#even if this image doesn’t connect to it in any way… ^^;

[reidmotif]

Off the Record

Summary: Reader is hellbent on not confessing while the BAU is interrogating her. Spencer Reid finds an.. unconventional tactic that'll break her.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, f!masturbation, mentions of typical CM violence, o-denial, slight dbcon, pinv sex, rough sex/make-out, semi-public sex.

Word Count: 3.4k

Masterlist

There's reward in going unnoticed. 

Some would obviously say otherwise. There’s an argument to be made that it’s better to make your presence known, to announce who you are to the world with no apology or shame. 

After all, if no one sees you, truly sees you, what separates your existence from those who live and those who were never here to begin with? 

And of course, this may be true for some, but what do you say to those who live an existence fated to stay under the cover of darkness? To seal the horrors in Pandora’s Box out of mercy for a world that was never ready for you in the first place? 

Despite your reasons for staying quiet, Spencer Reid seemed determined to break you. 

“You’re not making this any easier on yourself, you know?” Spencer muttered, sitting across from you in the dim light of the interrogation room. His exhaustion was evident, the prolonged questioning taking a toll on his psyche.

 “You’d save yourself a lot of trouble if you just confessed.” 

His voice was low and tired, the hours wearing him thin. 

“Where’s the fun in that, Agent Reid?” You respond, cocking an eyebrow, your hands crossed over your chest. You pause, before adding: “Besides. Nothing to confess.” 

“Dr Reid.” He firmly corrects.

You’re defiant, consistently repeating the same lines you’d flung at every agent that had approached you for the past sixteen hours, since the moment you’d been torn away from the safety of your apartment. 

It was too bad. Even on what seemed to be a hard day, Spencer Reid was dreadfully handsome. 

Spencer let a deep exhale exit his nose, a testament to his growing frustration, and a half-hearted attempt to ground himself. “Liam Brown, Noah Williams, Theodore Smith.” He says, pushing various crime scene pictures towards you over the table. “All victims of a prolific black widow we’ve been chasing for months.” 

The images are gruesome, meant to provoke you. You give a response, but perhaps not the one they intended. Disgust slips into your expression before you can stop yourself, but you look away in the end, unwilling to yield and give yourself away. Nobody needed to know that you felt no pity for the men on the table. 

“A connection isn’t the same as probable cause, and I know my rights.” You snap, your body language making it clear that you were nowhere near giving them the answers you wanted.  “You can’t hold me any longer than forty-eight hours.” 

Spencer rubs a hand over his face, clearly exasperated. With no further words exchanged between the two of you, he rises from his chair, allowing the metal furniture to scrape softly against the floor, before disappearing to the other side of the one-way mirror that stood in front of you.

 You didn’t need to see him to know that his gaze was trained on you, even then. 

 Waiting for the moment you’d snap. 

Too bad he’d never get what he wanted. 

Several minutes pass by whilst you’re alone in the room. The air wraps around you, tension making a home through every inch of you as your thoughts run wild in the silence. 

What was your endgame here? Could you really outsmart the FBI? They still had about thirty-one hours with you. What would they do? 

Before you can answer any of your own questions, Spencer re-enters, but something’s shifted this time. The previous fatigue that plagued him just minutes ago was no longer there, but rather replaced with a defiance and intensity that mirrored your own. You’re already getting ready to fight, to match the shift in his demeanor, but he doesn’t give you the  chance.  

“Get up,” He barks out, his voice sharp and full of command that wasn’t previously there.

You narrow your eyes, still trying to maintain your resistance in the face of the new persona he seemed to be sporting. “Am I free to go?” 

He laughs, but it’s a sound completely devoid of humor.

 “Did I say that? No.” He answers his own question, sharply. “Get up. I won’t repeat myself.” 

Despite your desire to resist on principle, his tone carries a threat you can’t quite name yet. An involuntary shiver that passes through your body, and suddenly it seems like you’re better off complying, rather than sticking to your old patterns. 

Your body reacts. You’re unsure if you’re being led by fear, instinct, or something darker, but regardless of what it is, you’re compelled to listen to him, slowly rising to your feet. 

He wastes absolutely no time, gripping your arm with a bruising force as he leads you out of the stale room, his movements swift and purposeful. 

The cold metal of the cuffs bite into your wrists, a physical and unignorable manifestation of his regulation over your current predicament.  No matter what kind of show you put on, you weren’t the one in control. 

The halls around you stretch endlessly. Sterile, blank walls stare back at you, as if mocking you for ever entering in the first place. Each corner looks like the last, every turn erasing the one before it. You’re led deeper and deeper within the bones of the building, further and further away from prying eyes and pesky cameras. 

He doesn’t want you found. These hallways would never allow you to leave. He had you trapped.

And then, after what feels like an eternity of movement with no end in sight, you’re met with an elevator. It’s unmarked, and immediately you can tell you’re not supposed to be here. It’s a service elevator, the type meant to carry cargo, not people. 

And yet here you are.

There’s a foreboding silence as Spencer presses the button with a decisive jab to call the machinery. The doors creak open ominously, and he shoves you into the claustrophobic space without ceremony.

He’s so close you can feel his hot breath against the bare skin of your neck, the firm press of his body anchoring you in place, serving as an oppressive weight that reminds you there’s no escape. 

The thick silence between the two of you stretches as the elevator shudders to life. It’s the type of quiet that makes your body buzz with uneasy anticipation for what’s to come.

This isn’t protocol. You knew that, at this point. Whatever he was leading to you, you knew it couldn’t fare well for you. As the doors open to your destination, the ultimate question lingers in your chest. 

What was he going to do to you? 

The elevator doors hiss open, and instead of another line of sterile corridors, you’re met with the warm night air, the type of heat that only summer could provide. You blink, momentarily disoriented by the sudden change in scenery and the darkness, until your eyes adjust and you process where you are. 

The roof? 

You barely have anytime to register what’s occurred before Spencer is pulling you forward. You hear the elevator doors close with a soft, final clink behind you, and know you’re well and truly stuck here now. 

“What are we doing here?” You ask, voice barely audible. 

Spencer doesn’t stop moving, dragging you towards the parapet. “Thought we could use some fresh air. You’ve been inside for a while now.” 

The words are sweet, falling from his mouth easily, but the tone is all wrong. While you might be persuaded to believe in his consideration for your well-being, the sincerity of the statement is voided by the controlled cadence he delivers with it. It almost sounds rehearsed, a calculated and careful manipulation in an attempt to gain your trust. 

You’re absolutely sure he’s not as truthful about his intentions as he’d like you to believe. 

The space he’s leading you on is wide and industrial, filled with empty crates and encircled by dark, thick forestry on all sides. The pale moonlight spills across the rooftop, giving you a clearer view of your surroundings. 

You wouldn’t say it, of course, but it also got you a better look at Spencer’s expression. It doesn’t help, though. His lips are set in a straight line, eyes fixed ahead, face unreadable within the low light. Damn it. 

“I come up here to think.” Spencer says quietly, almost to himself. “The quiet makes everything easier.” He murmurs. 

His grip loosens around you as you reach the guardrail, but you’re much too on guard to make any sudden movements. You don’t slip away, opting to stick right beside him, close enough that you can still feel the body heat emanating from his person. 

“Why am I here?” You ask, voice a bit quiet to match the serenity of your location. 

“I figured you might need to think too.” He says, voice deep, taking in the view.  “You’ve got a tough decision to make, you know.” He says, head turning so his eyes can lock onto yours.

You ignore the implications of his statement, opting to narrow your eyes instead.  “Are we even allowed to be up here?” 

That earns you a quiet laugh under his breath. “Now you care about the rules? You do realize why you’re here in the first place, right?” 

The irony isn’t lost on you, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of playing into his hand. “Not everyone plays by the same rules.” You retort, meeting his gaze with a steady look of your own.  

He pauses, licking his lips, whilst nodding in a noncommittal manner. “I agree to some extent.” 

He gives another long pause, before adding, “And yes, you’re right. We aren’t supposed to be here. But there aren’t any cameras up here, and I doubt anyone’s missing you.” 

His eyes focus on you, then. “I think you and I can agree that not everything worth doing isn’t always.. allowed.” 

That catches your attention. “What do you mean?”

He stalks closer to you, chuckling at your sudden piqued interest. “See.” He begins. “You want something. And I think I can give it to you.” 

The words strike something in you, and suddenly you feel too exposed. You don’t respond for a moment, before finding your voice again, in a mumbled, hoarse noise. 

“I want something?” 

He steps even closer, eyes fixed on you with a focus that borders on intimate. “Don’t play dumb. I saw it the second I walked in. Pupils blown out, your thighs pressing together under the table.” He gives an uncharacteristic smirk, as if he can’t help his pride at this moment.  

“You don’t do a very good job of hiding when you’re attracted to someone.” 

You blink, immediately flustered, feeling much more exposed than you did a moment ago. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. You’re attracted to me.” He repeats a hint of cockiness in his speech. 

“If you think I’m fucking you in exchange for a confession, you’re wrong.” You snark back, trying to build up some defense against the (very true) accusations he laid at your feet. 

“So you’re not attracted to me?” He replies, same, smug smile still gracing his features. 

“No.” You scoff, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, I’m sure you won’t mind me checking then.” He says, his hubris overwhelmingly obvious. 

Again, as is custom with him, you’re given no time to figure out what he even means before he’s on his knees in record time, nimble fingers hovering over the metal button of your jeans. He looks up at you, and you lick your lips, giving him a small, imperceptible nod on impulse. 

He wastes no time quickly pulling the denim past your hips, before grinning wildly at the sight that faced him. 

“You’re wet.” He murmurs, knuckles trailing over the wet patch that had settled in between your thighs. 

His fingers find your clit through the fabric, and he rubs them against it, the lace of your panties creating the most delicious friction between your folds. You shudder, your cuffed hands darting out to grab the metal railing to steady yourself. 

“Mm. And you say you’re not attracted to me.” He says, arrogance radiating off him in waves, practically singing the words to you.

“Shut up.” You garble out, not wanting to admit just how good this felt, despite the overwhelming evidence against you at that moment. 

“What? Are you always this wet?” He chuckles, pulling his fingers away, depriving you of your growing orgasm. Your eyes snap open at the loss of pleasure. 

“Why…” You whine, looking down at him from where he was currently situated between your thighs. 

“Say you want this.” He says, voice firm.

“I..” You start, voice quiet. 

You don’t want to. You couldn’t fall for him. Couldn’t give up what you’d worked so hard to build. But then your eyes meet his, and you see it. The undeniable hunger. The promise of a pleasure deeper than anything you could ever give yourself. You sigh heavily, before surrendering to it, not wanting to deny yourself of what this man so clearly has to offer. 

“I want this.” 

“Good fucking girl.” He murmurs, voice full of praise. He moves to slide your underwear down your thighs, motioning for you to step out of your jeans and to spread your legs, your thighs and sex completely bared to him. 

And then his tongue is everywhere, lapping over your core, slowly, from your entrance to your clit. He starts gently, allowing the tip of the wet muscle to circle  around the throbbing bud, before sucking it into his mouth, the suction driving you delirious. 

“Ahh.” You moan, your head lolling backwards, your eyes rolling to the back into your head. This man’s mouth was heaven sent. 

He pulls back from you, a lopsided grin on his face. “That’s right. Let me hear you. Let everyone hear you.” 

Exhibitionist.

He guides your thigh to be hiked over his shoulder, and with no further words exchanged between the two of you, starts to eat you out with renewed vigor. He enthusiastically devours you from below, his face buried in your pussy as he drinks your arousal in like a man starved. 

You’re an absolute mess above him. As much as it infuriates you to admit it, he’s undeniably good at this, and your orgasm is fast approaching. Maybe it’s the sight of him, his wavy brown hair between your thighs, and how every so often you catch a glimpse of his expression, eyes closed as if he was experiencing the highest form of heaven simply by eating you out.

The warm, wet muscle thrusts into your entrance, wrapping around you and exploring every inch of you with a heartfelt desire to leave no part of your sex untouched. 

“Oh god. Oh god! Dr Reid. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.” You moan out, unashamed. Why would you be? Your words were lost to the night that surrounded you two, swallowed by the darkness that concealed all of his ministries. 

He doesn’t let up, and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer. You’re right there, and just before you find yourself falling into that endless pit of pleasure, he pulls back, leaving you on the precipice of a little death. 

Motherfucker. 

You pant, in shock and still relentlessly needy for your release. “You- you stopped.” You say, voice shaky. 

“I did. Ready to talk?” He asks, a grin on his face. His mouth is glistening with your arousal, and he licks it off his lips. The sight is erotic enough to make your legs shake again, the flame of desire in you rising higher and higher.

But you see through his game, and you feel that familiar pride rise hot within your chest. 

“Go fuck yourself.” Your voice sharp and hiss-like. 

“I’d rather just fuck you.” He says cheekily, and you believe he’s going to go behind you but instead, he hauls you up, and crashes your lips on his. 

You immediately melt into the kiss with no hesitation, the fight draining out of you in favor of your need for this man. You desperately wish your hands were unbound so you could pull him closer, but the cuffs remind you that it’s his mercy you’re at. 

 In the end, it doesn’t matter though, because Spencer is doing all the work for you, pressing his body towards yours, as his tongue manages to invade your mouth. You taste your heady release on him, and moan, your back arching in a desperate attempt for more.

“Sorry.” He mumbles lips brushing against yours as he pulls back, almost sheepishly. “Had to do that at least once.”

 It’s almost endearing, the way he’s acting. Eating you out was no trouble for him at all, but kissing you is what made him shy. The contrast has you giggling despite everything, and he flashes you a crooked smile in return. 

Then, you feel it. The press of his bulge, hard and insistent, straining the fabric of his slacks. His hands slide up your back, gentle and firm all in the same, while he bends you over against the parapet. He steps in close behind you, and the quiet sounds of his belt being undone reach your ears. 

You know exactly where this is leading. 

Your eyes are fixed ahead as you tense in anticipation for him, and then feel his cock, sliding and teasing you, collecting the wetness that had remained between your folds.

He’s big, and just the feeling of it makes you go weak in the knees. 

He slides into you with a smooth, singulair thrust, and immediately sets a steady rhythm, his hips snapping against yours. You can hear the sound of flesh on flesh, the sound creating the perfect background to the debauchery you two were indulging in. You can hear his grunts behind you, the way his breath goes heavy with every hump he deals into you. 

“God, so wet, so-” He moans, unable to form a coherent sentence. A rush of pride runs through you, knowing you’re the one able to make him feel this good, that it was you that was unraveling him and dragging those desperate, pretty sounds from his parted lips. 

You arch your back in an attempt to take him deeper, moans and whimpers escaping you with every drag of his thick cock inside of you. How was someone so hellbent on your downfall so fucking good at making you feel this way? You involuntarily clench around him when the head of his dick nudges against that spot deep inside of you, the action causing a throaty yelp to escape from you. 

“God, you like that? Can feel you getting close.” He says, his voice with a slight edge to it. 

“Yes. Fuck- love this.” You moan, unable to deny the truth of how wonderful he made you feel. 

He hears it. Smirks. “You wanna come?” 

You nod, moaning obscenely. “Yes, please. Let me come.” 

You push your hips back against his, encouraging him to go harder, faster, and to finally take you over that edge, and he obliges, reveling in your greed. 

“Tell me what I want to know.” He breathes, low and deep. “Come on. I know you can.” 

Your mind reels. You’ve managed to hold back for so long, to maintain the facade, and it was never your intention to give it up like this. But with every thrust, your resistance crumbles more and more. He was fucking you dumb.

“I- I arrange the kills.” You moan. “I don’t murder anyone- I just, oh god. I help!” 

You can practically feel his smirk, and his movements faltering as he nears his own release. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

You want to throw back an insult, something clever, but instead, all that comes out of your mouth is a long, wrecked moan, your cunt clenching rhythmically around him as you tremble around him. In a daze, you can feel him reaching his breaking point as well, a loud groan slipping from him as his hips hold you in place, his warmth filling your deepest point. 

His chest presses against your back, his breath ragged. 

“You should get a lawyer.” He mumbles, still trying to catch his breath. 

“Appreciate it.” You say, dazed, and oddly.. content? You should regret this, but the feeling of his cum dripping down your thighs makes you forget that instantly. 

“You should thank me.” He murmurs, lips brushing against your shoulder.

“Why?” You murmur, confused.

He chuckles slowly. "You're in our custody now. Which means I get to keep you close."

You can’t say you’re mad about that. 

would you believe me if i said this is the most unsure ive EVER been on a fic. even more than my first attempt at writing a whump. anyway. i hope you guys liked this fic... please interact if you did? ive said this before but reblogs are the lifeblood of Tumblr and if you want my work to reach more people.. that is the way <3 and omg if you didn't like it. please give me feedback. anyway. thank you so so much for reading!!!! i so appreciate it regardless!! okay also this was written for @imagining-in-the-margins "stuck together" challenge so. go check that out as well!! okay bye!!!

[mangionebabymama]

u know what's sending me abt these ppl crashing out is that it just comes from blatant jealousy 😭 i'm sorry but at some point they gotta do some soul searching and reflect on why they're in this community bc that type of reaction to a man sending a damn letter is what parasocial is. i don't like that term but it is what is it bc desperately trying to change the narrative anytime he doesn't fit the image they've made of him as a stoic, well spoken, "perfect" man is parasocial in its very definition. add him sending a letter to this girl they've managed to indoctrinate as being the devil incarnate and it verges past being a supporter and straight into ownership. calling him crazy/insane/schizophrenic as soon as they realised they couldn't deny that it was him, that he CHOOSES to reply to these ppl w equal enthusiasm bc he has his agency, doesn't come off as someone "normal" like they love to self proclaim, it come's off like a fan in denial.

HEAVY on him having his agency, because him writing and getting letters is one of the few ways he's still able to maintain and control a sense of it while in prison. I don't think it's only blatant jealousy, bc getting upset over what letter he sends, and then getting riled up and mad over who receives mail from him, is absolute PICK-ME behavior if you look at it.

