to chew through the waiting. Maybe their nails are ragged. Maybe they flinch when they bite too deep. Maybe it’s the sound, the soft click of teeth and nail in a dead-silent room. It’s vulnerability dressed up as fidgeting.

╰ Tapping Fingers

This is the soundtrack of a restless mind. Is the rhythm sharp? Fast? Jittery? Are they tapping with one finger like a countdown—or all five, like a rainstorm on the table? They might not even notice. But other people do. Someone asks them to stop, and they bristle. Or they stop mid-tap when someone says the wrong thing, and that silence? That silence is loud. Tapping fingers are rarely idle. They’re keeping time with the character’s thoughts.

╰ Pacing

Pacing isn’t just walking back and forth—it’s the body trying to outrun a thought. They stand. They sit. They stand again. They move because stillness feels like being buried alive. Maybe their footsteps are soft, barefoot across carpet. Or hard-soled and echoing through a hallway like a threat. Maybe they walk a perfect loop, over and over. Maybe it’s erratic, jerking toward the door, away, toward again. Their mind is spinning, and their body’s just trying to keep up.

╰ Slumping Shoulders

This isn’t just a posture change—it’s the moment the weight wins. Shoulders that sag say “I lost.” Or “I’m done.” Or “Please don’t ask me to care anymore.” Maybe they slump in a chair and stare at the floor. Maybe they’re standing, but something in them folds anyway. Their spine’s still straight, but their shoulders fall like scaffolding giving way.

╰ Tilting Head

Simple movement—loaded meaning. They tilt their head when someone says something that doesn’t quite click. Or when they’re trying to listen harder, like angling their body will help them hear the truth under the words. Maybe the tilt is sharp and skeptical, like “You sure about that?” Or soft and curious, like “I’m trying to understand.” Or just a little too slow, too drawn out—like a predator sizing up prey. It’s instinctual. And it always means they’re paying attention.

╰ Rubbing Temples

This one screams I’m trying to hold it together. It might be frustration. Migraine. Bone-deep exhaustion. They press fingers to their temples like they’re physically trying to squash the problem before it leaks further into their head. Maybe their fingers circle gently, trying to soothe themselves. Maybe it’s two fingers, firm pressure, eyes closed, jaw clenched. It’s the gesture of someone whose brain won’t shut up—and whose body knows it.

#writing #writerscommunity #writer on tumblr #writing tips #writing advice #character development #writer tumblr #writblr #writing help #character analysis #character movements #movements #writer community

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annarobszombies · 5 months ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley looks like his father, and he hates it.

He hates the way his eyebrows arch, hates his nose, his lips, his fucking eyelashes. All of it.

He's honestly grateful for his compulsive need to wear the mask following his capture and the deaths of his family. When he wears it, he doesn't have to look at his father every time he looks in the mirror.

But then comes you.

You kiss his eyes, his nose, his lips, and you take picture after picture on the rare occasions he allows.

You run your hands through his hair, brush your fingertips over his hated features, and you look at him like he's the most beautiful thing in the world.

You spoil him with affection, mask or no mask, but the way you light up when he pulls it from his head and lets it fall wherever he drops it, exposing his face to you...it makes him start to think that maybe...

Maybe his face was okay.

#call of duty #fanfic #fanfiction #simon ghost riley #x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader

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straw-berrysoju · 14 days ago

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STUDY BREAK PART 2: ORAL EXAM (18+)

Part 1 : study break

Pairing: Seungcheol x !female reader

Setting: college classroom (psychology majors)

Themes: study partners, college setting, power play, public risk, control, obedienceD/s dynamics, power play, public risk, Freudian dirty talk, degradation praise mix, voyeurism (soft), obedience, teasing, edging, oral (f receiving), fingering, permission to watch

Word count: \~3.3k

Rating: Explicit / 18+ only

minors dni!

_______________________________________________________

📱 [21:56] Seungcheol:

Lecture Hall B. Tomorrow. After classes.

Oral exam on Freud.

No panties.

You stared at the message so long your phone dimmed twice. You bit your lip.

Not because you were shocked but because you felt your body react immediately.

Heat pooled between your thighs, your core pulsing at the simple dominance in his tone.

---

The next day, you couldn’t focus in class. You didn’t bother wearing anything under your skirt.

Even during lectures, every movement reminded you of it: the raw skin-on-fabric friction, the cool air between your legs, the dirty knowledge that if anyone looked closely, they’d see.