Like, yes, I’m not gonna lie—I do get a little envious when I see people not only receive letters from him, but even just see their letter make it into the catalog. I’ve sent him several, expressing my heartfelt support and respect, along with words of affirmation and funny stories, and yeah, it would be nice to know that maybe, one day, one of mine will reach him too. I think we all want a letter we’ve written—one with intent, with purpose, from the heart—to reach the person it’s meant for, especially when it's written with sincerity and care, it’s only natural to hope it finds its way to them soon. But me getting my panties in a bunch isn’t going to make the mail get there any quicker.

Envy is a natural reaction and feeling to experience, and that’s okay. With envy, you can also vicariously live through someone else and wish it was you, while still enjoying what they’re sharing. And for the fact many people have shared their letters, even though they didn’t have to, which is generous enough.

But getting mad, pressed, and outright fucking territorial over a man who doesn’t even know you (and maybe who probably hasn’t even gotten your letter) and who’s in federal prison, where he doesn’t have much say in his daily life right now… over who he chooses to write back to? bffr

And to then try and take ownership over the state of his mental and emotional health just bc you don’t like how he’s interacting with people in a humorous, enthusiastic, even lighthearted way? As if he’s not supposed to have moments of spark, connection, or joy, just because of the conditions he’s in? At this point, I’m honestly not sure if some people would rather only be fed content of him facing trauma and sitting in trauma

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 14: Home

Surrounded by warmth…

Home is where the Heart is ❤️

[sttoru]

clan leader!satoru, whose smile isn’t actually a. . . smile. it serves as a gentle (yet not-so-gentle) threat to whomever it is dedicated to. a lot of the gojo clan members, as well as members from other noble clans, have heard of that infamous smile and know of its true meaning.

ever since marrying you, that smile often finds its way onto his lips. it’s not because of you, but rather because of the ones interacting with you. satoru didn’t ever expect to feel so possessive about someone he initially didn’t care for.

a marriage of convenience is all that your relationship was for. it purely existed for the sake of a connection between two famous families. your first weeks together have been awkward. any form of affection - any touches or loving words - were for the sake of his image.

however that all was fated to change: satoru eventually found himself falling for his wife.

your kind personality, your subtle smiles, the embarrassed expression on your face whenever he teased you in front of others even if it was all a faux display- an act of being all lovey-dovey. your inner and outer beauty was slowly becoming more apparent to the white-haired man.

you don’t know when it started. you can’t recall why satoru is suddenly acting affectionate even behind closed doors. usually, he’d drop the act the second you’re in your chambers. now he continues to compliment you, pepper you with chaste kisses as long as you allowed him to… even refer to you as his ‘dear’, ‘pretty girl’ or ‘sweetheart’ to your face like it’s nothing.

you shrug off your own guards and maids when they curiously inform you about their lord’s sudden change of personality, which was supposedly all because of you.

“ah, my wife,” satoru’s voice echoes above the loud chatter in the main hall. you turn your head and find your heart racing for some reason as he addresses you in that gentle tone.

he makes his way through the crowd, eyes never leaving your face, even as other important figures try to catch his attention to talk business. “i was greatly worried about you,” your husband sighs.

a gloved hand cups your face and satoru leans in, his glossy lips inches from yours. you’d think this was part of the fake arrangement, but there’s this genuine hint of adoration behind his cerulean eyes that you cannot ignore.

“i— my apologies,” you murmur softly, eyes darting around the room while you try to ignore the loud thumping of your heart. “i was simply talking to one of the guards,” you explain and nod your head to the bulky man standing next to you.

the guard respectfully bows to satoru the second you introduce him. your husband doesn’t respond for a single second, his fingers twitching lightly at his side. he can’t stand the thought of you talking to another man while he isn’t around.

is it for your own safety? or is it because he’s jealous and immediately wants to get rid of any man who dares speak to his precious wife? perhaps it’s a mixture of both.

“i see,” satoru replies. his eyes darken for a second before he catches himself. the corners of his lips curl upwards, though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

that familiar sight makes you nervous. you’ve seen it before, when your husband would subtly threaten others for whatever reason, while hiding his true feelings behind that smile.

“well,” satoru continues, his arm wrapping around your waist. he pulls you against his side and places a kiss on top of your head while glaring at the guard through his white eyelashes.

“thank you for keeping my wife safe,” the clan leader says through that tight smile, trying to keep it as ‘genuine’ looking as possible. he has a reputation and image to uphold after all.

you’re about to say something, but are cut off as satoru adds another comment. “i’m here now, so you can return to your post.”

it isn’t a suggestion. it is an order— a command. a disguised threat.

the guard immediately picks up on the subtle hint and nods without saying a word before walking back to his spot at the doors. you can hear the faint whispers from others as they also seem to recognise that change in satoru’s demeanour.

it’s not like you’re totally oblivious to what’s happening either. you look up at satoru and place a hand on his chest, trying to catch his attention. “satoru,” you whisper his name.

the white-haired man immediately snaps out of it and excitedly shoots you that boyish smile of his instead of the fake, cold one he wore on his face just a second ago.

“you called, my dear?” satoru tilts his head, bringing a hand to rest over yours on his chest. your eyes widen a bit at the way he seems to relax and look at you with that same devoted gaze.

you don’t think it’s an act anymore. the words die on your tongue and you can’t recall what you wanted to say anymore. those sparkling blue eyes and charming smile have you rendered speechless.

“…it’s nothing,” you mutter under your breath. you have no clue how you’ve managed to turn that once, cocky, overly confident and cold-hearted ruler into a total softie for you. it’s something you still need to process yourself.

satoru doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the night, glaring at the men who pass by, shooting them that fake, threatening smile if they looked like they desired to converse with you.

you’re his wife, and that’s that. he silently wonders when you’ll realise that he actually fell for you. perhaps you are already aware of it, but hide it from him on purpose.

whatever the case is, satoru will make sure that you know his true feelings for you. one day he will tell you those three words explicitly— if it wasn’t obvious enough through his sudden change of behavior.

[tonycries]

Can I Fill You Up, Baby?

Synopsis. There’s no way he had a breéding kink, right? That was before he was balls-deep in you, cúmming in you for the third time in a row now.

Pairing. Multiple x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, lots of cúm, overstim, multiple rounds, mating press, breeding, pet names (my girl), swearing.

Word count. 1.5k

A/N. DON’T LOOK AT MEEEE.

Boys who didn’t know they have a breeding kink.

Pfft, seriously? Those were straight out of hentai, he’d roll his eyes as his friends tittered about it. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that tentacle monsters are totally legit, too.”

Because he didn’t have a breeding kink, right?

Well, at least he didn’t think so…but right now, with you sprawled underneath him, eyes half-lidded, and dripping cunt sucking his cock in so deliciously - he thinks the idea might not be too far-fetched after all.

Ripping off what remained of your top, lips searing against your skin as he bit down hard - marking you. You were so fucking aroused, pretty pussy pooling and forming debauched little strings of slick that connect you to his heavy balls. Throaty, desperate little grunts leaving him each time they slap against your skin, in time with the tight, little circles he drew on your throbbing clit. 

A quick, maddening tempo he was losing his mind to.

Right now, he was absolutely feral where he was usually suave in sex. For some reason, that image of you babysitting your friend’s kid earlier today burns into his mind, jolting some raw, carnal part of him awake as he keeps ramming his cock into your snug cunt. Over and over. Purposefully and sinfully. 

Ah, how lovely you would look so round and glowing with his kid. You’d look so pretty carrying his seed. The swell of your belly just because of him - all him. 

“Baby…” he starts, voice hoarse with need. At your answering mewl, writhing beneath him, he continues, words that come straight from his throbbing erection. “Can I fill you up? Lemme fill you up. Please, my girl.”

“Ah! Hah- yes. Yes yes yes, please. Cum in me baby, fill me up.” Raw, pleading whines leave your bruised lips. Drool already dripping down the corner of your mouth at how deliciously filthy he was fucking you. 

Body trembling, a shiver runs down your spine as you watch his pupils dilate, cock twitching so animalistically inside you at your words. Thrusts increasing impossibly, his thumb was now frenzied on your clit, desperately chasing both your highs.

Now, you’ve heard of orgasms that sneak up on you. Silent, powerful waves that leave you speechless. And before you know it, you’re creaming around his thick cock. Stars behind your eyes and a breathless whisper of his name leaving your swollen lips. 

Seeing you so debauched underneath him sends him over the edge as well, his own release exploding into your awaiting pussy. Filling you up. Hips never slowing down, pumping hot ropes of cum into you animalistically. Your walls flutter around him, as if desperately trying to suck his big cock back in with each thrust. 

Yet, your moans turn into sensitive gasps at the way your loving boyfriend still doesn’t show any signs of stopping - even as your jolts of pleasure turn into nothing but mere tingles. Thighs clenching around his toned waist, a question.

“Shhh, don’t worry, pretty girl. One more, you gotta do is take it.” 

And he’s pushing in again, swollen tip hot and still hard and hot against your sloppy entrance. Both of you hissing at the overstimulation. Oh. Oh, shit.

“Hngh- you’re-” God. Looking up into those darkened eyes, something carnal glinting dangerously in them - only one thought rings in your head, going straight down to your dripping cunt - you’d be lucky to make out of this in one piece. 

You can do nothing but lay there and take it as large hands spread your legs even more shamefully. His cum warm and dribbling out of you, fully exposed to his hungry gaze. Body jerking as he manhandles your legs onto his sculpted shoulders. Folding you in half, pressing down down down-

A mating press. A fucking mating press. 

Scratch that, you’d be lucky to make it out of this alive.

He doesn’t waste time. 

Splitting you open on his thick cock immediately, pushing back into your tight walls. Head thrown back and eyes rolling to the back of his head so pornographically at the way your cunt flutters around him - wetter and sloppier than before with his cum, struggling to take him again. Warm - so warm with his seed. 

God, he has to fight down some feral, animalistic part of him that wants to just plunge into you till his twitching balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust. 

But no. No, he must be careful with the mother of his children - treat you like fine porcelain. Just as soon as he breaks you like one right now.

Fuck.

One, harsh thrust. His achingly hard cock splitting you open, pushing against the heady combination of resistance and your walls milking him to insanity. Sweaty forehead meeting yours, he can’t decide between the sinful sight of your cunt clenching around his length and the way your swollen, kiss-bitten lips fall into such a pretty oh!

“Oh- hah! Baby, please. Don’t hold back.”

Not that he was going to anyway. “Then take it like a good girl while I breed you, my lil’ slut.” his voice low and husky, making your cunt clamp down in anticipation. 

And before you know it, his tight balls are flush against your ass, thick head kissing your cervix so painfully good. Hips rearing back - back back back, pulsing veins massaging your walls as he pulls out till his furiously flushed tip is just teasing your entrance. Only to slam back into you with one rough thrust, with little regard for your poor, abused cunt.

The bed creaks in protest as he starts up a merciless pace, not taking the time to ease it in for either of you. Throbbing cock sliding in and out of your dripping cunt in rough, purposeful strokes that have you gripping the headboard for stability. 

Your cunt stings in both overstimulation and the way his tight balls smack against you at his unforgiving pace, strings of slick and cum connecting you to each other. “Hah- oh. So good, pussy sucking me dry so good Hngh-” he gasps out over the lewd slapping of skin on skin, mouth moving before his mind does. 

Ass burning at the friction of his pelvis. Cum leaking out of you to pool beneath you. It was so fucking debauched. He was absolutely too far gone. Completely set on filling you till you explode. 

“Oh, fuck. Gonna cum. Gonna fill you up again, my pretty girl- hngh-”

You whine at the pain and pleasure, far too cock-drunk to form any coherent sentences, body arching up for more more more-

You both cum with a raw, fucked-out whimper. Your walls stretch painfully as it tries to accommodate both his fat cock and another spurt of his cum. Tears stinging your eyes at the sensitivity, all you know is a burst of pleasure and the realization of how absolutely full you are of his seed.

It leaks out of you, seeping into your skin and you can almost feel it sloshing inside of your snug cunt. Mind hazy and vision blurring at this point. Yet, he still doesn’t stop.

You’re probably sobbing at this point - you don’t even know. Completely drunk on you and the idea of breeding you and you-

“One more, my girl. One more. Gotta make sure it takes.”

Raw, absolutely feral empty promises ring in your ears as he keeps moving inside you. Sensitively twitching cock dragging so maddeningly against your walls. Letting out raspy whimpers with each thrust, now nothing more than shallow, mindless movements fueled by pure animalistic need. 

Fuck, ah, you were gonna fucking pass out.

“Hah- Baby, I can’t- oh-” 

“You will.”

You squeal as your thighs clench around him, clit pulsing in pain and pleasure as he reaches down to start his rough abuse on it again. A final thrust. Only one press on your clit. Hard. 

Your orgasm - if you can even call it that, nothing more than a distinct spike of pleasure - hits you with a jolt. Moaning and bowing into his weeping cock as you ride your highs out together. His poor, abused cock coating your walls white once more in thin, hot spurts. It overflows inside of you, cunt dripping and too full to take any more. 

Maybe you black out, you don’t even know. Only brought back by the tear that hits your cheek with a wet splash!  - blinking away the haze in your eyes to look up at your overstimulated boyfriend. His throbbing cock now shooting blanks inside of you.

Breaths ragged, blood roaring in your ears, you feel a sudden emptiness as he pulls out. A disappointed whine leaving you despite your state. Cum gushing out of you, forming a pool on the already-soaked bedsheets. Warm and so fucking sinful.

Pulling back to admire the view, his eyes widen, jaw dropping slightly at the heavenly sight. Greedy eyes locked on you and your pussy and you - blood rushing straight to his twitching cock. Reproachfully, you look up to meet his eyes, pupils blown and half-lidded, an insane glint in them that jolts you to your very core - and your abused cunt. 

One thing was sure.

There’s no turning back. 

- GOJO, CHOSO, Nanami, OIKAWA, Suna, KUROO, ATSUMU, EREN

A/N. Goals amirite? 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[chowadoe]

sonadow fankid blast 💥 meet Breaker! his twin is up next 🕺

primarily takes after Sonic, taking over the day shift of watching Green Hills and the 'hero' mantle. beloved face. helps grandmas across the street. avid errand runner. has helpful big brother/camp counselor vibes!

🌖 At first I named him Breaker as a shorthand for 'daybreak' (his twin being named Dusk) and thought it was stupid (bc Sonic would name his kid something stupid) but the more i thought about it.. the more it worked.. windbreaker…. circuit breaker…a breaker being a heavy sea wave connecting to Sonic's fear of water..breaks/brakes… mm wordplay

very aloof! enjoys life. loves hiking. he loves anything with a good view. prefers to take it a day at a time, if given the choice. has a curiosity and interest in the powers and skills of others he's incredibly strong w/ powers including electricity + Chaos Control/time-space manipulation (and still wearing limiters)

he is extremely tactical with when and how he uses Chaos Control. With new opponents Breaker wouldn't use his Chaos Control, relying on speed and fistpower. If he did, he'd make it seem that he was just extremely fast getting places, using the shadows of his opponent and surrounding environment to slip between places

ever since he was a little, Breaker’s always come out on top. he’s always looked up to heroes, naturally- after all both their fathers were. and he’s settled into the role quite nicely, one of Green Hills’ very own, and just as beloved. all the townsfolk know him, all the women fawn over him, a true bonafide role model. But even his twin brother Dusk wonders/isn't sure if thats really what he wants or if its simply a role he’s acclimated to.

Breaker has a bit of an iceberg to his character. Most people see the very top layer, what they see day-to-day of the young aloof Mobian heralded as "Sonic and Shadow's son". there's something else that goes on beneath..

his powers essentially distort him from living the same wavelength as others. Like that moment in Sonic Prime where Sonic is going so fast, time has essentially stopped for everyone else. Tapping into this power has led him to believe he is invincible in ways, but not entirely. he enjoys all the scuffs, he enjoys what life has to throw him, his friends, etc. It keeps him grounded. as a result, he has a curiosity when he finally gets to dance with danger one-on-one like the average Mobian. he appreciates any opportunity to throw himself into dangerous situations because he enjoys the thrill of possibly getting hurt, as the pain allows him to feel 'mortal'.

One of his core principals is that he doesn’t want people hurt. He wants people safe. But sometimes it's unsure if thats the case or if its because he wants other people out of his way so he can set the stage between just him and his opponent.. and thus, minimize the collateral damage/cleanup.

He is rather tactical outside of battle too and does especially well in social settings. he already has the chops for it, being charismatic from the getgo, but he knows how to set people/things/his environment up in ways that would allow him to get to that final push for things to go his way without anyone being aware he had pulled any strings at all. he is incredibly observant, always picking up on the finer details. his hobby for people watching both comes in clutch as a both hobby he truly enjoys and something that could help him in future instances.

Whether Breaker wants to admit it or not, he cares about his image. Although his swagger is already quite effortless, he cares how the townsfolk perceive him, not just for the sake of vanity or narcissism but because he understands that people need an idol- they need guidance. That's what his dad was, and that's what he's for. It's what the stars were here for-- people had to look up somewhere for answers. He understands that he is something like a guiding light, a north star- but if they choose to refuse him, it's no skin off his back bc that’s their choice. He doesn't interfere with the choices people decide to make for themselves.

Breaker is a weird paradox character. where he's direct and very upfront, he is also so incredibly indirect about stuff too. Bro's always contradicting himself which makes it very hard for anyone to really pinpoint just what he's thinking beyond what they might know from the "hero" image he shows off.

Being good is a choice for him. But it's a choice he doesn't think about and something he's trained himself to wholeheartedly believe is instinct, as he doesn't believe himself to be a bad guy (and he isn't!) But it's like making a lie real and true.