And Seungcheol?

He sat behind you during your shared afternoon elective like nothing was different—cool, calm, taking notes. He hadn’t even looked at you once. The only moment he acknowledged you was when he stood up to leave and leaned down, lips grazing your ear.

“Hope you studied, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I expect you to perform.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

---

When you step into Lecture Hall B later, the classroom is mostly dark except for a few desk lights still glowing faintly. It’s the one they use for after-hours tutoring or private bookings. You glance around. Empty.

Then—

A throat clears.

You turn and find him already seated near the front of the room, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, glasses sliding low on his nose.

“Close the door,” he says.

Your fingers move before your brain does.

He watches as you walk toward him, hips swaying slightly now that you're painfully aware of how little you’re wearing.

“On the desk,” he says. “Facing me.”

You sit at the wide professor’s desk near the podium, heart hammering.

He stands and walks up slowly, placing a stack of note cards next to you.

“Today’s topic,” he says, voice low, “is Freud’s psychosexual stages. You’re going to recite each one. Tell me the age range, the fixation behavior, and what unresolved conflict leads to dysfunction in that stage.”

You blink. “Is this a real test or—”

“Don’t interrupt,” he snaps, but his smirk betrays him. “And no stuttering. Every mistake earns a consequence.”

You sit up straighter. “Consequences?”

“Teasing. Edging. Denial. You know,” he says, voice like velvet. “Motivators.”

You swallow.

“Let’s begin.”

He flicks a note card over. “Stage one.”

You steady your breath.

“The oral stage,” you begin. “Birth to around 18 months. The focus is on the mouth—feeding, sucking. If fixation occurs—”

He cuts you off by stepping between your legs, spreading them wider with his thigh.

“Correct,” he murmurs. “And what kind of behavior results from oral fixation?”

Your breath hitches. “Nail-biting. Smoking. Oral dependence… compulsive eating or talking…”

He leans in closer, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “And what else, sweetheart?”

You know what he wants.

You whisper, “Craving oral stimulation.”

He hums in approval. “Good girl.”

His hand slips beneath your skirt, fingers brushing your bare, already-damp folds.

“God,” he murmurs, “you’re soaked already? You do love being a textbook case, don’t you?”

You gasp as he draws a finger up your slit—not entering, not yet—just teasing the slickness there.

“Next stage,” he says, flicking another card.

“The anal stage,” you pant, struggling to focus. “18 months to three years. Focus on bowel control and retention.”

He circles your clit slowly.

“And fixation?”

“Compulsive cleanliness… or messiness. Control issues.”

“Mm. I can tell you’re not in control right now,” he whispers. “Which means you’re mine to manage.”

You nod, almost dazed, hips bucking slightly into his touch.

He pulls his hand away.

“Next.”

“Phallic stage,” you rush out. “Ages three to six. Focus on genitals. Development of the Oedipus complex in boys, Electra in girls—”

His lips are suddenly right against your neck.

“And how does the Electra complex present?” he asks, voice a rasp.

“Girls desire their father. View mother as rival. Crave male attention to resolve the conflict.”

He tugs you forward. “And what are you craving right now, baby?”

You whisper, “You.”

His breath hitches. “Say it louder.”

“I want you,” you plead. “Please—”

“Shh.” He smirks. “Still two stages left.”

You sob out a laugh. “I can’t—”

“You can. Be my good girl.”

You breathe hard, trying to steady yourself.

“Latency stage,” you say shakily. “Six to twelve. Sexual urges go dormant. Focus shifts to intellectual pursuits—school, friendships…”

He smirks. “Might be your weakest stage. You’re not doing much studying.”

“Shut up,” you mutter.

He pinches your thigh. “Don’t brat.”

You whimper.

“And the last?”

“Genital stage,” you gasp. “Puberty onward. Mature sexual interests. Healthy development depends on resolving earlier conflicts.”

He hums. “Think you’re in the genital stage now?”

“Cheol…”

“Answer.”

“Yes,” you whine. “Please—”

He drops to his knees.

You barely have time to breathe before his mouth is on you—tongue sliding over your soaked folds, lips sealing around your clit. You cry out, legs twitching, thighs clenching around his head.

“Fuck—Cheol—”

His grip on your hips tightens as he devours you. Long licks, firm pressure, alternating with soft sucks that make your vision blur. You buck against his mouth, already so close it’s unbearable.

And just when you're about to come—

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Did I say you could finish?” he asks, mouth slick with your arousal.

You shake your head furiously. “No—please—I’ll be good—”

He’s about to go back in when—

Click.

The door opens.

You freeze.

Seungcheol freezes.

A soft male voice stammers from the back of the room: “Shit—oh my god—I didn’t—I didn’t know someone was—”

It’s Jun.

The quiet kid who always seems to hover near the back row. Always early to class. Always scribbling in the margins of his psych readings. Never the type to make a sound unless directly called on.

And now—

He's standing in the open doorway of the lecture hall.

Backpack slung on one shoulder. Eyes wide.

And those eyes are locked onto you.

Propped up on the professor’s desk.

Skirt hitched above your waist.

Seungcheol’s head still between your thighs.

Your whole body seizes, and your first instinct is to shove your skirt down, scramble off the desk, and disappear into the floor.

But Seungcheol?

He doesn’t even flinch.

His head lifts, tongue slow against his bottom lip, savoring the taste of your arousal like it’s honey. He

doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth.

His hand stays possessively on your thigh as he turns lazily toward the door.

“You're early,” he says to Jun, voice calm. Almost amused.

Jun opens his mouth. Closes it.

Then: “I—I left my laptop charger. In the front row, I thought no one—”

“You saw plenty.”

Jun flushes violently, about to step back. “I’m so sorry—I’ll leave, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” Seungcheol says, voice suddenly sharp.

Jun freezes.

You, breathless and still dizzy from the orgasm Seungcheol just ripped from you moments ago, blink down at him. “Cheol—?”

Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to you. And it softens, just enough. “You okay?”

Your voice is hoarse. “Y-Yeah.”

“Color?”

“Still green.”

That earns a smile. One he throws over his shoulder toward Jun next.

“You interrupted an exam,” Seungcheol says. “It’s only polite you stay for the rest.”

Jun visibly swallows. “Wait, what?”

Seungcheol stands fully now, brushing his palm along your thigh. His fingers are wet with you, and you feel heat climb back into your chest at the thought of how visible it all is.

“Don’t worry,” Seungcheol tells Jun smoothly, “you don’t have to participate. You just get front row seats.”

Jun looks between the two of you—your blown-out expression, your trembling thighs, the wetness glistening on Seungcheol’s chin.

“I—” he stammers. “She… wants that?”

Seungcheol steps aside, letting you have the floor.

His voice drops. “It’s her choice.”

You swallow thickly, pulse roaring in your ears.

You don’t even look at Jun.

Your eyes stay on Seungcheol.

And you whisper, “Yes.”

His smile turns downright feral. “Good girl.”

“Back on the desk,” he orders.

You do as told—shaky legs lifting as you ease back into position, skirt riding up again, your pussy still twitching from the last round.

He bends over you again. Mouth so close you can feel the heat of it against your core. You glance past him now, to the row of seats where Jun has quietly sunk into the corner desk, his laptop charger now forgotten on the floor by his feet.

He’s leaning forward, expression unreadable, legs slightly apart, hands in his lap.

Watching.

You feel the burn of humiliation lick at the edges of your stomach—and then melt, replaced by something darker. Filthier. Hotter.

Seungcheol starts slow this time. Deliberately slow.

He presses open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh, working his way up, dragging his tongue just shy of where you need it. His breath is warm. His grip is firm.

“You hear that?” he murmurs. “He’s watching how sweet you look like this. Spread open. Dripping. Needy.”

You moan.

“And you love it. Don’t you?” His lips brush your clit—just once. “You love being watched.”

You don’t want to say it. You can’t say it.

But your hips lift, chasing his mouth.

Your body betrays you.

Seungcheol chuckles darkly. “Knew it.”

Then he finally puts his mouth on you again—and this time, there’s no mercy.

He licks and sucks with intention, with heat, his nose bumping your clit as he tongues your entrance. Your thighs are shaking, your toes curling against the cool wood of the desk. You try to bite your hand to stay quiet, but he catches your wrist and pins it to your side.

“No hiding,” he growls. “Be loud for me.”

And god—you are.

Your moans echo through the empty room, bouncing off the walls, reverberating between the seats. Jun doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel his stare—hot and focused and fixed right where Seungcheol is licking you apart.

And then—without warning—Cheol adds a finger.

Then two.

He fucks them into you slowly, curling just right, tongue circling your clit as your orgasm builds again, fast, like it’s sprinting up your spine.