Breaker, like his brother, has his own brand of isolation. Because of his powers, he lives on a different wavelength to other people. Always looking things through a window. He can look close enough to pretend the glass isn't there, that he's with there with everyone else, but there still exists that separation. So he chases after whatever makes him feel 'alive' and in the moment with everyone else.

[peanutpinet]

Can u create a sylus x reader where she is doing errands while sylus is in a meeting, and she finds sexy undergarments and thinks about buying them. Without her knowing, mephesto is watching her and sylus is distracted?

Also I re downloaded this app just bec of your posts!!! Love it

Confidently Shy (Sylus x Fem Reader)

Request: Can u create a sylus x reader where she is doing errands while sylus is in a meeting, and she finds sexy undergarments and thinks about buying them. Without her knowing, mephesto is watching her and sylus is distracted?

A/N: hi reader, thank you for your request. I think this will actually be the first-ever actual suggestive content that I’ve written. I apologise in advanced for not writing smut as I’m still uncomfortable writing but maybe one day

Warnings: illegal business, slight stalking (Sylus using mephisto and checking the bills that went through his card), makeout, suggestive content

Disclaimer: This work is completely fiction. I do not own the images nor the characters or you (the MC). All images were taken from Pinterest.

It was a quiet evening as Sylus was in the midst of his meeting, a meeting that bored him to the point he was getting sick of the facade that his business partner was making and decided to go over his tabs on his investments, his other business streams, and even bills that were charged under his card; specifically the ones that were made by you.

As the meeting continued on, Sylus sipped on his wine, scrolling through the tabs of what you were purchasing with his cards. Some groceries that cost only 100 dollars, several books that cost about 30 dollars and about 50 dollars for a set of undergarments?

“Well, this is something different” Sylus chuckled as he saw the amount that recently was charged to his card and what it was

Sylus decided to go a little further and looked at his other tab, which was linked to Mephisto. He knew that it was wrong to stalk you especially ever since you two were together, Sylus had ever paid attention to the recordings Mephisto had of you but he still had Mephisto keep an eye on you just in case.

As Sylus was playing the recording, he saw you walk into the undergarment store, eyeing on a few pieces until your gaze seemingly lingered on a black lace pair. It wasn’t a black show through kind of lace but it still covered what he felt you didn’t have to cover. It was a black full-cup bralette with a matching pair of bikini-style underwear.

Just imagining you in the undergarments made his breath hitched and felt a strain in his pants. It doesn’t help that his business partner keeps on rambling things that he knew were all fake and he already had Luke and Kieran prepared with the necessary proofs.

But he didn’t have to stay longer because he heard the little ring when someone enters the penthouse and he knew that it was you. The only other person to have access to the apartment were Luke and Kieran; meaning that it was you that just came into the door.

Without thinking, Sylus stood up and held his gun towards his business partner who was immediately confused but held their arms up nevertheless. “Mr, Mr Sylus, is so-something wrong?” his business partner stuttered

“I’m going to give you some time to get out of my personal space before I tip the press regarding your corruption issue and how you’ve been leading on to your clients on high-graded protocores when you so clearly don’t have any real protocores”

Without saying anything, his business partner knows that they shouldn’t cross the lines. That the tone Sylus was using was already a warning of ‘get out or I’ll show you another way out’.

His business partner scrambles out of the other door that he brought him in rather than the regular door that is connected to the rest of his penthouse because that is reserved specifically for you (ehem, Luke, Kieran, and Mephisto).

Sylus texted Luke and Kieran to handle his business partner and try to not return until later in the night which they got the hint and left the penthouse for you and him alone.

Sylus put his phone away and went out of his office to see you were cooking, the groceries you bought were already put away, and some of the chores were being done like laundry. But he was most curious of the undergarments that you bought.

Sneaking up slowly, Sylus wrapped his large arms around your waist while he lightly kissed your near down to your neck; making you giggle at Sylus’ sudden clingy attitude.

“Someone’s getting clingy” you giggled, making Sylus smile by your shoulder where he rested his chin. “Well, you left too early in the morning sweetie. I was still asleep yet my personal bed warmer was gone. Quite unfair when I always cuddle you to sleep, sweetie”

Hearing Sylus’ clingy self, you chuckled and turned off the stove before turning around. “I take it that your meeting didn’t go as planned?” you lightly cup his cheek, your thumb gently caressing the undereye circles underneath while he hummed against your hand and kissed it

“You can say that” Sylus grumbled, inhaling your scent that he has grown accustomed to

“Alright then, good thing I made one of your favourites. Creamy potato soup with steak and…” you didn’t even get to finish listing of the wine you bought for Sylus when he suddenly pressed his lips onto your, connecting you both.

Sylus was being particularly eager but he made sure to put one of his hand behind your head as he directed you away from the stove and onto the kitchen counter. Sylus gently lifted you onto the counter but never once did his lips part from you. In fact, Sylus tried to deepen the kiss even further which made you gasped; allowing Sylus’ tongue slip pass through and explore your tongue while his hand snaked underneath your shirt and lightly rubbed your exposed skin while your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist which made Sylus pull you even closer, his hand now snaked up to where your bra was; his fingers lightly toying with your bra.

You on the other hand was feeling a bit overwhelmed with Sylus’ sudden physical behaviour because normally he was able to control himself unless it was in the safe space of your share bedroom. Luckily enough, when you tapped Sylus’ shoulder to catch your breath, Sylus reluctantly pulled away and wiped your now smudged lipstick while you were trying to catch your breath, steadying your hands on his shoulders.

“Forgive me, sweetie. I went too far, didn’t I?” Sylus apologised, this time gently kissing your forehead, his lips lingering longer until your breathing was finally stable

“It’s just…” you started talking and Sylus put a distance between you two, ensuring your comfort first, trying his best to not give in to temptation

“Go on sweetie. Tell me if I was wrong” Sylus stated but you shook your head, lightly tugging on his hand so we would come back closer which he did and you hugged him, laying your head on his chest

“It’s just, it’s not like you to suddenly kiss me. Is something wrong that made you quite eager? Did you have a nightmare or something?” you asked, worried about his well-being

But instead, Sylus shook his head, chuckling at your worried tone. He gently cup your cheek and kissed the top of your head. “Nothing sweetie. Can’t I be clingy to the love of my life?”

Hearing Sylus say that made you blush which made Sylus chuckle even more, leaning into your ear and whispered, “Well I supposed it’s because a certain mechanical bird told me that you were shopping today and I was hoping to see what you bought in the last store you went to considering it’s not the regular amount you would spend on things you wear”

Immediately you know which store he was talking about and what you bought. Was he checking his tabs? Or was Mephisto snitching on you? Either way, you couldn’t help but blush and shyly buried your face in his chest.

“I’m teasing sweetie. If you don’t want to show me it’s completely fine. I respect your wishes. A man can only envision what the love of his life wears but I am a man who respects your comfort above all so I’m alright sweetie. Don’t worry about me” Sylus hugged your body against his, his touch were gentle

“I was just a bit distracted when I saw the store you went to and the piece you bought. That’s all. I promise” Sylus admitted, hoping you don’t find him creepy or weird

“I know you were just keeping tabs for your accountant and I know Mephisto spies on me to ensure my safety. I appreciate you taking care of me Sy” you replied, feeling grateful that even though you were sometimes nervous going out alone when who knows what trouble might be lurking around, you knew that Sylus would always ensure your safety no matter how busy he was

“I umm actually…I bought it for our trip. When we’re going to spend time together in the late-night breeze by the beach” you admitted, shyly looking away again

Certainly, this information caught Sylus off guard. Had you wanted to surprise him later on during the trip which he almost forgot he planned? But Sylus quickly regained his composure and gave you a soft smile, gently holding your cheeks to face him.

“Aren’t you the most adorable and thoughtful person I’ve ever come across in my life? Tell me kitten, were you planning on surprising me with this new piece?” Sylus teasingly asked while you playfully smacked his chest, making him laugh

“I’m kidding. I promise I’ll wait whenever you’re ready to show it to me” Sylus softly reassured you

As you lifted your head off his chest, you shyly looked away for a moment before replying him. “Well, if you’re that eager, I supposed you can have a look…”

Hearing your response, Sylus’ ears perked up but he calmed himself first and shook his head. “It’s okay sweetie. You bought it for a surprise then I’ll wait for the surprise. I’m not going to let you ruin my surprise until we’re at the resort for our trip”

“Then, I can show you something else that I have that’s similar…” you looked away as you were replying to him, making Sylus chuckle again

“Only if you want to, sweetie. But first, we should eat the food you prepare before it gets cold then if you really want to show me, I wouldn’t mind seeing it and having my dessert” Sylus teased, helping you down from the kitchen counter while you smack him again making him laugh but both of you knew that Sylus is a man of his word.

No matter how much teasing and anticipation he has, he would always prioritise your comfort and consent first. Period.

A/N: I tried to make it a bit spicy but of course, fluffy at the same time. I'll say this once, Sylus is a man of consent and every woman deserves a man like him. period 💅

[fluoneia]

further continuation of pitfighter!vi | part 1 | part 2

sypnosis. vi left an impression on you more then you thought she did. but, you left even more of an impression on her. and you can’t control a feeling like that, can you?

warnings. dom!vi, lowkey hate sex, use of a strap on, lots o angst !! (in the beginning), uhh i tweaked the timeline a lot so this doesn’t exactly follow everything going on. bear w me!

damn.

you were surprised vi stayed true to her word. it was two months since she initially left. you tried to move on with your life, forget her, and try to remember that she was with that someone that she mentioned.

if she stayed, that means she’s happy. right?

right?

stupid feelings. truth was, you wanted her to come back. she wasn’t just any other client to you at this point.

god, how did you get yourself into this mess? you vowed to not get involved with a client. yet, here you were.

“you seem distracted.” your friend, and co-worker says while she combs through your hair. you’d gotten close to her over the past two months, her being your only viable source of comfort in the moment.

you frown as you look into the mirror.

“it’s nothing.” you shake your hand, glancing down to your hands.

“are you sure?” asta cocked a brow as she placed the comb down. “come on. you’re acting so weird lately.”

you run your thumb over the indents of your palm, following your fingers.

“well..” you start, “i.. there was a client. around two months ago. she was..” you snort, “different, that’s for sure.”

“.. okay..” asta looks into space as she thought.

“she told me she wasn’t coming back— that she couldn’t. her heart was taken by this enforcer girl. said she couldn’t give her up.”

asta is quiet for a second. you turn to look at her. “.. so, what i’m getting from this, is you’re getting your heart involved in a client you took twice.”

“what?” your back straightens. “no! no, my heart isn’t involved, i’m just.. curious. that’s all.”

“uh-huh, okay.” asta snorts with a roll of her eye. “who is this, anyway?”

“oh, uh.. her name is vi.”

asta’s eyes widen so far her eyebrows shoot up. “the fucking vi? as in the vi everyone here hates?”

“i guess so.” you frown.

“hah! no way you’re falling for that little sadistic fuck.”

“asta!” i cry.

“i mean, seriously, y/n! she’s no good, especially for you.”

“i’m a whore in the undercity. i’m not exactly amazing.”

“still, though. i can’t believe you wound up having to take her as a client twice, i mean, are you alright after that?”

you glare. then, you smile at the memory. “actually..” you feel a blush creep on your cheeks. “you’d be surprised. it’s not just her that got to take control.”

“you.. vi? being submissive? oh, you’re crazy.”

“crazy good.” you snort, pushing off your chair. “besides, i’m not falling for her.”

“yeah. sure you aren’t.”

“i mean, i can’t, anyways. i’ve already made that mistake before and i’m not about to make it again. my heart is never being involved with my clients ever again.”

asta takes a second to respond. then, she says, “you know, sometimes it isn’t all that bad.” she shrugs. “i met my husband through this business.”

“it does more harm then good. plus, aren’t you two having problems because of the job that you met in?”

“well.. kind of. but still.” she places a hand on my shoulder, “not everything in your life has to be dictated because of what you do as a job to survive. it’s rare you feel a connection with your clients, right? especially you.”

“i don’t have a connection with her.”

“you keep telling yourself that.” asta chuckles, “that’s what i said about my husband before he started courting me.”

“whatever!” i cry, pushing her hand off me. “i have a client.”

“don’t go imaging it’s vi!”

“ugh, shut up asta!”

a week later, you’d made up your mind. obviously, vi wasn’t going to come back. it’d be best for you to just move on.

your hands tighten around eachother.

so damn stupid. you were so damn stupid. your feelings were so damn stupid— she went to you out of convenience, nothing more.

she was under the influence, on a sex drug nonetheless. you went too far with her. you never should have given in to her pleads in the first place.

“come on, slow-poke.”

you still.

“slow-poke is a bit cocky for you to say. i recall you saying i was moving too fast, when i tried to—“

“okay, are we seriously talking about that right now?”

you’d recognize that voice anywhere. it was haunting your thoughts for the past two months.

and you don’t dare lift your head. you feel your breath pick up as you glance forward.

your breath catches in your throat as your eyes land on her. on vi. what the hell was she doing here?

without another thought, you flick your hood over your head. your body curls in on yourself, staring at your feet as you walk forward, moving past her.

“you used to be all over me,” a posh, matter-of-fact voice says. “now, you can barely even look at me.”

“we’re on a mission, caitlyn. we’re not talking about our relationship right now.”

her voice becomes louder as you grow near.

“when will we?”

“soon! just.. just not now.” vi grumbled.

you try to ignore the warmth in your skin as you knock shoulders with her as you pass.

“hey! watch where you’re going—“

vi stops herself as you glance over your shoulder.

you watch as her eyes flicker, the redness seeping into her skin as she flushed.

“wha.. y/n?” she says in almost a whisper.

your eyes glide toward the girl beside her. a pretty woman, with sharp features and rich, navy hair, tied into a ponytail. she held herself so well.

no wonder vi was so enveloped in her.

vi feels like her heart is about to burst out of her chest. she glances toward caitlyn, who gives you a weird look as you stare at her.

what. the. fuck.

that’s all vi can think.

her eyes flicker between you and caitlyn.

vi watched as you slip the hood off your head. you bring your head up with an inhale, forcing a strong front.

“.. hey, vi. funny seeing you here.” you say in that soft tone that’s been haunting her thoughts and her dreams for months since you’ve been apart.

“you know this girl?” caitlyn says as she stares at you. you glance toward caitlyn, brows furrowing. she stared at you like you were filth— and you probably were, body being tainted by the hundreds of hands that have touched the most vulnerable of all— your body.

vi swallows. “yea.. yes, um—“ she closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “old friend.”

old friend? really?

you glare at her.

“can i, um.. can i have a second to talk to her? alone?”

vi’s hand rests on caitlyns shoulder. her skin looked so soft— so clean.

you try to ignore the flame of jealousy in your chest as caitlyn’s hand rests atop of vi’s, before nodding her head once.

“don’t take long.” caitlyn lets her hands drop to her sides. vi gives a small nod, shoulders relaxing as caitlyn steps back, moving out of earshot.

and then she turns to you.

“i thought you said you were never coming back.” you frown as your arms cross on your chest.

“this isn’t me coming back.” vi says curtly. “we’re on a mission.”

“a mission? are you some sort of enforcer now?”

vi says nothing.

you freeze.

“you.. you’re an enforcer.”

“temporarily.” vi raises a hand, “it’s not anything to do with—“

“just go.” you spit. “an enforcer from zaun. it’s not an honour to be labelled that, violet. you’re a pawn in whatever plan they’ve conjured up.”

“it’s a plan to help zaun.” vi says in a whisper as she glances at someone passing. she winced. “can we talk about this elsewhere? preferably not in an open alleyway?”

your eyes shift to the caitlyn girl she treasures so much. she’s staring at the two of you.

“or we could just not talk.” you push off the wall you’d been resting on, “continue on with your mission. you have no use of me, by the looks of it.”

“actually, i do. someone we’re looking for passed through babettes brothel, and we need a—“

“i’m not helping you with this.” you shake your head. “find another worker there to interrogate.”

“y/n.” vi says firmly.

“stop saying my name like that.” you narrow your eyes. “just because you were my client doesn’t entitle me to help you with your stupid investigation. you were a client to many there— ask them.”

“i was more then just a client and you know it.”

her face tightens with anger.

“not really,” you tut your tongue, “you paid, and i gave. nothing more.”

“you can’t be serious.” her hand finds your arm, and she leans closer, glancing around. “you took my virginity. that’s not nothing.”

“you were hardly a virgin when we first met.”

“yeah, not in.. that sense, i wasn’t.”

you hated that she was right. virginity was a prized thing for most people— hell, you used to hold principles like saving your virginity for marriage. and now, look where you were.

but, much like other people, you never forgot your first. a boy from piltover— you were young and naive, much like violet.

“i should have never done that.” you shake your head, “that was too far of me.”

vi’s eyes soften. she glances back at caitlyn, before looking to you. she steers you away, moving out of eyeshot.

“it’s not that i.. regret it. if that makes any difference.”

you huff.

“you said you weren’t coming back. yet, here you are.” you gesture.

“for a different reason.” she tightens her grip on my arm, “come on. help me with this investigation and i’ll leave you alone. for good.”

but that isn’t what you wanted. you didn’t want her to leave— you didn’t want her to be her right now, with her new prized girlfriend, but she was still here. you hated how your heart jumped with glee at that fact.

you inhale a deep breath, clenching your jaw.

“fine. i’ll help you.”

vi exhaled in relief. “thank you.” she whispers. her hand loosens on your shoulder, before slowly slipping off, her fingers trailing over your skin.

“what’s the big deal, anyways?” you furrow my brows.

“cait will tell you everything.” she cocks her head behind her. you nod your head, and follow her as you walk back to caitlyn. it hit you that she was tall, and it made her even more menacing— towering over you with a mean look on her face. you couldn’t tell if that was just her face, or she just didn’t like you. probably both.

“so she’ll help, then?” caitlyn says, turning to vi.

vi nods. “yeah.”

“i can’t promise i’ll actually be of help to you.” you cross my arms on your chest. “just because i agreed to tell you what i know doesn’t mean it’ll be any use.”

“worth a shot, right?” vi shrugs. i give her a brief nod.

“we can’t talk about this here.” caitlyn says.

you sigh. “we can go back to my house. it’s just ‘round the block. but again— i only have an hour.”

they give a nod of agreement. you inhale a deep breath, before paving a way back toward your house.

suddenly, you felt unconscious about your living space. you hadn’t cleaned it, and there was no doubt clothes left on the floor, leaving it a mess. you mentally curse yourself as you unlock the door, pushing it open.

“make yourselves comfortable.” you mumble, kicking some clothes out the way.

vi doesn’t take another glance at the house as she walks inside, following behind you. caitlyn hesitates, looking around the messy room, before following suit.

i grab a glass of water, jumping up onto my counter.

“alright. so, what did you need me for, exactly?” i look to caitlyn.

caitlyn slowly turns her head toward you. “oh— yes, um..” she clears her throat, obviously distracted. “a few days ago, someone passed through the brothel you work at.”

she fumbles through her bag. your eyes glance toward vi, who leans against the counter parallel to you, crossing her arms on her chest. the blue outfit just looked so.. off on her, yet, she still held herself the same.

she didn’t seem that bothered by the mess— partly because she’s seen it before, and partly because she’d already been in your house, in your bed—

stop it.

caitlyn places a sheet of paper on the island. i pick it up.

“have you seen this girl?”

your eyes move around the paper. you had seen this girl before— quite an oddball, but she was funny. blue hair, tied into long braids. your eyes train on the JINX — PILTOVER, WANTED.

“uh.. yeah.” you nod. you’d never expect her to be a wanted criminal, but who wasn’t down in the lanes?

“how? where did you see her last?” caitlyn says. there’s a gleam in her eyes as she leans closer.

“well.. maybe two or three days ago she came around the brothel during my shift. she was a client.”

vi pushes off the table abruptly. “you took my sister as a client?!” she stalks toward you.

“well, yeah.” you shrug. your eyes widen as you realize. “we.. no, she didn’t want anything.” uou chuckle at the memory, “she just wanted to talk.”

vi seems to calm down, her shoulders slouching. you give her a brief look, before turning to caitlyn.

“she.. i don’t know why she came to a brothel to just have a chat, but she isn’t the first one to do that. it’s honestly not that weird for clients to just want to talk like normal people when they have no one else.”

“i didn’t give it that much thought. i don’t remember much about her.”

you glare at vi. “not that it’d be any of your business what happens with my clients.”

vi puffs a breath of air through her nose, ripping her gaze away from you. she didn’t understand why she was so.. so jealous, so riled up over the memory that you still worked at the brothel, that you still took clients, that other people were touching you.

she had no right to be possessive, yet, here she was.

“.. anyway.” caitlyn clears her throat, brows furrowing as she senses the tension between you and vi, “what can you tell me about her? did she say anything about where she was going?”

you shake your head. “we talked for the hour she paid for, then she left. that was it. i didn’t see where she went.”

caitlyn sighs in frustration. vi looks to her, “this was a big waste of time.”

“it was the only lead we had.” caitlyn pushes off the wall. “if we ask some of the other workers, they’ll probably have seen the direction she went.”

“at this point we’ll miss the last departure. it’s too long of a walk back to piltover if we want to be safe.”

“we can’t leave while the trail is hot! if we wait another day, it’s just another night wasted.”

you h ump off the counter. “just stay here.” you place your glass in the sink, “i have a guest bedroom.”

that was a horrible idea.

it was like your mouth was on autopilot as you say this— stuck on the fact that if vi left now, you’d never see her again. it was stupid if you to offer, yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from doing it.

caitlyn glances toward you. then to vi. she raises her eyebrows as if to say, “well?”

oh, and vi was even more stuck. seeing you again drove her crazy— much less sleeping in the same house again. no doubt it’d grab at her head, keeping her awake at the last memory in this very house.

her chest puffed as she tried to regulate her breath. she wasn’t sure if she could handle herself in such close proximity to you again. it’d surely drive her mad.

but, she too was stuck on the fact that this might be the last time she saw you.

so, vi nods. “sure.” she chokes. her voice is tight as she avoids her eyes, glancing down at her feet.

you huff at the memory of your shift.

“the guest bedroom is just down the hall. make yourselves comfortable.” you move past them, shoulder grazing with vi’s— on purpose, on accident, you couldn’t tell. “i’ll be back soon.”

you still as you see caitlyn move out of the kitchen, glancing around. once she was out of earshot, you back up a few steps.

“oh, and, vi?” you lean closer to her, moving to her ear. “try to control yourself. i can sense your tension from a mile away.” you rest your hand on vi’s shoulder. “if you want me to take care of that.. another time, yeah?”

you pull away without another word, giggling under your breath. you pat vi’s shoulder as you slip away, grabbing your coat and bringing it around your shoulders.

and as you close the door, you leave vi’s head in utter shambles again.

she stands in the same spot, mind processing your words.

try to control herself? after you’ve just said that, and you’re looking like the most beautiful women she’s laid her eyes on?

fat chance.

she’ll get you eventually.

you were released early from your shift, as the night was slow. you kind of dreaded getting back to your apartment, knowing both vi and caitlyn were there.

you wanted to help them. honestly. but you werent sure what would.

your mind recalled the memory of that jinx girl.

you remembered you tried to advance on her— assuming that’s what she wanted, like many other clients. but she stopped you.

she surely wasn’t well. rambling on about life and death, about family, and about how no one can be trusted, and all that.

and after that, she disappeared as soon as she payed. you turned to say goodbye, but she was already gone.

you huff as you open your apartment door, slipping your coat off your shoulders. you hear laughing from your living room, and walk toward it.

as you turn the corner, you see caitlyn and vi laughing together.

“vi, i’m serious!”

you linger in the background as you watch them.

“i mean, the look on my fathers face. he couldn’t believe it at first.”

“well, you won’t be able to get rid of me, anyway.”

your face tightens as you watch her place her head on caitlyns shoulder. she spins a pen in her hand.

“i’m the dirt under your nails, cupcake.”

you decide to leave it alone there.

you step back, running a hand over your neck. so she was happy. you grimace as you walk down the hall, entering your bathroom.

“stupid.” you’d whisper to yourself.

here you thought you had vi wrapped around your finger. but really, you were wrapped around hers.

asta was right, anyway. she was no good for you, and you were no good for her. she was right in the fact that your heart was involved. it was involved tenfold.

you were stupid to ever think that you and vi had a chance.

you were a whore from the undercity. she’s an enforcer now.

nonetheless, she was still from the undercity. she was still a zaunite, just like you.

you strip yourself of your clothes. you step into your steaming shower, and let the water run over your body, your hair.

you close your eyes as you try to drown out your thoughts.

it wasn’t until midnight you left your bathroom.

the house was quiet. you deemed that they had gone to sleep, and move toward your room.

you throw on one of your favourite sets— a gift from a reoccurring piltover client from when you used to work there. you loved the silk texture, the white pearly fabric.

and since you hadn’t eaten much today, you move toward your kitchen.

you huff as you walk down the hallway, quiet against the hardwood floor. you grab your glass from the sink, turning on the tap.

“y/n.” a voice says behind you. you jump, spinning around.

“oh. it’s just you.” you sigh in relief as your eyes land on the familiar black of her hair. vi sauntered toward you, leaning against the counter.

“i.. i had a question.” vi whispers. her voice is laced with sleep— she had stayed up to talk to you. alone, finally.

you stare at your hands as you pour the water down the sink, picking up a bag of pretzels. “and what’s that?”

vi bit her tongue. then, she spoke. “what did you mean, before?”

you furrow your brows.

“when you said.. if you want me to take care of that.” vi shuffles. “you said, another time.”

you still. youd forgotten youd said that— mostly to test the waters around her.

“what did you think i meant?” you hum, placing a pretzel on your tongue. you lean your hip against the counter parallel to her.

vi says nothing.

“look— if you’re gonna act clueless, whatever.” you scoff. “but don’t rope me into something that’ll just cause a mess.”

you turn away from her.

as you move, your stopped by a hand on your wrist. she yanks you backward, your back landing harshly on her chest.

you gasp.

“i don’t really care if it causes a mess.”

you feel her breath on your shoulder. her hand smooths over your hip, pulling you against her.

“you’ve been messing with me ever since we bumped into eachother in that alleyway.”

you stare harshly at the wall in front of you. her thumb dips into the fabric of your shorts, resting it there.

“and you show up in these little shorts and expect me to contain myself?”

you feel her lips against your ear.

“what’s with the sudden switch up?” you say breathily, head leaning against her shoulder.

“you know what you’re doing.” violet scoffs against your ear. you feel your skin blaze alight as she presses her lips to your neck. you feel her tongue glide across your skin.

“violet.” you say harshly. you’re not sure how you feel about the sudden change in the air— vi wasn’t the girl she was last time she was here, no, she was how she was in the brothel the first night you met.

this girl really did give you whiplash.

“this is wrong.” you say, hand placing over the hand on your hip. despite your words, you lean into her touch. “aren’t you with caitlyn?”

vi stills for a second at caitlyn’s name. “one more night can’t hurt.”

“that’s what i thought the last time we met.” you hum, leaning into her touch. “one more night.”

vi spun you around, stalking forward, pushing you back until your back hit the counter. her arms caged around you, her eyes so dark, so unrecognizable.

all night, vi had been thinking about how you’re working your shift, having other people touch you. all night, she thought about you.

all she wanted right now was to distinguish herself from the others— to prove to you that unlike all the others, she cared. she cared for your pleasure, she cared for you, despite her mind screaming at her that she shouldn’t.

another wave of jealousy washes over her. she leans closer, hands gliding over your stomach, pushing up the silk shirt.

“you remember how you said to stop thinking so much around you?” vi says with a smirk, nose touching eachothers, her lips parted. you feel her breath on your skin, her hands on your stomach. they truly did feel warm, so calming, so right, unlike the others who have touched you there. you didn’t feel violated under vi’s touch, you felt.. comforted. it gave you a chance to actually feel the pleasure of another persons hand, rather then focusing on giving pleasure.

her hand splays against your back. her lips were so close to yours, merely one movement away. you wanted nothing more then to feel them again.

“that’s what i’m doing.” vi says, voice husky. “cmon.” she gives a toothy smile. “don’t leave me hanging here, cupcake.”

and it’s like everything changed.

your face closes to a deadpan. you push her off, slamming your fists on her chest.

“wha..” vi gives you a look of confusion.

“you’re so.. arrogant!” you lower your voice as you remember caitlyn is still there— the same caitlyn that vi had said that same nickname too a mere few hours ago. “and stupid!”

“what the hell are you talking about?” vi’s brows furrow.

“that nickname.” you spit. “you’d dare to call me that after using it on caitlyn?”

her mind recalls the memory.

i’m the dirt under your nails, cupcake.

her eyes widen. truth was, she was thinking about you when she said that. she said it because she’s your dirt underneath your nails. she came, and now she’s never going to leave, like a thorn in your side.

“really?” vi deadpans. “that’s what you’re worked up about?”

you purse your lips.

she lets out a chuckle that only fuels your anger. she takes a step toward you, before lowering her voice.

“i knew you were listening.” vi explained, “i was saying that to you.”

you still.

“though, this jealous side of you is kind of cute.”

“shut up.”

“just saying. now, can you stop throwing a fit? kind of holding myself back here.”

“ugh, shut up!” you cry before you grab her face, crashing your lips against hers. vi stilled for a second, taken aback, but she feels a rush of passion flow through her body.

her hands are on you in an instant— clawing, grabbing at your clothes so roughly. her lips are just as you remembered; soft. yet this time, they held a sense of dominance unlike the last time you kissed her.

she hummed against you. and you feel so much.. anger, hatred, jealousy, desire. vi was enjoying this way too much, and you hated that.

you feel her hands on your hips once more, her tongue gliding against your bottom lip, as if asking for permission. you give it by pushing your tongue past her lips, her own finding yours as they tangle and dance for a sense of dominance— to see which way will overtake.

but vi leaves no room for argument. her fingers dig into the skin on your thighs. you squeal as your brought from the floor, her hands holding you up as she picks you up.

your legs dangle loosely around her torso, hand smoothing into her hair, pulling, tugging, holding on so she’s forced to never leave.

you didn’t really know where you were going, but now, you were moving. her tongue glided through your mouth, running along your teeth, your tongue, your gums, everywhere, forcing herself through every part of your mouth until there was nothing left.

and oh, did you miss this feeling.

this feeling of passion, of lust, of desire. this feeling of recklessness. you both know you shouldn’t be doing this— but who can stop desire?

you realize she had guided you to your room when you feel your back hit the fur of your bedspread. she pressed herself between your legs, pulling away from you.

“fuck..” she whispered under her breath, hands smoothing up your stomach, cupping your barely clothed breasts.

“don’t talk.” you loose out, grabbing her face again and pulling her lips back onto yours. she takes that as an understanding, fingers unhooking every button oh so slowly.

you lift yourself off the bed to tear the shirt off your shoulders, throwing it to the side.

vi’s eyes flicker as she pulls away, looking at your body. her eyes land on your budding breasts. just so fucking beautiful. every bit and piece of you was perfect in violets eyes, and she hated how she felt that way.

“i missed you.” she whispers, both forgetting and ignoring your demand of silence. she pulls away, taking her jacket off of her shoulders. clothes fly in a haste, leaving you both naked in mere minutes— well, you naked. she kept her bandages on.

you can’t help the next thing you say. “missed me or missed my body?” you huff, sitting up on your elbows.

vi’s brows furrow. her nose twitches, before she crashed her lips back against yours without a word.

ah. got it. you’d think.

whatever. you shouldn’t have expected much with a hookup.

truth was, vi didn’t know. she didn’t know if her actions were based off purely lust, or something else. she tried not to think about it much— she couldn’t think much, anyways. you were just so soft, so beautiful.

her hands smooth over your body, and you were so drunk on her touch you decided not to care about anything else. her hands, touching you, possessing every part of you.

vi’s lips leave yours, trailing kisses down your jaw, onto your neck. you relish in the feel of her tongue, of her teeth scraping against your skin. her hands, smoothing over your thigh, toying with the strand of your panties. you feel your mouth go agape as her tongue glides over your neck, leaving red splotches, marking you.

you gasp as you feel her hands quiver over your clothed core, pressing so gently it made you whine. she was toying you, being so gentle when she knew you wanted her to be rough.

“don’t think i’ve forgotten.”

you couldn’t process her words— not when her fingers slipped underneath the cloth and dipped into your slick. your head throws back, a jolt of pleasure ripping all throughout your body. a shock to your nerves— finally, a touch that was pleasurable.

“oh, you’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”

your brows furrowed. what the hell was she talking about?

you let your mind fog again when her fingers dip inside of you, pressing so deep. you gasp, feeling your skin grow ablaze, the ache in your stomach only growing. you grasp onto the bedsheets, shocked at how fast this was moving— ten minutes ago, you were accepting the loss of whatever this relationship was. now you were thinking, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“you’re gonna feel everything i felt that night.”

she says this so close to your ear. you feel her breath on the shell of your ear, her teeth nipping at your skin.

“though, you won’t be under a drug like i was. i’ll just have to make up for that.”

her fingers press up as if to further move her point. you let your eyes close, body leaning toward her, hips pressing against her wrist.

“where do you keep those things, hm?”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” you huff, eyes slowly opening to look at her.

“you know,” she leaned closer. oh god, her eyes. that smirk. you were done for.

your brows furrow as you thought. her fingers slipped out of you, causing you to frown at the loss of her touch.

she ran a hand through her hair as she looked around, before reaching over you to open a drawer. your eyes catch on the glimpse of her bicep, a glimpse of the tattoo that ran down her back. gods, it only turned you on further.

“ah.” she says. you’d hear her fumble with something before moving back to you.

and your eyes shift to the thing in her hand.

one of the strap ons you owned— and never used, just by the sheer size of it. black, girthy, and big.

“nonono, violet—“you back away from her. she could not use that one, not now.

“oh, yes.”

there’s a certain gleam in her eyes as her hand grabs your hip, pulling you closer to you.

“told you.” she says as she leans back, fumbling with the straps. “i’m gonna get you back.”

you were in for it now.

for someone who’d never used a strap on before, you were pleasantly shocked.

you’d moan into your pillow as her hips slam against yours, over and over and over again. her hand smoothed over your back, pressing it down so your hips pushed up.

you’d never felt this.. this good, this full.

your entire body shook, every bone weak and practically useless. it took everything in you to hold yourself up, to not pull away from her, from her hips.

“oh—“ you groan, “vi!” you’d lost yourself, suddenly not caring about your voice. once vi realized that, she dragged her hand under to your chest, pulling you flush against her.

her hand moved over your mouth, silencing your cries.

at the new angle, she only pushed deeper.

your eyes widen, every nerve, every muscle twitching and shaking with pleasure. you couldn’t handle it, you simply couldn’t.

“not so tough now, huh?” she huffed, her voice out of breath and tight. you feel her being her hips back, just barely, before pushing back into you with such force you felt tears well into your eyes.

how could one woman have this much stamina?

you’d lost count at the amount of climax’s she’s brought you to.

she abruptly pulled out of you, flipping you over, pressing your back against the bed. it was like your body was drained of any sort of will— her strength easily able to manhandle you in every way she could, every position she wanted you in.

she placed herself back inbetween your legs. you saw that smirk on her face, so cocky and confident.

you couldn’t form words to comment something about it.

she brushed her hand over her forehead, inhaling a deep breath of air.

“i kind of like this.” she said breathily as she lowered her hand, aligning the tip of the silicone cock to your hole. as you feel her push back inside you, you let out a damned scream.

she’s quick to cover it, lips pressing against yours to silence your cries.

your legs touched either side of the bed, her hands pinning them down. your hips ached at the stretch— your core ached at the raw stretch the strap-on gave you, and as she pressed further deep inside of you, you swore you saw stars.