You’re whimpering now, helpless. “Cheol—Cheol—I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t stop.

Your body bows. Your mouth drops open, and you come hard around his fingers, slick pouring out of you in waves. You’re crying out now—no control, no shame, nothing but pleasure and that filthy, heady knowledge that you’re being watched.

He pulls his fingers from you slowly, deliberately. Brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, never breaking eye contact.

With Jun.

Then he looks at you again. “One more?”

Your head lolls back. “Please.”

He kisses your thigh gently.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Lesson’s not over yet

Seungcheol doesn’t let you breathe long.

He stands, slowly pushing his hoodie sleeves back up his forearms, then grabs your waist with both hands and spins you around on the desk.

Now you’re bent forward, cheek against the cool wood, eyes facing the classroom.

Facing Jun

His knuckles are white around the edge of the seat. His face flushed, eyes locked on the slick mess between your thighs. And the new shape of Seungcheol behind you—his belt already unbuckling with a quiet clink that echoes in your ears.

"Keep your legs spread, give him a good view of this pretty pussy," Seungcheol says behind you, voice calm, dangerous. “Back arched. Palms flat.”

You obey instantly.

You feel the head of his cock against your entrance, hot and heavy, teasing—just the tip brushing through your folds.

Then he leans forward over your back, mouth to your ear.

"You want him to see what a good girl looks like when she gets fucked for real?"

You moan, helplessly. “Yes.”

He thrusts in slow and deep—one smooth stroke—and you choke on a cry.

It’s too much, too thick, too intense after how sensitive you are from coming twice.

Your body clamps around him, involuntary, and he groans against your neck.

“God, you’re fucking tight. You love this, don’t you?”

You can’t speak. Just nod, barely holding yourself up as he starts to move—deep, strong strokes that push you forward on the desk.

And every sound—your breath, your wetness, the slap of skin against skin—is audible. Loud. Raw.

For Jun.

"Eyes up," Seungcheol orders. "I want you to look at him while I ruin you."

You lift your head—and meet Jun’s stare. He’s breathing heavily now. His pants are tight across his lap. But he hasn’t moved his hands.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Seungcheol growls without even turning around. “You haven’t earned that.”

Jun stiffens in his seat. “Y-Yes, sir.”

You gasp—sir.

Seungcheol smirks. “Oh? He learns quick.”

He fucks you harder.

You whimper, body shaking, struggling to keep your eyes on Jun, but the humiliation—the arousal—keeps you pinned in place.

Then Seungcheol stops.

You sob at the loss of friction.

And hear the shuffle of paper.

He’s grabbed your flashcards.

He flips one. Reads it.

“Define ‘reaction formation,’” he says casually.

You blink, dazed. “W-What?”

He thrusts in sharply. You yelp.

“Define it.”

You scramble for the answer. “It’s—a defense mechanism. When someone behaves in a way that’s opposite of their actual feelings.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, rolling his hips deeper. “Example?”

“Someone—” You moan. “Someone hating someone, but acting overly friendly.”

“Mm. Like pretending you’re innocent when you really want to be used like a toy?” he coos.

You whimper, thighs trembling.

Seungcheol turns around.

“Jun. Get up.”

Jun hesitates—then obeys, walking slowly down the aisle toward the front.

You tense.

Seungcheol notices.

“Color?”

You whisper, “Green.”

He nods. “Good.”

“Closer,” he tells Jun. “Stand right here.”

Jun stops beside the desk. You can’t even look at him—face flushed, body exposed, Seungcheol buried deep inside you.

“Hold the flashcards,” Seungcheol says.

Jun takes them with shaky fingers.

“Read the next one.”

Jun swallows. “Uh. ‘Displacement.’”

Seungcheol pulls out halfway and slams back in. You sob.

“Displacement,” you pant. “When someone takes out their emotions on a safer target. Like—yelling at your roommate when you're mad at your professor.”

Seungcheol hums, lips brushing your shoulder. “Guess you’re the target now, huh?”

“Next card,” he commands.

Jun fumbles. “Um—‘Transference.’”

You try to focus, body twitching from the rhythm of Seungcheol’s thrusts, your slick pouring down your thighs.

“Transference is—” you moan, “redirecting feelings meant for one person onto another. Like… projecting parental issues onto a therapist.”

Seungcheol grunts. “Or a professor’s desk, maybe.”