“god, oh, i— fuck!” you cry against her lips, hands gripping so hard on her back, nails digging into her skin, leaving crescent marks on her shoulders.

“shh, shh..” she hushed, hand smoothing across your thigh as a sense of comfort, yet, it only riled you up more.

she was so deep, so insanely deep— somewhere surely no one’s ever touched before.

“wouldn’t want anyone to hear you, would you?” she’d taunt, “see you in this position..”

her hips pull back, before bullying her way back into you, at such a slowed, tedious pace— to mess with you, no doubt.

you didn’t care. you didn’t care for anything— you couldn’t, not after this. you were sure you’d never felt anything like it— it was even better then the first night at the brothel.

“i— i can’t—“ you’d cry, head pushing into the pillow to hide your face. you just.. felt so fulfilled.

“oh yes, you can.” she mumbles, eyes flickering over every expression you’d made, engraving it in her mind.

her hips were flush against yours, filling you to the brim. her body pressed against your chest, her hands moving to grip onto the pillow on either side of your head.

“oh, fuck.” she said so softly, wincing as she felt the pressure against her own clit. then, her hips pulled back, and slammed right back into you. she found out, in this new position, it also gave her pleasure.

with how sensitive she was, even the short amount of pressure could help the ache between her legs.

a gleam found her eyes.

her pace became faster, harder, like a damned piston jolting inside of you.

you bite hard into your lip, hands falling limp and falling on either side of you.

“a little longer, princess..” she huffed into your ear. “come on, you can take it.”

“no, i—!” you cry, legs clamping around her torso. “mmmph—“

“just..” she let out a sharp exhale, adjusting her hips so the base hit her clit just right. she moaned into your ear, eyes rolling back, and the sight was just so damn beautiful.

you feel the cord in your stomach grow hot, your body shaking with every thrust she made.

at this rate, you weren’t sure how much you could handle— it was too much vi, so much vi, you were going to go mad. vi, vi, vi.

“oh, vivivi—“ you whined, your body riling itself up, again and again, over and over, each thrust bringing you closer to the familiar taste of an orgasm.

you were scared. scared of the feeling, of the pure pleasure that coursed through your body each and every time. scared of that feeling, of that blinding— oh, god!

your eyes shut closed, your legs clamped around her as that familiar snap of your orgasm flooded through you.

“say my name.”

“v..” you attempted. and then, you deflate against the matress. “vio..”

“come on, you can do it.”

her hips were relentless, forcing you through your orgasm. your body aches with overstimulation, threatening to burst with each and every second.

“say my name.” she says it more directly, nearly damn demanding you to. her voice is a growl against your ear, her hips picking up in pace.

“oh, violet!” you cry, voice cracking.

vi let out a loud moan, her head pressing against your neck, whining against your skin.

and then, she deflated above you.

your body jolts and shakes with every flow of energy, every flow of pleasure. you were so fulfilled, so full, finally getting what your body had been aching for, begging for.

a proper fuck.

a proper fuck from vi.

you had vi. and that was all you needed, even if it was only for the times being.

you yelp as she flips you over, resting you on her chest. she pressed her hips deeper inside of you, and you gasp.

“n.. no! no, no more.” you cry, your head falling against her chest.

“don’t worry.” she says as she caged her arms around you, hands resting tightly on your waist. her hands run up your back. “i won’t push you.”

you let out a sigh of relief.

you fell into a silence.

it was hard for your body to recover from your orgasms when the strap-on was still inside you, pressing into that spot. with every shift she made, you felt your body rile up again.

a beat of silence.

another.

you hear your click tick. you feel her chest go up and down with her breath. you hear her heart beat.

.

.

“i missed you.”

she says this so softly. her arms tighten around your torso, her nose nuzzling into your hair.

“not your body.”

a/n. uh.. hey.. sorry this took so long LOL anyway this kid kind of rushed i apologize and it kind of sucks but blushes thank u for all the support on this little mini saga that stemmed off a one shot 🤗

taglist. @just-levyy @princesssmars @thesevi0lentdelights @kissyslut @devotedlyelectronicartisan @cheyisagirlkisser @maracujais @n1shuu @vivispace @elliecoochieeater @izu-lu @wanna1be0 @honeybunbunnie @yariany02 @dumblilb @lalalalal16 @vyvvycg @ayooooohush @slvtformilfs @the-disaster-in-waiting (some of ur tags didn’t work im sorry :( )

[moyazaika]

have your cake (and eat it too)

yandere! L Lawliet (death note) x gn! reader

cw; L is his own tw, imposter syndrome, explicit nsfw, mdni 18+

genie's notes; yayyy commissioned piece for @ozzgin !!! thank you ozzy my beloved for giving me the opportunity to write about my man ♡ if this feels long that's bc it is LOL i was having sm fun writing it got to 4k words,, can you tell i'm bonkers for this guy,, nevertheless, i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing :D

“Take a picture,” you murmur. “It’ll last longer.”

“I know.”

You spare the man sitting besides you a quick glance. Despite the numerous dossiers emptied out onto the oak table before you, the detective’s attention is transfixed solely on you. Has been, for the past few hours. 

“Ryuzaki?” You try again, hoping he’ll get the hint this time.

Stop fucking staring at me.

No such luck. He only tilts his head to the side expectantly and you wonder, not for the first time, whether he enjoys playing the fool, or if he’s just truly ignorant of your discomfort. 

You don’t know which answer would be worse.

What you do know is that you can count on both hands the number of times you’ve been alone in a room with L. After all, it’s the exact same number of times that you’ve silently prayed for Kira to do you a favour and take you next.

The memory of the rest of the task force’s departure is still vivid. Yagami’s sympathetic smile. Matsuda’s shameless commiserations. 

You can barely think. The sensation is strangely claustrophobic. Even now, you can feel the weight of his gaze settling over you like a burden. 

With a weary sigh, you turn back to the pictures you’re thumbing through. All images of Kira’s most recent victims; their pale faces and milky eyes stare back at you with accusation. Months have passed without any sufficient leads and sure, you pull at loose threads when you can—but the mystery never quite unravels itself the way you hope for it to. There are no frayed edges. No loose seams. 

Whoever this guy is, you can tell the smug son of a bitch takes pride in his work. Has you working overtime, too. 

The wall clock across the room reads twenty minutes until five, but you didn’t really need to check the time to know that. With how high up you are, you can already glimpse the makeshift beginnings of dawn through the narrow gaps between Tokyo’s neon-lit buildings. 

Screw this.

You’re going to cut your losses; already know you’re not getting any work done in these conditions. Better to mull over the details in the privacy of your own space—far from prying eyes. 

You take the opportunity to flick through the pictures of civilian corpses once more, committing the details of the dead men’s faces to memory before finally tossing the alarmingly heavy file down onto the desk in front of you, where it lands with a resounding, strangely satisfying thud.

L doesn’t even flinch. 

“I’m going home,” you announce, actively making an effort to avoid meeting the man’s eyes. Your chair scrapes against the floor as you stand, and the noise is unbearably loud within the otherwise silent room. 

“So soon?”

You laugh at that. “It’s four in the morning, Ryuzaki.”

“Hm. So it is.”

“Time flies,” you shrug on your coat. “When are you going to leave?”

You ask out of politeness rather than any genuine curiosity. The question mumbled absently as you rummage around in your pockets for your hotel keycard. 

You’re not from Tokyo. Just staying here for as long as the task force needs you to. Called in months ago from a nearby prefecture because of your stellar track record. You like to think you’re intelligent, and that Japan’s top minds recognised that about you. You suppose it doesn’t really hurt that you’ve got some connections to the national police force. 

Though you’re glad to be trusted with the case, and happy to be here—you’ve never really cared much for the city of Tokyo itself. You miss the humdrum of the countryside; the constant chirping of cicadas hidden amidst tall blades of grass. A clear, blue sky unblemished by the fine points of soulless skyscrapers. Weaving through crowds without wondering whether one of them might be the mass murderer you’re hunting down.

L’s monotonous drawl snaps you out of your thoughts. Brings you back to exactly where you are right now and not necessarily where you’d prefer to find yourself, instead.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“Yes,” he repeats. Enunciates the syllables as if speaking to a child. No further clarification.

“I’m sorry.” You’re really not. “Are you seriously going to sleep here again?” You honestly don’t mean to sound disrespectful but the incredulity in your tone is difficult to mask. Much less in the presence of the world’s greatest detective. 

The stories are true. You found them difficult to believe at first, but since then, you’ve confirmed the extent of L’s genius with your own observations. The man before you can function perfectly without any sleep for days on end. You remember the first time you’d left the office; come back the next morning to find L hadn’t moved an inch from where you’d left him last night. 

Even still, it’s hard not to notice the prominent bags under his black eyes. The state of his clothes, all crumpled. The greasy, unkempt hair that frames his face. Despite his intellect, he’s still only human.

Even if it can be alarmingly easy to forget that.

“Why?” L asks blankly. “Are you offering me an alternative?”

Briefly, you think of the deputy director learning, come morning, that you’d left L to his own devices; The hard lines of disappointment marring his features. The disapproval in his otherwise polite gaze. He can’t be left alone. Something about being far too valuable, if you recall correctly. Or did he say vulnerable?

Regardless, you already feel like some charity case, even though you know that you’ve clawed your way to be here; called in favours and kissed the feet of men far beneath you. You deserve to be on the Kira task force as much as everybody else. Yet, you know what your answer will be long before you’ve even said anything. 

Something tells you L knows, too. He’s never been the sort of man to ask questions that serve him no greater purpose. 

Sometimes, you detest people like Matsuda for the ease with which they inhabit such unwelcoming spaces so boldly. The ability to exist so openly, without inhibition. But you detest yourself most of all, especially in moments like this where you’re burdened by the need to prove your belonging.

Well– 

Are you offerring me an alternative?

–Shit.

“Yes.” you concede, not even bothering to look back at him as you reach to call for the elevator. Press the button with considerably more force than you should. “I suppose I am.” 

You’re not nice. You’re certainly not charitable. But you are easy.

You spare him an exasperated glance over your shoulder when the doors finally slide open with a yielding sigh. From behind you, L makes no indication to move. You begin to doubt if he’s even heard you. Or, more specifically, whether he was ever really listening to begin with. His black eyes can feel so fucking vacant, sometimes.

“You coming?” you impatiently tap your foot against the carpeted floor as you hold the elevator open with narrowed eyes. “Or do I need to send you an invitation, Ryuzaki?”

“No need.” At that, L finally stands. He offers you one of his rare, private smiles; “I believe you already have.”

-

There are a couple of things you come to notice about L that day, when the ongoing investigation isn’t at the forefront of your buzzing mind.

It’s there, of course, because it’s difficult for any person to forget all of those dead faces; the list of unanswered questions growing by the hour—but the moment you slide your key into the lock and it turns with a satisfying click to open right into your little hotel room, it feels like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders.

Take, for example, L’s penchant to be barefoot. He immediately steps out of his shoes the moment you kick the door shut behind you. Sinks his toes into the carpet (stained, and scratchy) with a blissful sigh. 

You're choosing to ignore that.

Better not to drive yourself up the wall by paying attention to every little thing he does.

“Hungry?” you shrug off your coat and toss it onto the sofa.

“Sure.” And it’s not exactly a response, but you think this is the best you’re going to get from the man. Go rummaging through the fridge straight away, as you wave for him to take a sit in the tiny living room across from you. 

“I know you have a sweet tooth,” The leather sofa crackles beneath his weight as he perches right on the edge, legs tucked up against his chest and his head resting over his knees sideways; so that he’s watching you in the kitchen. “So I’m cutting you a slice of some cake I made last weekend. Couldn’t finish it by myself if I tried.”

You eye him wearily as you set down the plates on the coffee table before the sofa, making sure to leave as much distance as is possible between the two of you when you sit down.

He sort of reminds you like a cat when he's like this, all curled up and comfortable. When he tries his first spoonful of sponge cake, he might as well start purring with delight. “This is good,” he mumbles between bites. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

“Yeah?” You impatiently drum your fingers against the armrest. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

The moment stretches for longer than it should. 

You meet the detective’s eyes head on, find they’re as wide as saucers, staring back at you; and peering right inside. It feels downright voyeuristic and so fucking violating, the way you can feel him peeling back everything that you are to assess something nestled much, much deeper within. 

You look away first, and the moment you do, you hear L hum approvingly—he sounds pleased, almost.

And though you know he would never seriously consider you competition, you still can’t shake the strange feeling that you’ve lost at something.

“No." L concludes. "No, I don’t think so.”

He sets his plate down on the table with a clink and you’re not surprised to find he’s already finished eating. All that remains is a single cherry; so violently red against the pale porcelain it sits on. 

“Tell me,” He pinches the stem between his forefinger and thumb, and it’s the first reprieve you’re gifted from the weight of his calculating gaze; as his attention shifts to the sweet fruit he holds. “Why do you hate me?”

Shit, you realise your fingers are digging into the cracks in the leather armrest; flex your hand a few times before making an attempt to calmly fold them in your lap. Maybe because you make me feel like a fucking failure?

“I think you’re too smart for your own good.”

He gives that some thought. “As are you.”

It’s laughable, really. L is leagues above you in terms of intelligence. Prestige. Power. Who are you standing next to one of the greatest minds in the world? Who are you to deign that he recognises you?

You refuse to even recognise yourself. 

“You don’t believe that,” you scoff. 

“I do. I knew it from the moment you were first introduced to me.” 

You pick up on something strange about the way he phrases it; the necessity of awareness required from both parties in a first introduction.

I'm losing it.

You shake your head, abandoning the tendrils of something akin to unease that had just begun to creep up on you. When else would he have first known you? It's a stupid thought. You’re not exactly the sort of person preceded by some magnificent reputation. 

“Sure,” you decide to entertain him nevertheless, if only to see how far he’ll go. You wonder whether this is as close to gratitude as L can express, but is it for the hospitality or for the cake or for something in between? “And why was that, Ryuzaki?”

“L,” he corrects you. “Because even then, you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“And that’s what supposedly makes me a genius?” you scrunch your nose, “because I don’t like you?”

“So you insist on maintaining,” he drawls. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you know, detective,” L ventures thoughtfully, “your heart rate always spikes quite dramatically whenever you’re alone with me.” His black eyes flicker to meet yours as he breaks off the stem—pops the cherry between his grinning lips. 

You dig your nails into the skin of your palm. Focus on the sharp sensations of precise pain; imagine the little indents of crescent moons that will litter your skin later on. 

“Ah,” your voice is unfamiliar even to your own ears. “Is that so?”

He eats the stem next, and you notice, not for the first time, that the man's skin is so pale, it’s like a thin sheet has been stretched tight over brittle bones. You can easily trace the jagged lines of blue and purple veins that curl around and underneath his face.

L’s lithe fingers reach into his mouth where the dark stem sits between his teeth. You catch a glimpse of his tongue as he pulls out the stem, now damp, and examines it between his fingers; holds it up to the light.

It takes you a few moments to realise he must be admiring his efforts. Or, rather just observing them. You’re not really sure if L is capable of awe. Whether he cares for it, given how easily he earns it; must not mean much to him.

(You’ll find out later that he is capable of awe, though there are more important things he hopes to garner.)

The cherry stem’s all folded up on itself; he’s tied it into a knot with his tongue. 

Instinctively, your eyes dart to his mouth. “I didn’t know you could do that,” you confess lowly. “Neat party trick, huh?”

And the moment you voice the thought, you wish you’d stayed silent. The curl of his lips is infuriatingly self-satisfied, as if he’s in on some grand secret you’re not quite privy to; it feels the closest L will ever get to outright mockery, yet even then, there is something you must have mistaken for sincerity in his gaze. 

You’re not sure whether that makes you feel better, or worse.

“There’s a lot,” L confesses slowly, “that you don’t know about me.”

It doesn’t escape you that even something as simple as this sounds truer when L says it.

-

Later, the dishes have been cleared away and though you can barely keep your eyes open, you’re rummaging through your suitcase to pass him a new toothbrush because, you insist, you always carry spares. L admits he's never had to brush his own teeth before.

One hand on his jaw, and another curled around the brand new toothbrush you'd managed to dig out for him, you give him a reluctant demonstration.

You don't think he listens to a word you say; his attention seems to be focused elsewhere.

After his turn, you pad into the attached bathroom and brush your own teeth with the overhead lights switched off.

Tired, you don’t notice as you unscrew the lid of your old toothpaste that your own brush’s bristles are wet, whereas the toothbrush you’d handed to L is still unopened in its plastic packaging, left positioned neatly by the basin. 

-

L is garishly tall. 

It can be easy to forget that considering how often he’s hunched over a desk or curled up in a chair. When he stretches to yawn, his shirt rides up his abdomen, revealing a pale sliver of skin underneath. You avert your gaze. The last thing you need is to be caught staring.

“Take the bed,” you offer, already sinking into the loveseat's cushions.

L stares at you as he scratches his jaw. “I don’t sleep in beds.”

You don’t even want to begin deciphering that statement. You’re beginning to think this cryptic act is purposeful; that he gets off on being evasive. Out of reach. 

You’re not even sure if he can see you, considering how dark it is in the room, but you put on your sweetest smile all the same. It feels vindictive and thrilling and you believe it’s the least he deserves.

“Well, cheers to trying new things, Ryuzaki.”

He says nothing in response, and even though he’s nothing more than a vague silhouette in the absence of light, you manage to make out the slowly way he climbs into the bed—crawls to the edge of the Queen bed that’s closest to your own spot. Pulls up the duvet to his chin, and lies on his side so he's directly facing you.

It’s unnerving. You wish desperately in times like these that you could click his head open like a purse and look inside; it's impossible to tell what he's thinking.

And then he starts talking.

-

Finally, there’s a lull in your conversation that stretches far too long.

You make no effort to salvage the exchange, relishing in its conclusion, and much to your relief, neither does your partner. It’s not necessarily that L’s bad company but it’s also not not that he’s impossibly infuriating to talk to. You just want to sleep. It's been a long fucking day.