He grabs your wrists, pins them behind your back with one hand. His other hand curls around your throat, gently but firmly.

“Jun,” he says, calm. “Describe what you see.”

Jun chokes. “I—she’s bent over. Y-You’re—fucking her. Her thighs are shaking.”

“Her pussy?” Seungcheol growls. “What’s it doing?”

Jun’s voice is nearly a whisper. “It’s… wet. It’s gripping you.”

“Good,” Seungcheol says darkly. “Now watch what happens when I tell her not to come.”

He leans down to your ear. “You don’t come until I say.”

You bite your lip hard. “Yes, sir.”

And then he ruins you.

He pounds into you harder, rougher, the desk creaking beneath your hips. Your moans are sobs now, pleasure high and sharp, right at the edge—but held back, barely.

“Beg,” he growls.

“Please, please, please—” you chant. “I need to come, sir, please—I’ll be good—”

He slams into you deep and stills.

“Come.”

You break apart.

A scream wrenched from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you—blinding, body-wrecking, wet and messy and loud.

Seungcheol fucks you through it until you collapse against the desk, limp and twitching.

Jun is still frozen at your side, panting, sweating.

“Put the cards down,” Seungcheol tells him. “You’re done.”

Jun obeys silently.

Seungcheol kisses your shoulder, then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod slowly. “Still green.”

He smiles. “God, you’re perfect.”

Then he turns to Jun.

“Leave,” he says. “And keep your mouth shut. About everything.”

Jun blinks. “Y-Yeah. Of course.”

And then he’s gone—almost running out of the room—leaving you panting and dripping on the professor’s desk, with Seungcheol still inside you, smiling like the devil.

He slowly pulls out, hands steadying your hips as he helps you sit up — not rushing, not letting go until you’re upright and leaning back against his chest. You’re still trembling, thighs sticky and soaked, mascara smudged under your eyes, your blouse halfway undone. You feel used. Exposed.

And utterly adored.

He strokes your hair and plants a soft kiss on your forehead.

“You were so good, babygirl”

Seungcheol breathes hard, smirking.

“Today's lesson is over”

_______________________________________________________

tagging everyone who requested part 2:

@cherrylovescheol @coffee4koo @sseungcheols

#kpop smau #kpop smut #seventeen smut #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #seventeen seungcheol #seventeen smau #seventeen scoups #scoups x reader #scoups smut #seungcheol x reader #nct smut

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deepdankpit · 2 years ago

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looking up treatments for OCD just made me more depressed because I have too many comorbidities for ERP therapy to be effective cool cool

and anywhere you go online people just repeat how great ERP therapy is instead of acknowledging some people are already dealing with enough stressors from non-OCD symptoms, that the added anxiety of exposure will make us so much worse that it ends up way more destructive than productive

#not to mention that it relies completely on the therapist being competent and not abusing their power over you #which with this specific therapy would be very easy to do #also seems based completely on minimising the compulsions and not the distress #like the compulsions aren't what's stressing me out dood #and what if my compulsion is completely internal like a mantra or something?#you can't tell I'm doing it and I can't stop it because it's a thought responding to another fucking thought #ugh just makes me mad this whole thing seems based on diminishing outward symptoms and then people are like #WELL I DIDN'T HAVE TO TAP MY NOSE WHEN I THOUGHT ABOUT MURDER SO I'M CURED #STILL THOUGHT ABOUT MURDER BUT YKNOW

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jinusajas · 7 months ago

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12/01/24; 06:41pm

{ drabbles / headcanons }

[ when you steal a kiss from them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

always known to fall asleep during the daylight hours, you decided to be a good girlfriend and allow sylus to get some much needed rest.

but of course, sharing a living space with luke and kieran provided double the challenge for you. throughout the day, it seemed like your main mission involved preventing the twins from making too much noise-

or from blowing up the whole mansion in general.

their laughters and overall abundance of energy was wearing you down, and it got so bad that you decided to set them off on a scavenger hunt you had made up on a whim, just to get some peace and quiet. once they were out of the house and roaming the streets of the n109 zone, you let out a sigh of relief, heading back to your shared bedroom. now in the confines of your sanctuary, you shut the door behind you while letting out a gentle huff.

trailing your gaze towards the bed, you smile upon seeing sylus still resting comfortably in bed. the comforter covered the lower half of his body, and you could feel your heart pounding in response to the sight of his perfectly sculpted chest and how it lay bare for your eyes alone.

it didn’t matter how many years you’ve spent together with sylus. without fail, your abdomen would always erupt with butterflies at the sight of his beauty. as if caught in a trance, you step closer to the sleeping man, heart already racing with anticipation at what you were about to do.

you stand over your lover, admiring the tranquility of his sleeping face when you heed your heart’s desire and lean your face down closer to his, pressing your lips against sylus in a gentle kiss.

“hn, i was wondering when you’d come back to me.”

sylus’s rich voice catches you off guard, and you gasp in response, feeling sylus open his eyes before placing a large hand behind your head, keeping you still before crashing his lips against yours in a searing kiss. the tip of his tongue traces at the border of your lips, and you steadily began to lose all of your senses the moment you open up to him, allowing him to slide his tongue in and get a taste of you.

sleep had long since evaded sylus when he keeps you close to him, taking advantage of your newfound privacy as he quickly morphed your simple kisses into something much more passionate.

zayne had locked himself within his office once more-

and you felt incredibly disappointed in the fact that he was still working despite it being his day off.

however, you did your best to forgive him in such situation, since he was someone who saved lives with his profession.

you just wished there was something you could do to help with easing his stress.

as the hours went by, you look at the clock to see it was already 7pm, with no signs of zayne coming out of his office anytime soon. letting out a sigh, you figured you could help your boyfriend destress by ordering some good takeout for dinner. not in the mood to cook, you figured it was fine to treat yourself to some of your favorite takeaway while sharing it with zayne. with your orders placed and paid for, you hesitantly walk toward his office and give the door a series of knocks.

“it’s unlocked, honey.” zayne’s tired voice was heard coming from behind the door, and you could feel the heat travel up your neck at the sound of his affectionate nickname for you.

with a sheepish grin, you enter his office, your greeting for him settled at the tip of your tongue, yet something stops you. your eyes take in the sight of zayne, dressed comfortably in a grey sweater as his eyes poured over the various patient charts settled on his desk. his reading glasses remained settled against the tip of his nose, and his hair appeared messier than usual, like he had been running his hands through them throughout the day.

a compulsion was felt coursing through your veins, your heart and mind both telling you that you needed to kiss him at this very moment. for some reason, zayne looked incredibly alluring to you, and you found yourself falling in love with him all over again.

you take gentle strides toward zayne, calling out his name while in an almost trancelike state. zayne meets your gaze and acknowledges you-

only to let out a gasp when you suddenly crash your lips against his. the shock he felt lasts for a mere second before he responds, moving his lips slowly as he slots his lips against yours, kissing you back with just as much passion.

when the need for air proved to be too much, you were the first to pull away from him, feeling embarrassed when zayne gives you a knowing smile. “i apologize, had i known you had missed me so much, i would have spent more time with you.”

you could only manage a series of stutters in response to his sweet words, earning a sweet chuckle from him. grasping at your hand, he places a lingering kiss at the back of them, “forgive me?”

you shake your head, getting rid of your nervousness and smile, feeling zayne place you on his lap. being closer to him now, you allowed your hands the pleasure of running through his soft strands of hair, “of course i forgive you. i always do because you’re a good man who saves lives for a living.”

a rich chuckle escapes from zayne as he takes off his glasses, leaning into you with another smile on his face, “i suppose you do wish to be spoiled after all.”

and when zayne suddenly surges forward, capturing your lips in another passionate kiss, you allowed the rest of the world to melt away-

not even caring that your dinner had already arrived, since all you could taste and feel was zayne.

your losing streak with kitty cards would be your tragic end-

you were certain of it as xavier seemed to have all the luck on his side.

from getting the optimal amount of kitty cards and their matching cups, his score kept climbing higher and higher-

leaving you sobbing in the dust as you struggled to keep up.

even with the various power ups you tried to use to help with lowering his winnings, none of them seemed to be enough.

currently, you were on your last round of kitty cards with xavier, leaving you pouting at your hunter boyfriend as he kept giggling sweetly at you, holding his cards above his lips to help with hiding his smile in hopes of easing the blow of your incoming loss.