You close your eyes, allowing a welcome silence to settle inside the stuffy room. 

…

Then you try to ignore it.

…

You really, really do.

…

Much to your dismay, even your best efforts prove futile. The quiet doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d like. 

“Ryuzaki,” In the face of overwhelming fatigue, all niceties are forgotten and honesty reigns supreme. “Why the fuck can I feel your eyes on me?”

“I can’t sleep,” he simply responds, in lieu of a proper answer. 

You might’ve laughed if you weren’t so tired. Unlike him, you unfortunately do not have the seemingly inhumane ability to function properly without multiple consecutive nights of sleep. So, with a long sigh, you decide to let it slide.

Just one more time. 

Then, with disapproval evident in your weary voice, because it would feel too much like accepting defeat to say nothing at all; “you know, normal people usually just count sheep.”

“Mm." The sheets rustle. "Sleep well.” 

“...Thanks. You, too.”

Behind the heavy blackout curtains of the hotel room, the sky turns a soft, dreamy lilac. 

Outside, some parts of Tokyo wake up to the mellifluous sound of morning’s first birdsong, and others take that as their queue to drunkenly stumble home in search of a warm bed to fall into.

On the busy streets dozens of stories below yours, the city moves as it always does. Vibrant and alive—though waiting with bated breath in anticipation of death; Kira the only constant in this new world.

You don’t even realise you’ve dozed off in the armchair; sleep is simply a welcome reprieve from such a long day. A privilege, and not the routine it used to be.

You dream of running away from something. Of simply falling through a solid floor.

Conversely, though he has taken your advice, L finds rest evades him.

Content with staying awake, he takes the rare opportunity to simply observe you from across the room, and it’s such a fascinating sight, to finally see you so at peace. You usually run on such a short fuse. Well-meaning, but difficult to deal with nonetheless. You like to be seen; hate to be stared at. 

Aren’t you a charmer?

In the pale beginnings of dawn, he is a silent shepherd. He smiles at the thought, whilst gnawing on his thumbnail. 

The sheep he counts all have your face.

-

You’re not sure what exactly it is that wakes you up, but it’s quiet when you do.

Even still, something causes you to stir, and before you know it, you’re pulled out of a sleep you hadn’t even realised you’d fallen into with bleary, blinking eyes that adjust to the dark and land on—

Nothing. A startling absence where L’s body should be.

The bed’s empty, and the crinkled duvet has been hastily tossed to one side. You notice that the warm glow of the nauseatingly yellow bathroom lighting spills out from behind the door, left open just a crack. It strikes you as strange, that the door’s not fully closed. You feel justified in looking in. Call it concern. Curiosity. 

Does it really matter?

“Ryuzaki?” you venture, stepping closer. No answer. The silence is strangely more overbearing when you’re standing right in front of the bathroom door. With a hand resting on the brass knob, you decide to try once more. “Hey. L?” Silence, still and true.

It feels a lot like peering into Pandora’s box, when you inevitably do push the door open. 

Look inside. And, huh—

There is L, hunched over the sink. 

In one hand, he is holding what is unmistakably your underwear. You recognise the soft cotton instinctively, even though it’s balled up tight in his fist and he’s pressing the fabric against his nose; shuddering when he breathes in, languidly long and deep like a desperate smoker's drag of his last cigarette.

The lighting overhead casts sweeping shadows over his pale face, but despite the darkness the rest of his features are enshrouded in, you still manage to make out those black eyes; blown wide, wide open. Thick and heavy like eerily lucid, deep, dark pools of tar you can feel yourself getting sucked into.

His hand works at a methodologically steady pace. His breathing is perfectly controlled as he works at his cock with deft fingers. His tip is flushed a painful pink, leaks pre that’s been smeared down the shaft’s length. Between glimpses, you manage to make out prominent veins that eagerly pulse in response to his touch. 

Proud. Heavy.

Hungry to sink into something far tighter than his fist.

—Your breath catches in your throat. It is impossible to look away. 

The following moments are hazy, at best. Time seems to slow down to a crawl when the scene before you clicks into place, and the world moves in still frames after that; the last one lingering too long and imposing over the next. 

You don’t remember saying anything, but you must have let a gasp slip past your parted lips. Stumbled backwards, perhaps. Some involuntary indication of your presence, peering in behind him.  

Time fractures completely when L looks up; gaze snapping straight to meet yours in the mirror.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection, looking so laughably petrified—clearly just having rolled out of bed. There is not a single thing to be said as he lets his black eyes wander, appraisal silent and shameless as he drinks in the state of you; all tousled hair and crumpled clothes and bare feet. 

His hands work faster then. His movements grow jerkier, breathing shallow. Eyes flutter shut, finally looking away from you, as his grip on your underwear tightens—knuckles white from the sheer effort of holding on, refusing to let go and inhaling your scent—nose buried desperately deep in the dirty cotton. Pathetically fervent. Chasing that blissful high with a new vigour. 

You have been taught by many a smart man to never go seeking answers to questions when you do not wish to face them.

And so, when you glimpse this stranger’s tongue dart out to wet his cracking, dry lips the exact moment they wrap around the shape of a familiar name—hear the syllables repeated with a devotion akin to reverence; something like prayer—the man shudders exactly when you do.

Comes undone just as you slam the door shut.

You’re standing there in what you think might be shock, with a shaking hand resting against the doorknob. You choose to focus on the way in which the hair on your arm stands on end. Because if it’s not that, it’d be the sound of the tap running. 

The door swings open abruptly. The man breezes past you, and quietly crawls back into bed. Rooted to where you stand, it’s all you can do to turn over your shoulder and observe him.

He catches you staring, merely tilts his head to the side from where he’s settled into the sheets, a coy little lilt to his lips. 

For the first time, you’re the one who doesn’t look away. Couldn’t, even if you tried. Stygian strands of hair fall over his eyes, the darkest black they’ve ever been. Despite the fact that it feels like you’re staring at a stranger, facing him is familiar, as it always is; like wading into a thick tar.

Viscous and heavy and clinging.

You might’ve missed what he said if you weren’t so hyper focused on his every minute movement. His words are barely above a whisper, after all, and carry a strange lilt—as if recited, almost. Like he’s reading a line; performing some private joke.

“Take a picture,” L smiles knowingly. “It’ll last longer.”

[bunni-v1]

Lighter NSFW Headcannons

🍓Hello lovelies! I managed to get this done. I do apologize if it feels rushed or anything near the end. It was getting so long, and I didn't want to write so much I had nothing else to talk about. I hope you enjoy it regardless! Love you all <3

TW: Nsfw (duh); Rough sex (alluded to)

Info: Lighter x Reader; NSFW

-There’s a lot of contention on whether or not Lighter is a virgin, and as much as I love the idea of sloppy awkward virgin Lighter… there’s just no fucking way. Look at him.

-He fucked around a lot when he was younger, it just kind of lines up with that cocky, overconfident leader vibe he alludes to a lot. Sure, he’s more responsible than most others, but I can’t imagine a world in which he hadn’t messed around at least a little.

-All that to say, he hasn’t had sex in a really long time. Like, the last time he was with anyone was before entering the underground fighting ring. It's been a minute for our poor old sap.

-It’s not like he really has much want for sex either. After joining the Sons of Calydon he didn’t trust anyone enough to handle him in such a vulnerable state, and there’s not anyone he’d want to sleep with around anyway. (Certainly not any of the girls, they’re too much like family for that.)

-He isn’t one for one-night stands much, they make him feel like he’s nothing more than his body. If he’s going to share such vulnerable parts of himself, he’d like to have some kind of emotional connection. Friends with benefits are better, but he also doesn’t like complicating his personal relationships like that, so he just doesn’t have sex.

-He masturbates plenty for sure though, usually to some kind of low-budget porno. If he’s feeling pent up and he can’t take it out in the ring, he’ll just use his hands a different way to help himself out.

-And then there was you.

-Sweet little you, who Lighter just couldn’t get out of his head. He hated how much his mind would drift to you when he was just trying to relieve himself. 

-He tried so hard to focus on the shitty porno he was running, something about step-siblings – he wasn’t really thinking too hard about it. But then, the image of you and him pops into his head. It’s innocent to start, just thinking about your pretty lips and that damned smile, but his mind just keeps drifting.

-What noises would you make? Would you be quiet or loud? He’d like it if you were loud. Can you even bend like that? Would you try for him? What would you look like sucking his dick? Could you take all of him in one go, or would he have to slip it in inch by inch while you adjust?

-It’s like a parasite he can’t quite get out of his head, whispering all the horribly indecent thoughts about you, making him so desperate for your touch all the time.

-That’s before you’re even together, it only gets worse after you finally make things official with him. 

-Before he felt shameful, you were just a friend and he was totally disrespecting you, but now that you’re together? Now that he’s allowed to find you attractive, now that he knows how you feel in his hands and how you taste on his lips he’s done for.

-He’s awful respectful of you and your space, and he really does want to take things slow, but Christ you don’t know what you do to him. Or maybe you do, and you’re torturing him on purpose because you like to see him squirm when you jut your little lip out in a pout.

-Your first time with him is sloppy, as most first times are. He just can’t contain himself.

-You’re sitting on his lap, shirt, and pants long since forgotten in some corner of the room, working your sinful little mouth over his. He can’t help but grab at the fat of your hips, dragging you over his painfully hard erection. 

-The feeling is way better than he’d ever imagined, much nicer than his hand, and way better than those stupid pornos – had sex always felt this good, or are you some kind of secret god? It doesn’t occur to him that, maybe, going so hard might be enough to make him cum until it’s way too late.

-He creams his pants about five minutes into your little grind session.

-It’s so, so embarrassing for him. He’s usually so well-composed, and it’s not like he didn’t have the stamina. It was just… overwhelming to finally get to have you exactly how he wanted to have you for so long. And… he totally ruined it.

-He looks like a kicked puppy. He’s not saying anything but you can tell he’s beating himself up over it, so you have to hold his face in your hands and coo at him and assure him that everything is okay. That it’s a compliment, that you love him. 

-He has a hard time believing it until you slide down and help him clean up, and suddenly it's not so bad anymore – not with the way your mouth is working around him with such ease.

-So, sure, your first time together doesn’t exactly go as planned, but that’s just one time. What else does Lighter have in store for you?

-Firstly, Lighter is definitely a switch, though he heavily prefers topping. Specifically, he’s a service top. Everything he does is to make you feel good, even when he’s being rough and brutal, it’s because that’s what you want from him. 

-He likes to take his time with you, to really feel you beneath him. His hands are calloused and big and they trace over your flesh like they’re worshipping you. Committing every inch they can reach to memory, like if he doesn’t he will forget the feeling.

-It’s damn near overstimulating with how much he drags those rough fingers along your ribcage, but it’s so incredibly heavenly as well. 

-His lips always follow in his finger's wake, pressing across each mapped inch like markers for when he wants to come back up. 

-He mumbles sweet praises into every single curve and divot, “Beautiful,” “Perfect,” “Mine.” Like a man possessed, he nearly forgets that other goals must be achieved, right up until he’s just above your most sensitive parts.

-When he gets there he breathes in, deeply, and then he plunges right in, and dear god he’s amazing with his mouth. His fingers too.

-It feels like he’s trying to consume you, the way his lips cup around you – sucking as if his life depended on it. His fingers will happily busy themselves by playing with whatever part of you isn’t already in his mouth, occasionally swapping the two to keep you on your toes.

-If you think that’s nice, you should also know that he keeps his eyes on you the whole time he’s doing it too and just watching your expressions, enjoying having all of his senses filled with nothing but you. 

-You have to cum with his mouth or fingers (or both) at least once. Not because of his ego (though it definitely grows when he feels you clenching around his annoyingly deft tongue), but because he is big and no matter how many times you take him, there is always quite the stretch. 

-Speaking of how big he is, he’s certainly much larger than average. I’m thinking much closer to seven and a half inches, with a similar girth fully erect. He’s a grower, not a shower.

-And goodness is it nice to look at. There are two prominent veins, one running along the bottom of his shaft and another on the side that stops about halfway up. The tip is always blushed and angry red, and the shaft itself is slightly darker than the rest of his skin, but it’s awful pretty.

-He keeps himself pretty well groomed, though there is hair there, it won’t irritate you when you’re giving him head. It’s just something so that he doesn’t feel bald down there.

-He prefers it when you give rather than receive, though he enjoys taking care of you like that very much. It’s just that you look so cute trying to swallow down all of him. You can never quite get him down, he’s just way too big even with plenty of training, but you always try so hard. The tears pricking your lashes and the redness of your cheeks are intoxicating.

-He’ll give you the sweetest smile as he watches you struggle to swallow him down, hands wound in your hair guiding you to take just a little more. “You can do it, baby. Go on, just a little more… good job.”

-Unfortunately, he isn’t much of a noisemaker, though he’ll give you more than a few groans when you do something particularly nice. He’s more of a talker.

-He loves to just talk you through what you’re doing, praises and hums of approval rumbling out of his chest. His voice is much deeper and more gruff than you’re used to, but it's heavenly hearing him mutter out a deep “Oh fuck,” when you run your tongue right along that vein.

-Once both of you are nice and ready, you all loosened up for him, and he’s got the condom and the lube applied he finally lines himself up. 

-He teases you with the swollen head of his dick a few times, rubbing it around the rim of your desperate little home, then finally he pushes himself in. Just the tip, because even that is such a stretch for your poor little hole.

-It’s not so bad with the way his calloused fingers play with the sensitive skin right above where you’re connected. It’s like a reward for taking him so well, even though it hurts. 

-Again, he purrs out his praise, “Good job, baby. You’re taking me so well, just a little more… that's it. Keep sucking me in like that.”

-He inches himself so nice and slow, giving you all the time in the world to adjust. His hands soothing over your thighs until you’ve finally swallowed him whole. Then, he leans down, intertwining your fingers with his, and carefully pulls himself out.

-He’ll always start slow unless he’s feeling jealous or neglected, and he always holds your hand. He wants you to know that he still loves you, even in such an intimate moment where he could easily lose himself, he reminds you that you are his everything.

-He isn’t always soft, though. He wants to be soft and loving and gentle, but Lighter is very easy to rile up if you know what you’re doing.

-As I mentioned, jealous and needy sex happens, and it’s rough. He’s staking his claim on you, making sure to leave bruises and bites that will last the rest of the week. If you’re not giving him the attention he feels he needs, he’ll pull you aside and make you give it to him.

-When he’s feeling like that, he loves to hear you moan, and he’ll outright tell you to do so. If you don’t he will shove his fingers in your mouth and force you to make them.

-Something else that’ll really get him going is roughhousing. Regardless of if you’re legitimately boxing with him or if it’s just playful stuff on the couch, it really gets him fired up. 

-As shameful as it is he loves putting you in your place. Something about the way you desperately hit at him, the way your skin gets sweaty and flushed, it all just does something to his brain. You always end up with your legs tossed over his shoulders.

-He likes knowing how much stronger he is than you, not that it isn’t obvious. So he loves to manhandle you whenever he gets the chance. The way you give him all the power in the world to move you around is heaven to him.

-Ah, but his favorite sex is the kind you have on his bike. He loves to see you in nothing but his jacket and his scarf bent over the seat of his bike, just waiting for him to take advantage of you.

-He’ll drive you out to some quiet corner of the outback and absolutely fuck your brains out. 

-Maybe this one is a bit odd, but he likes to have you sit on his bike in just your underwear and rev the engine just to see you squirm. It’s never enough to make you cum, but it sure does feel fantastic, especially with how he presses himself up behind you and purrs praise in your ears.

-To him, it really is all about how you’re feeling. He’s happy so long as you cum, and if you want to help him along, even better.

-Help him if you ever suggest letting him cum inside, it might actually make his head explode. It’s not like he has a breeding kink or anything, but it’s the fact that you’d trust him enough to do something like that.

-To be real about it, that’s what sex is about to him. Trust. It’s a symbol of all the love and admiration you have for each other. It’s so intimate and such a difficult thing to share with you, so despite all the rough treatment and kinks and everything in between, sex is just another way that Lighter shows you he loves you.

[tinyshyteacup]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[shaiyasstuff]

delayed beginnings | sylus

synopsis : You and Sylus have spent years as strangers in an arranged marriage, living separate lives without much thought for each other. But when he unexpectedly shows up at your doorstep, the distance between you starts to blur. content : arranged marriage au, non-cannon!au, sylus x non-mc, artist!reader, fluff, just married life i guess?

The years apart had dulled any connection you might have had to him—not that there had been much to begin with.

This marriage had never been born out of love or even choice; it had been a decision made for you, a consequence of circumstances beyond your control.

From the very beginning, it had existed only in name.

You had built a life for yourself in Paris, embracing its warmth, its language, its people, while he remained in Spain, a distant figure in a life that barely intersected with yours.

There had been no messages, no phone calls, no acknowledgment of the bond that tied you together.

The silence between you was not bitter or resentful—it had simply been easier.

An unspoken agreement to remain strangers.

But now, that silence was broken.

Because here he is at your doorstep, the man you married yet barely knew, his expression unreadable as he regarded you.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, his voice steady, neither hostile nor welcoming.

“My mother wants us to… reconnect, apparently. But don’t misunderstand. I’m here because I have to be.” He sighed, as if stating a simple fact.

The words did not offend you.

They only confirmed what you had both known all along.

And yet, for the first time in years, he was here—no longer just a name on a forgotten document, but a man standing before you.

A stranger you were bound to, whether either of you wanted it or not.

—•

You don’t react, offering neither a greeting nor an argument.

There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been understood between you.

Without a word, you step aside, creating just enough space for him to enter. It isn’t an invitation, merely an acceptance of the inevitable.

The threshold that had once separated your lives now feels more significant than ever, yet you don’t hesitate.

You let him in, the same way you let this marriage happen—without resistance, without expectation.