“hehe, s-sorry, but your pouting face is so cute… you’re so adorable.” xavier tells you, clearly enjoying his winnings so far-

and admittedly, you felt the tiniest bit petty-

actively ignoring how much your heart was racing at the sight of xavier’s smiling face.

yet xavier seemed to bask in your annoyance, still chuckling lightly as he waited for you to complete your turn. letting out a grumble of his name, you cross both arms across your chest and tell him, “wipe that grin off your face, it’s not funny that you’re so lucky right now…!”

yet your words simply make xavier chuckle even more at you, no longer using his cards to hide his smile as he laughed at you. you let out a huff, wishing to wipe that cute smile off his face when you lean across the table to press an unexpected kiss against xavier’s lips.

your boyfriend lets out a surprised sound that was a mix between a gasp and a grunt, making you smile against his lips while deepening the kiss, not stopping until you were certain that xavier would be left speechless. knowing that you had successfully swallowed the rest of his laughter, you pull away from him with an almost smug expression on your face.

now, it was your turn to giggle at xavier, watching as his cheeks take on a rosier hue, actively blushing as he kept touching at his lips. finally registering the sounds of your laughter, xavier tosses aside his cards and allows the colored teacups to fall to the ground the moment he lunges at you, with his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you closer to him.

“no fair… you cheated.” it was xavier’s turn to pout when he presses you closer to him.

feeling playful, you stick your tongue out at him-

only for xavier to respond by leaning down to kiss you once more, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss that had you seeing stars by the end of it all.

there was something achingly beautiful when it came to witnessing rafayel complete a painting he had been working on for nearly weeks on end.

and you were lucky enough to be the closest to him when these moments struck-

where you allowed yourself to bask in the beauty of rafayel’s radiant gaze, his eyes looking over the completed canvas with a sense of noticeable pride coursing through his veins.

there also seemed to be a glowing aura that surrounds him, making him appear so wonderful and oh so breathtaking that your heart would ache in response to witnessing something so ethereal.

filled with love for him, you step into his studio, calling out rafayel’s name while he was in the midst of basking in his completed work. he hums and faces you, giving you a beaming smile while welcoming you with arms wide open, “hey princess-“

you stand closer to him, cutting him off when you leaned up against him before pressing a loving kiss against his lips. he stiffens momentarily in surprise, yet still, you continued to kiss him, filled with an almost possessive desire to claim him as yours alone.

yet instead of pushing you away-

rafayel responds beautifully to you, kissing you back while wrapping both of his arms around your waist to help with bringing you closer to him. a giggle was felt bubbling within your throat when you break off the kiss first.

“hey, why’d you pull away so fast?” rafayel’s pouting face earns yet another giggle from you, making you lean up to press a kiss against his nose. “truly, i don’t know what came over me. i just wanted to show you how proud i am of you… and… let you know how beautiful you are each time you finish a project you’re so passionate about.”

rafayel’s eyes light up with unbidden joy upon hearing your words, “oh now you’re just begging to be smothered in kisses! you better prepare yourself princess.”

the sight of your grinning face makes your lemurian lover crush your body against his, allowing him to kiss at your features, practically littering your face with his playful kisses as your laughter echoes throughout the studio.

end notes: i’ve been writing too much smut and figured there needed to be some much needed fluff with my fave LADS men as a palate cleanser 😅😅😅

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

#sylus x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x you #zayne x you #xavier x you #rafayel x you #sylus x y/n #zayne x y/n #xavier x y/n #rafayel x y/n #lads x reader #lnds x reader #l&ds x reader #writings 📖

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sixeyesonathiel · 24 days ago

Text

satoru’s just a centuries-old vampire trying to blend in at uni, but you—his clingy, masochistic, and weirdly romantic bloodbag—keep ruining his cover (and his self-control) with love bites and reckless affection.

freaky pt. 2 don’t click unless ur a freak | masterlist.

satoru doesn’t understand how he got here. how he went from being the bloodthirsty, ageless menace of vampire folklore to sitting in the campus caf with an econ textbook, a blood sugar spike, and his absolutely deranged girlfriend tangled around him like a fever dream he forgot to wake up from. a very clingy fever dream. a limpet. a warm, slightly-bleeding parasite he has somehow imprinted on like a very stupid duckling.

well. maybe he does know how. it’s you. it’s always you. you, with your warm pulse and warmer eyes and unshakeable belief that pain equals affection. you, who walk around with band-aids in your bag that aren’t even for you. you, who offer your blood like it’s a bag of chips at a party. he’s survived centuries. inquisitions. the invention of the microwave. a taylor swift era he will never emotionally recover from.

and yet one breathy, “baby, i’m dizzy... drink me,” and this thousand-year-old apex predator is half-hard and suckling your wrist like a juice pouch. like a capri sun, if capri suns came with giggles and a moan.

he’s not proud of it. well. he is. but he won’t say that out loud.

he’s supposed to be blending in. the plan was simple. enroll, lay low, graduate, don’t fall in love with a psychotic bloodbag who thinks blood in a transfusion pouch is “sterile and emotionally distant.” he was going to ace his classes, eat mystery meat from the caf, and maybe grow a man bun. but no. you showed up. you with your sleepy eyes and compulsive need for skin-to-skin contact. you with the kind of scent that makes his fangs throb and his frontal lobe go static.

he shifts in his seat, dragging his textbook higher on his lap to hide the frankly criminal situation in his jeans. you squirm in his lap like you know, legs swinging lazily, cheek squished into the crook of his neck. your nose twitches a little, like a rabbit. one of your fingers is wrapped around the hoodie drawstring, the other gently poking at his ribs like a particularly affectionate woodpecker. it’s his hoodie. oversized, black, now faintly stained with the scent of your shampoo. he doesn’t want it back.

“you drank my breakfast,” you mumble, your voice a sleepy, petulant little thing. it buzzes against his throat like a threat and a plea all at once.

satoru groans. not from guilt—he has none—but from the sheer absurdity of this dynamic. he taps your nose with a knuckle, smirking despite himself.

“you climbed through my window at 3 a.m. and sat on my face. i thought it was a trade.”

you lean back just far enough to give him a look. that look. the one with narrowed eyes and twitching lips, the one that says you’re mad and loving it. your hair’s a mess. your eye bags are adorable. he wants to cradle your head and also maybe bonk it against a soft wall.

“don’t pretend like you didn’t like it. you purred.”

“vampires don’t purr,” he says, clearly lying.

“you made a sound. it was feral. like a cat being offered rotisserie chicken.”

“i was dying,” he tries.

“you were moaning.”

his mouth opens, then closes. his eyebrow twitches. he hates how easily you win.

“you can’t keep skipping meals just so i’ll drink from you,” he mutters, trying to nuzzle into your hair and hide his shame. you smell like sweat, sugar, and fabric softener. and blood. always blood. he hates how good it smells. how safe it smells.

you hum, fiddling with the drawstring again. “i like when you drink from me. it’s romantic. also, it stings. in a good way. like heartbreak and exfoliation.”

he chokes. on air. or pride. or both. because what the fuck does that even mean. heartbreak and exfoliation?? you say things like that with a straight face. he’s going to die of cringe and love.

his fangs throb. he tilts his head away before instinct takes over and he bites you in front of god and econ majors.

“people are staring,” he mutters, mostly to his own dignity.

“let them,” you whisper, and then, you bite him. right on the shoulder. through the hoodie. not hard, but with intent.

he flinches, ears ringing. his hand flies to your waist, gripping tighter. you giggle, eyes shining with delight.

he wants to throw you across the room and then chase after you like a cartoon villain with a bouquet. he wants to handcraft you a coffin with silk sheets. he wants to bite you and then tuck you in with a heating pad. he is not okay.

he drinks from you again that night. you kiss his cheek, brush his hair back, and murmur filthy, loving nonsense in his ear until he caves. he always caves.

you’re on his bed, straddling his lap, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. you tilt your head, breath hitching as his fangs sink in. your hands are in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. he licks over the bite gently, trying not to bite again just from how pretty you look blinking up at him like he’s the only thing in the world.

“you’re obsessed with me,” you say, dreamy and drunk on blood loss.

he pulls back, lips wet, pupils dilated. he licks his fangs. he tries to look annoyed. he probably just looks lovesick.

“you just thanked me for biting you.”

“yeah,” you sigh. “you’re my favorite pain.”

he stares. you smile. he shoves his hoodie sleeve over your face like a curtain, mostly so you don’t see how red his ears are.

he thinks he should probably feel guilty. or concerned. or call a priest. instead, he just feels this stupid, gnawing devotion that makes his stomach hurt and his hands shake and his soul vibrate in weird little circles around you.

you shift in his lap, content and bleeding and smiling like you’ve won the lottery. he’s the prize. you treat him like one. like he’s special. like he’s not a monster. it undoes him. every time.

he sighs. you hum. his hand slips under the hem of your hoodie and finds skin. warm. alive.

he’s doomed. hopelessly, gloriously, pathetically doomed.

and for once in his stupid long life, it feels like the best mistake he’s ever made.

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