He steps inside, his gaze drifting over the modest space with a flicker of surprise. It’s subtle, but you catch it—the faint hesitation in his posture, the way his eyes linger on the simple furnishings, the warm but unpretentious atmosphere.

He had expected something grand, no doubt, a place befitting the wealth and status that often accompanied arranged marriages.

Instead, he finds a home that is lived-in, personal, devoid of extravagance.

“This… is your home?” he asks, his voice laced with disbelief and quiet curiosity.

He looks around again, as if trying to reconcile the image he had of you with the reality before him.

You can almost see the questions forming in his mind, though he doesn’t voice them. Instead, he just stands there, caught between expectation and reality.

You close the door behind him with quiet finality, the latch clicking into place.

The silence lingers thickly, but you don’t attempt to fill it.

Instead, you move toward the kitchen, your steps unhurried and comfortable in your own home.

Reaching for a glass, you let the water run, the steady stream the only sound breaking the quiet.

There’s no tension in your movements, no hesitation, just routine, habit.

You pour the water, the weight of his gaze lingering somewhere behind you, waiting, watching.

“Yep.” The single word leaves your lips without effort, without invitation for further conversation.

You don’t look at him when you say it. You don’t need to.

You hadn’t acknowledged him as your husband, not once, not even in thought. But that didn’t change who you were.

Your family raised you better than that, taught you grace even in discomfort.

Manners came as naturally as breathing, even when the guest in your home was a man who was supposed to be more than that but never was.

He follows you into the kitchen, his footsteps soft against the floor, yet his presence feels heavier than it should. His eyes continue their quiet assessment of the apartment, flickering from one piece of furniture to another, as if trying to fit you into a life he had never considered before.

You don’t acknowledge his scrutiny, focusing instead on the glass in your hand. The sound of the water filling it is steady, unbothered—unlike the tension that lingers between you.

“It’s… quaint,” he finally says, his voice measured, neutral.

His gaze meets yours for a fleeting second before shifting away, returning to the modest surroundings as if searching for the right words—or perhaps an explanation.

There’s no judgment in his tone, but there’s something else.

Hesitation, maybe. Uncertainty. As if the reality of you, of this life, doesn’t quite align with whatever idea he had built in his mind.

And yet, he says nothing more, leaving the air between you thick with unspoken thoughts.

“I prefer it that way. It’s cozy.”

Your response is effortless, honest. There’s no need for justification—you’ve built a life here, one that belongs to you, and you have no interest in explaining it to someone who has never been a part of it.

You slide the glass of water toward him, your fingers brushing the cool surface before pulling away.

A simple gesture, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence, even if you don’t quite know what to do with it.

“How was the flight?” The question is polite, nothing more. An automatic extension of the manners ingrained in you, not necessarily curiosity.

But it fills the space between you, if only for a moment.

He takes the glass from you, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting, accidental touch.

It’s nothing—barely even noticeable—but it lingers, sending an involuntary shiver through you. A quiet, unsettling reminder that, no matter how distant you’ve been, there is still something inherently intimate about this moment.

About standing in your kitchen, about pouring him a drink, about the unspoken history that exists between you, even if it was never lived.

“It was… long,” he finally says, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion—not just from travel, but from the situation itself. The reality of it, the strangeness of standing here like this.

He takes a sip of water, his eyes finding yours over the rim of the glass. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something searching.

“Thank you.” The words are simple, but they seem to carry more than just appreciation for the water.

There’s an silent acknowledgment in them—a recognition of your quiet civility, of the fact that despite everything, despite the years of silence, you are still standing here, offering him something.

Even if it’s just a glass of water.

You nod in quiet acknowledgment.

“I’ll just go grab something,” you say, already making your way toward the spiral staircase that leads upstairs to your bedroom.

He watches you go, his gaze lingering on your retreating figure as you disappear up the staircase.

The only sound between you is the faint creak of each step beneath your feet, filling the silence that neither of you seems willing to break.

Left alone in the living room, he exhales slowly, his eyes drifting over the space once more.

There’s a strange mixture of curiosity and discomfort settling in his chest—an awareness that he has stepped into a life that has never included him.

A world that has moved forward without him in it.

This marriage had always been nothing more than a formality, a distant arrangement neither of you had cared to acknowledge.

And yet, standing here, surrounded by the quiet evidence of your existence, he can’t shake the feeling that things aren’t as simple as he thought.

The cold detachment he had worn so easily at your doorstep feels less certain now, like armor that no longer fits.

The soft sound of your footsteps descending the stairs pulls him from his thoughts.

You stop at the bottom, meeting his gaze with the same calm neutrality you’ve carried all evening.

“Make yourself at home, I’ll be in my art room if you need me.” You say casually.

And for the first time since arriving, he wonders if this reunion will be far more complicated than he had expected.

He turns to face you as you speak, his posture still reserved, though there’s a noticeable shift—just the faintest easing of the tension that had defined your earlier exchanges.

It’s a quiet reminder that, despite everything, despite the forced nature of your connection, there is a quiet courtesy in the way you carry yourself.

A kind of warmth that exists not in words, but in simple gestures.

“Art room?” he asks, the slightest furrow in his brow betraying a flicker of curiosity.

His tone lacks its earlier sharpness, replaced instead by something quieter, something more genuine. He’s never thought to ask about your life before—not really.

But now, standing in the middle of your home, surrounded by the reality of your world, the question comes almost naturally.

As if, for the first time, he’s beginning to wonder who you are beyond the formality of your marriage.

You nod, offering a simple confirmation.

“I paint.” The words leave your lips briskly, clipped shorter than you intended.

It’s not that you mean to be curt, but there’s an awkwardness to this exchange that neither of you can seem to shake. The weight of the situation presses in, thick and stifling, making every word feel heavier than it should.

You’re not sure why he asked.

Maybe simple curiosity. Maybe an attempt—however small—to bridge the distance between you. But whatever the reason, you don’t dwell on it.

Instead, you shift slightly, already preparing to step away, to retreat back into the familiarity of your art room—the one place in this house that still feels like yours alone.

He catches the stiffness in your tone, the way the tension still clings to every word between you. It’s obvious that neither of you knows how to handle this—how to be around each other after years of silence.

And honestly, he’s just as unsure about all of this as you are.

“I see,” he says, his voice quieter now, less detached. The awkwardness isn’t lost on him, and for a moment, he debates whether to say anything at all. But something about this—about you—makes him want to at least try.

After a pause, he shifts slightly, glancing toward you before speaking again.

“Would it be… strange if I asked to see your work?” His tone is careful, uncertain. He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to ask, if it’ll make things better or worse.

But for the first time, there’s something genuine in the question—an attempt, however small, to understand you beyond the marriage that neither of you ever wanted.

Something flickers in your eyes—just for a moment. Not quite excitement, not quite hesitation. An unexplainable look, one even you can’t fully place.

“Follow me,” you say simply, your voice steady as you turn away.

Your feet move on instinct, carrying you toward the one place in this house that is truly yours. Your safe haven. The art room.

Whether his request is genuine curiosity or just an attempt to fill the silence, you’re not sure. But for now, you let him follow.

He follows you without a word, his eyes drifting over the little details of your home—the paintings on the walls, the slightly worn furniture, the small personal touches that make the space yours. It’s nothing like what he expected, but then again, he never really thought about what your life looked like.

As you lead him to your art room, he realizes he’s more curious than he thought he’d be.

This is a side of you he’s never seen, a glimpse into the life you’ve built without him. The thought of seeing your work, of understanding even a small piece of who you are through your art, stirs something in him.

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping to find, but for the first time since stepping into your home, he actually wants to know.

You had left the door to your art room open when the doorbell rang, too caught up in your work to think about closing it before rushing off to answer. You hadn’t expected a visitor—especially not him.

“I was working on a new canvas when you rang,” you say, your voice softer now, more focused on the half-finished painting sitting on the easel than the man standing behind you.

In the background, music plays from the small speakers you set up, blending into the space like it belongs there.

As he steps into the room, he’s immediately met with the soft strains of music playing in the background, blending seamlessly with the scent of paint and the vibrant chaos of colors scattered across the space.

The melody is gentle yet rich, layered with the soft plucking of guitar strings and the occasional swell of piano chords. It’s raw, intimate—almost like a conversation unfolding in notes rather than words.

He pauses at the threshold, taking it all in.

This space is so unmistakably yours, filled with unfinished canvases, paint-streaked palettes, and small traces of creativity in every corner.

“It’s… unexpected,” he says after a moment, his voice lacking its usual guarded edge. There’s no pretense in his words, just an acknowledgment of the world you’ve built for yourself.

Even in a small room, your passion fills the space.

His gaze drifts toward the speaker, the melody still playing softly in the background. “Is the music yours too?” he asks, a quiet curiosity in his tone.

There’s no judgment—just a genuine interest in another piece of you he hadn’t expected to discover.

You nod as you make your way back to your easel, settling into the familiar space like second nature.

Reaching to the side, you pick up the paintbrush and palette you had abandoned earlier, the smooth weight of them grounding you.

“I produce some music for fun,” you say with a casual shrug, as if it’s nothing special, just something you do. The words are nonchalant, but the melody playing in the background tells a different story—one of effort, of passion, of something deeply personal.

Still, you don’t elaborate. If he’s curious, he’ll ask. If not, it doesn’t really matter. You were making music long before he showed up, and you’ll keep making it long after he’s gone.

He steps further into the room, his gaze drawn to the paintings that cover the walls. There’s something different about this space—something that contrasts starkly with the tension that had marked his arrival. Here, there’s no hesitation, no forced obligations—just color, movement, and quiet purpose.

He studies the pieces for a moment, taking in the details, the emotions woven into each brushstroke. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he gestures toward one of the canvases.

“May I?” he asks, his voice measured, a subtle hesitation in his tone. It’s more than just a request to view a painting; it’s an unspoken invitation, a quiet attempt to close the gap between you, even if just for a moment.

He stands there, aware that this small gesture carries more weight than it seems.

“Go ahead,” you say with a small gesture toward the painting before turning back to your own work.

You don’t watch him as he steps closer, don’t wait to see what he thinks. Instead, you pick up your brush and get back to your painting, letting yourself slip into the familiar rhythm.

This is your space, your routine, and his presence doesn’t change that. If he wants to look, to try and make sense of something through your art, that’s up to him. You weren’t exactly waiting for his reaction.

He steps closer to the painting, his gaze moving over the strokes and swirls of color.

There’s something about it—something raw, something that speaks without words. It’s different from what he expected, though he isn’t sure what he was expecting in the first place.

“It’s breathtaking…” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice softer than usual. The words hang in the air, lingering between you, as if they carry more weight than he intended—an unexpected compliment that feels both genuine and unfamiliar.

For the first time, he sees more than just the stranger he married. He sees your passion, your emotions laid bare on the canvas.

And without realizing it, something shifts—a quiet stirring in his perception of you. Because this isn’t just a hobby. It’s a piece of you, painted into existence.

You smile slightly, a quiet flicker of gratitude for his words.

“I paint with emotions, you see…” you say, your voice soft, steady. Your brush moves instinctively, blending colors without much thought, just feeling. “I don’t really have a set plan when I paint. It’s more about what I feel in that moment.”

Your focus stays on your work, the strokes flowing naturally.

You’re not explaining for the sake of conversation—it’s just the truth. Painting isn’t about logic for you; it’s about expression, about putting emotions into something tangible.

Whether he fully understands or not doesn’t really matter. But for the first time, he’s listening.

He keeps looking at the painting, his appreciation for it—and for you—growing with every passing second.

Your explanation makes him see your work differently, adding a new layer of meaning to it.

“That’s an interesting way to go about it,” he says, turning to you.

Watching you work, completely focused, he realizes he’s seeing you in a way he never has before. The way you move the brush, the quiet ease with which you create—it’s clear this isn’t just a hobby.

It’s who you are.

And in that moment, you’re not just the woman he married because of circumstance. You’re an artist. A creator. Someone with a whole world inside them that he’s only just starting to notice. And for the first time, he actually wants to.

Your smile grows, just a little.

“Thanks,” you say simply, not making a big deal out of it, but the appreciation is there.

You don’t look up from your painting, letting the conversation settle naturally. It’s a small moment, nothing grand or life-changing, but something about it feels different. Lighter. Less forced.

And maybe, just maybe, you were warming up a little.

As he turns back to the painting, silence settles between you again, but this time, it feels different. It’s no longer stiff or uneasy—it just is.

There’s something unspoken, a shift in the air, a quiet understanding that wasn’t there before.

“The way you paint, it’s… inspiring,” he says after a moment, his voice softer than usual.

The words feel almost foreign coming from him, like he’s not accustomed to expressing such things, but there’s an undeniable sincerity in his tone as they leave his lips.

But here, in this space filled with your art, with the essence of you, he finds himself wanting to try—to reach out, even just a little.

You don’t respond right away, letting the words settle as you keep working, your brush moving effortlessly across the canvas. After a beat, you decide to turn the focus onto him instead.

“What about you?” you ask, your tone neutral, more like an idle observation than actual curiosity. “What do you do?”

You don’t look up, still lost in your painting, but the question is out there now. An invitation to connect.

“I own a tech company in Madrid,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of pride, though a small pause lingers before the words fully leave his mouth.

There’s an underlying hesitation, like he’s unsure how you’ll take it. The shift is subtle but noticeable, as if he’s offering you a glimpse into a part of him that he usually keeps guarded

“That’s impressive,” you say without thinking, your tone casual, almost dismissive.

Realizing how it might have come across, you pause mid stroke and turn to him with a small, apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to sound so disinterested,” you say, your voice softer. “I’m just used to being on my own.”

Your eyes meet his for a beat, and for once, the conversation doesn’t feel forced. Just honest.

He gives a small nod, accepting your apology without dwelling on it. His expression shifts, something in his gaze a little less guarded, a little more understanding.

Neither of you had chosen this situation, but in this moment, there’s an unspoken recognition—you’ve both built lives apart from each other, shaped by solitude in ways neither of you had questioned before.

“We’ve both gotten used to being alone, haven’t we?” he muses, his voice quiet, almost reflective. He lets the words hang in the air for a moment, as if weighing their truth. “I guess that was just… part of the deal,” he adds, the hint of something resigned in his tone, as if he’s finally accepting the reality that’s always been there.

There’s no bitterness in his words, just a simple truth. One you both understand.

You let out a quiet sigh, nodding slightly as you turn back to your canvas.

“I hope you accept my apologies,” you say, your voice even. “My father can be a stubborn man when he wants to get his way.”

You lift your brush, adding another stroke to the canvas, your focus shifting back to your work. It’s not an excuse, just a fact—one that neither of you can change.

He watches as your hand moves effortlessly over the canvas, the paintbrush seeming like an extension of you. There’s something almost calming about it—the quiet contrast between the ease of your strokes and the complicated reality of the conversation between you.

“Forgiveness granted,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost like he’s letting the weight of the words sink in. He pauses, then continues, “And I should offer my own. This situation is… complicated, to say the least.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he picks his words. “We’re strangers in more ways than one.” The last part comes out almost like an afterthought, muttered under his breath, as if he’s only just realizing the depth of it himself.

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, his gaze distant, caught up in the quiet understanding.

Because despite being bound by marriage, you had never truly been given a choice. It was your father who had pushed for this, who had set everything in motion, leaving the two of you to make sense of a decision that had never been yours to begin with.

“I’m sure you prefer it that way,” you say, your tone was light as you dab a different color onto the canvas.

Your brush moves with ease, your focus never fully leaving your work. It’s not an accusation, just an observation.

After all, he had never tried to reach out, never questioned the silence between you. If anything, it seemed like he had been just as content with the distance as you had.

He doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze drifts over the paintings, each one a quiet reflection of something unspoken, something deeply personal. There’s a weight to this room—an honesty that makes it harder to hold onto the detachment he carried when he first arrived.

After a pause, he finally speaks.

“Do I?” he murmurs, almost as if asking himself. “Prefer it that way?”

There’s uncertainty in his voice, a hesitation that feels uncharacteristic for him. He’s not the type to leave things open-ended, to question himself out loud.

But here, in the quiet solitude of your art room, it feels strangely natural. As if, for the first time, he’s allowing himself to consider the answer.

The sudden shift catches you off guard, leaving you unsure of what to make of it.

“Do you not?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral. “You didn’t exactly seem happy your mother sent you here.”

It’s not meant to be confrontational—just a simple truth. From the moment he showed up, it was clear he wasn’t here by choice.

The way he spoke, the guarded distance in his expression, everything about him had screamed reluctance.

He steps closer to one of your paintings, running a finger lightly over a swirl of color, as if the texture of the brushstrokes might give him an answer he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

His expression is distant, thoughtful, as though he’s piecing together something he hadn’t fully considered before.

“It’s not really about happiness, is it?” he finally says, turning to look at you. “It’s about…expectations.”

His voice is quieter now, carrying a weight that lingers in the air between you. “I did what was expected of me,” he continues, his gaze steady. “Just like you did.”

There’s no resentment in his tone, no argument—just an understanding that neither of you had much of a choice.

And for the first time, it feels like he truly sees it, sees you. Not as a stranger, not as an obligation, but as someone who had been carrying the same burden all along.

You don’t respond right away, letting his words settle. There was a time when you might have argued, when resentment had clung to you like a shadow.

But that feeling had faded long ago, replaced by quiet acceptance—by the understanding that no amount of anger could change what had already been decided for you.

“I suppose,” you say finally, your voice calm, resigned.

There’s nothing more to add. It is what it is. And you’ve learned to live with it.

A silence stretches between you, thick with things neither of you say. It’s not uncomfortable, just… heavy, weighted by truths that have lingered unspoken for too long.

“In another life,” he muses, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful, “maybe we would have chosen this ourselves.”

He exhales softly, a hint of something almost wistful flickering across his expression. “But in this one, I think our roles were written for us long before we were even born.”

When he looks at you again, there’s a small, tired smile on his lips—not bitter, not regretful, just… knowing. A quiet acknowledgment of what could have been, if only the choice had been yours to make.

You chuckle, the sound light but carrying a trace of something deeper.

“Perhaps.”

For a moment, your eyes take on a distant gleam, reflecting memories from a time long before this—before marriage, before expectations.

You had met him in kindergarten, back when the world was simple, back when neither of you had any idea what the future held. Even then, he had been fearsome, a quiet force that made the other children hesitate. But not you.

You remember it clearly—the way you had walked up to him without fear, a small flower clutched in your tiny hand.

“Let’s be friends!”

The words had come so easily back then, without hesitation, without the weight of everything that had followed.

He catches the twinkle in your eyes, a glimpse of the kid you once were, untouched by all the expectations that came later. It stirs something in him, something buried beneath years of duty and obligations he never had a choice in.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I have to admit, as a kid, friendship wasn’t exactly on my mind,” he says, his tone lighter now. “I was too busy trying to live up to whatever was expected of me.”

There’s something almost wistful in his voice, like he’s acknowledging a version of himself that never got the chance to just be—a boy, not a name carrying weight.

You smile, just a little.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tinged with nostalgia.

For a moment, it’s easy to forget everything else—the years, the expectations, the complicated reality of now. Just a memory of two kids who had no idea what was coming.

Sensing the mood getting a little too heavy, he shifts gears, his gaze flickering over your paint-splattered apron with mild amusement.

“Tell me,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice, “has your art ever gotten you in trouble? Maybe a canvas—or a wall—has fallen victim to your passion?”

He raises a brow, giving you a knowing look, clearly trying to pull the conversation away from the weight of the past. It’s an attempt—however small—to find something lighter between you, something that isn’t wrapped up in duty or unspoken regrets.

You laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it—unexpected, but genuine.

A flicker of mischief dances in your eyes as you tilt your head slightly. “Maybe,” you say, your tone playful, though it does little to hide the truth behind it.

The real number? Closer to ten—maybe more.

Canvases thrown across the room in frustration, splattered with paint in moments of exasperation.

Sometimes because of this marriage, but mostly because of what it took from you—the inspiration, the freedom, the ease with which you used to create before it became a weight on your shoulders.

But right now, you don’t say that. Instead, you let the moment be light, let the teasing linger in the air between you.

Because for once, it feels easy.

His laughter follows yours, a warm and unexpected sound that fills the art room, breaking the tension that had been lingering between you.

It’s unfamiliar, yet strangely natural, as if for the first time, the weight of obligation has loosened its grip—just a little.

“Inspiration can be unpredictable, can’t it?” he muses, shaking his head slightly. “One day, you have more ideas than you know what to do with, and the next… nothing.”

His gaze drifts to your canvas, studying the strokes of color taking shape beneath your brush. “But it looks like it’s on your side today.”

There’s no mockery in his tone, just genuine observation. And maybe even a bit of admiration.

Your laughter fades into a soft chuckle as you glance at your canvas.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing another stroke onto the painting. “That’s why I can’t stop working on it. Afraid I might lose the inspiration, you see.”

There’s a lightness to your tone, but the sentiment is real. Inspiration is fleeting, unpredictable. When it comes, you hold onto it for as long as you can—because once it’s gone, there’s no telling when it’ll return.

“I can understand that. Inspiration is like a wildfire—it moves as it wills, and you just try to catch it before it disappears.”

He watches your canvas, his expression thoughtful, almost distant. “I’m not artistic like you,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “But I know the drive to create.”

The way he says it feels different, like he’s letting you in, even if just a little. It’s not just small talk—it’s an admission, a glimpse into his world that he’s never really shared with you before. A world that, until now, had felt entirely separate from yours.

“We’re both creators in our own ways,” you say, nodding slightly as you acknowledge his perspective. You may not understand his world, but you respect it—just as he’s beginning to respect yours.

He’s always been a serious man, focused, driven. Even as a child, he carried a certain weight on his shoulders, a quiet intensity that set him apart. It’s no surprise that he built something of his own, poured himself into his work the way you do with your art.

For the first time, you realize that maybe, despite your differences, you’re not so different after all.

He nods, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes, as if your understanding catches him off guard but is welcomed nonetheless.

“Quite a pair, aren’t we?” he says, a small, almost amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

There’s more to the words than their light tone suggests. He’s acknowledging the contrast between you—your differences, your separate lives—but also the thread of similarity that’s beginning to emerge.

He’s still guarded, still careful with his words, but something about him seems lighter now. The tension in his shoulders eases, his presence shifting from something formal and distant to something a little more natural.

A little less like an obligation.

His words stir something unexpected, a slight tingle in your chest—something you can’t quite name.

“Maybe that’s why we’re still married after all this time,” you say with a lighthearted laugh. “Despite barely knowing each other.”

The thought is amusing, almost ironic. A marriage built on duty, sustained by distance, yet somehow still intact.

The hint of a smile on his lips shifts into a full-fledged grin, something you hadn’t expected to see but don’t entirely mind.

The shift in energy between you is a welcome change from the stiff, formal tension that had marked your earlier conversations.

“Maybe you’re onto something,” he muses, playfully nudging the space between you. “A creative match, bound by mutual respect and just a… dash of stubbornness.”

His eyes glint with humor as he adds, “A marriage that’ll probably confuse our families for generations to come.”

The thought makes you chuckle. It’s ridiculous, really—how this arrangement, despite everything, is still standing. But in this moment, it feels less like a burden and more like something almost amusing. Something that doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

“Oh, what will our predecessors say,” you say, shaking your head in amusement.

The sheer absurdity of it all—this arranged marriage, the years of distance, and now this unexpectedly easy conversation—only makes the moment funnier. For the first time, it doesn’t feel like you’re talking to a stranger.

“Well, I’d rather leave them guessing about us than endure awkward family gatherings and matchmaking attempts,” he says, his voice still laced with laughter.

The humor between you is unexpected, unfamiliar in the best way. It exists outside the weight of obligation, outside the expectations that had shaped your marriage from the start. And yet, it feels natural—easy, even.

For the first time, as laughter lingers between you, the man you married doesn’t feel like a stranger, but more like a friend.

Noticing the way he shifts on his feet, you realize—maybe a little too late—that he’s probably exhausted from his flight. You curse yourself internally for not thinking of it sooner.

Without a word, you reach for the extra chair nearby, pulling it closer to your side before patting the seat.

“Come on, sit down,” you say, your tone casual, but with a hint of quiet concern.

You don’t make a big deal out of it, but the gesture speaks for itself. He may be a guest, a stranger in your space, but that doesn’t mean you’ll let him stand there looking half-dead from exhaustion.

He watches as you pull the chair over, the gesture catching him off guard. It’s thoughtful—unexpected in a way that makes him pause.

Sitting closer to you feels like stepping into unfamiliar territory, a quiet shift in whatever dynamic has been forming between you.

After a brief hesitation, he gives in, lowering himself into the chair with a soft sigh. Now that he’s sitting, the exhaustion from his flight finally settles in, the weight of the day catching up to him.

“Thanks,” he says, glancing at you.

It’s a simple word, but there’s more to it than just gratitude for the seat. It’s for this moment—the unexpected ease, the quiet understanding growing between you.

You just nod with a small smile, saying nothing more as you turn back to your canvas.

After a moment, you dip your brush into a new color, adding a few careful strokes before speaking again.

“Can you guess what I’m painting?” you ask, your tone light, almost playful.

It’s not a test, just a way to keep the conversation going—to see if he’s really paying attention.

He studies your canvas, taking in the blend of colors and strokes. There’s no clear subject, no defined lines to guide him, yet there’s something about it—something that pulls him in. It’s raw, expressive, like emotion turned into color.

“It feels… ethereal,” he says after a moment, his gaze lingering on the painting. “Not a specific image or object, but more like a feeling. Something intangible, but real.”

He turns to you then, a quiet sincerity in his voice. “It’s impressive. The way you capture emotion in your work—it’s honestly inspiring.”

There’s no forced politeness, no obligation behind his words. Just genuine admiration.

You chuckle at his observation, amused by how closely he’s analyzing your work.

“I was out for a stroll earlier,” you say, flicking your paintbrush just enough to let droplets of magenta splatter onto the canvas—intentional, controlled, adding to the piece effortlessly.

“The blush of the sky, the quiet atmosphere… it just sparked something,” you continue with a light laugh. “You should’ve seen me rushing back home, desperate not to lose it.”

The thought makes you smile—how inspiration can strike so suddenly, so powerfully, that everything else fades into the background.

He listens, his gaze steady as you describe your rush to capture the moment before it slipped away. The image plays out in his mind—you, hurrying through the streets, paint-stained hands reaching for a brush the second you stepped inside.

There’s something admirable about that kind of spontaneity, that devotion to creation.

“Moments like that are irreplaceable,” he says, watching as the magenta bleeds into the other colors on your canvas, blending effortlessly—just like the sky you’d seen.

He leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “There’s something about capturing a feeling in real time. It makes the art more… real. More honest.”

With a final stroke, you lean back slightly, tilting your head as you take in your finished work. The colors blend just right, the emotion captured exactly as you’d hoped.

You turn to him, a playful glint in your eyes. “What should I name it?”

It’s a genuine question, but also a test of sorts—curious to see how he’s interpreted the piece, how he’s come to understand your art in the short time he’s spent watching you create.

He studies the painting intently, his eyes narrowing as if he’s analyzing a complex strategy. After a moment, he looks up at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“How about… Crimson Frenzy?” he suggests, his tone almost mockingly serious. “Or maybe The Magenta Revolution—depends on how bold you’re feeling.”

He leans back slightly, clearly amused with himself. “I mean, it is a burst of inspiration. Might as well give it a name that does it justice.”

You snort at his suggestion, shaking your head in amusement.

“That’s nice, but…” You lean down, picking up a finer brush to sign your name at the bottom right corner. “It sounds way too… sophisticated.” You chuckle.

With that, you stand, carefully lifting the painting and finding a spot on the wall to let it dry.

“I’d rather just call it Peace.”

You smile at your own work, satisfied with the name. Simple, but fitting. The Magenta Revolution, which, while hilarious, might not exactly send the right message.

He watches as you sign the painting, the name you’ve chosen settling into place just as naturally as the colors on the canvas.

As you hang it up to dry, he takes a moment to take it all in—the newest addition to your collection.

“Peace,” he repeats, as if testing how it sounds. The word lingers for a second before he nods.

“It fits,” he says, his gaze drifting from the painting back to you. “Feels just as peaceful as what you’ve captured.”

This time, when he looks at you, there’s no formality, no sense of duty—just something real. Something that feels like actual admiration, not just for your work, but maybe for you too.

You don’t notice his gaze lingering on you. Instead, you let out a satisfied sigh, stretching slightly as you take in your finished work.

“Now, time for me to clean up,” you say, glancing down at your paint-stained clothes with a small chuckle. Splashes of color are smeared across your apron, your hands, even a bit on your face. At this point, anyone would think you actually enjoy being covered in paint.

And, well… maybe they wouldn’t be wrong.

He chuckles, his eyes drifting over the splashes of color on your clothes, the stray streaks of paint on your face.

“You wear your art well,” he says with a smirk. “It’s like you’re an extension of your work.”

There’s no teasing bite to his words, just light humor, his earlier stiffness replaced by something more natural—more at ease.

He leans back slightly, watching you for a moment before adding, “Need any help cleaning up?”

The offer is casual, but there’s something else there too—a quiet acknowledgment of the unexpected friendship forming between you. A shift, subtle but undeniable.

You scoff playfully, shooting him a knowing look.

“That’s a funny way of saying you want to shower together,” you tease, crossing your arms with a smirk.

The words hang in the air for a second before you catch the flicker in his eyes—whether it’s surprise, irritation, or something else, it’s hard to tell. But whatever it is, you can’t help but enjoy throwing him off.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, his voice sharp but with an edge of defensiveness, clearly caught off guard.

You can’t help but smirk, thoroughly enjoying how you managed to shake him. “Relax,” you say with a chuckle, waving a paint-streaked hand dismissively. “I’m just messing with you.”

Still, the way his ears redden slightly doesn’t go unnoticed.

—•

As you both ascend the staircase to your bedroom, the conversation naturally drifts back to the past, filling the quiet between you.

“It’s funny,” you muse, glancing at him. “If someone had told our childhood selves that we’d end up married, I think we both would have laughed in their face.”

He huffs a small laugh at that, shaking his head. “No kidding. I was too busy trying to be taken seriously, and you…” He gives you a pointed look. “Well, you were busy throwing dirt around.”

You smirk. “Some things never change.”

There’s a warmth to the exchange, a far cry from the awkward tension that had defined your earlier interactions.

Catching up like this, reminiscing about the time before marriage complicated things, feels strangely natural. As if, for a moment, you’re just two people who used to know each other, finding common ground again.

“I’m gonna shower first,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step into your bedroom. “You don’t mind waiting for a bit, do you?”

It’s a casual question, but the situation still feels slightly surreal, having him here, in your space, as if this is something normal.

He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “Go ahead. I’m not in a rush.”

His easy response surprises you a little, but you don’t linger on it. Grabbing a fresh set of clothes, you head toward the bathroom, already looking forward to washing off the paint—and maybe some of the lingering tension of the night.

—•

You step out of the bathroom, toweling off your damp hair as you walk back into the room.

“Shower’s all yours,” you say, nodding toward the bathroom before making your way to grab a few things.

“After that, you can take the bed. I’ll just sleep on my beanbag in the art room.”

He meets your gaze, clearly still processing everything—the shift in your interactions, the sudden ease between you.

“You’d let me use your bed?” he asks, more surprised than anything. It’s not skepticism, just hesitation.

The thought of taking over your personal space, even after intruding on your home, seems to unsettle him.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says, his voice cool and dismissive, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“The couch is fine… or I can find somewhere else. I’m not some delicate guest who needs to be pampered.”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

“Believe me, I spend more time in my art room than I do actually sleeping. You’d be doing my bed a favor.”

Your tone is light, but it’s true. The bed is more of a decoration at this point—a place you occasionally crash when exhaustion finally wins over your late-night painting sessions.

You wave a hand dismissively. “Besides, it’s not a big deal. Just take it.”

You don’t give him room to argue, already making your way toward the door.

He stands there, completely still, blinking at you like you just suggested something outrageous.

His mouth opens slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he just stares—baffled, thrown off, utterly dumbfounded. His usual composed demeanor cracks, and for the first time, he looks genuinely at a loss.

“You—” he starts, then stops, brows drawing together. His gaze flickers between you and the bed, as if trying to process the sheer casualness with which you’re handing it over.

Meanwhile, you just smirk, crossing your arms and leaning on the doorframe. “You good?”

He blinks again, running a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as if that’ll help him make sense of this. “I just… I don’t get you.”

You laugh, heading over to your closet to grab a spare blanket for your beanbag. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Enjoy the bed,” you say over your shoulder as you walk out, completely unbothered.

He watches, still looking like he can’t quite believe you’re serious. His gaze follows you as you casually stride towards the stairs, raising a brow when you pause for a moment and tilt your head to look at him.

“Oh, and try not to mess up the pillows. They’re there for decoration.” You chuckle and start walking down the staircase.

He stands there for a moment, watching as you walk downstairs without a second glance, as if this entire situation is the most normal thing in the world.

He exhales, shaking his head slightly before a soft chuckle escapes him—low and amused.

“You’re something else,” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair before turning toward the bathroom.

As he steps inside, he still finds himself thinking about you—your easy confidence, the way you brush things off like they’re no big deal. It’s baffling… and strangely refreshing.

Shaking off the thought, he closes the door behind him, finally letting the warm steam of the shower pull him away from the lingering thoughts of you.

—•

After his shower, Sylus emerges from the bathroom, the warmth of the hot water having softened the edge of his fatigue.

He steps quietly down the staircase and walk towards the hallway, his eyes drawn to the dim glow spilling from the art room.

He finds you there, your figure framed by the soft lighting of the room, absorbed in the canvas before you.

He steps further into the room, but you don’t react. That’s when he notices the earphones—small and discreet, tucked into your ears.

Lost in your own world, as you remain unaware of his presence, your focus was entirely on the half-empty canvas before you.

He watches you closely, noticing the way your gaze lingers on the two colors, your paintbrush resting idly against your chin. It’s a small thing, this moment of hesitation, but something about it intrigues him.

His footsteps are quiet as he moves closer, stopping just beside you.

“Do you always stay up this late working?” he asks, his voice low, almost blending with the quiet hum of your music.

You blink, slightly startled as his words pull you from your thoughts. Pulling out one of your earphones, you turn to face him.

“I thought you went to sleep,” you exhale softly, your gaze flicking over him. His hair is still damp, the sharp edges of his usual composure softened by the lingering warmth of his shower. He looks relaxed, yet still alert—awake in a way that suggests curiosity more than exhaustion.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone, “but curiosity got the better of me.”

He pulls back slightly, putting some distance between you—just enough to keep the moment from feeling too intimate. But he’s still close, still watching, as if he’s trying to understand something about you that he hadn’t bothered to before.

His gaze flickers back to the canvas, then to the paint in your hand. “So?” he prompts, a quiet challenge in his voice. “Which one wins?”

You glance at him before looking back at the two colors, feeling the weight of the decision now that he’s watching.

“You make it sound like some kind of showdown,” you murmur, tapping your brush against your chin.

He smirks, leaning casually against the edge of your desk. “Isn’t it? One color wins, the other loses.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that dramatic.”

“Then why are you hesitating?”

You pause at that, exhaling as you stare at the canvas.

“I just… want it to feel right,” you admit, swirling the brush in your fingers. “It’s not just about color. It’s about capturing a feeling. I don’t want to mess it up.”

There’s a beat of silence before, without warning, he reaches out and dips his finger right into one of the colors—then smudges it onto the corner of your canvas.

“There,” he says, leaning back with a smug look. “Now you have to commit.”

Your mouth falls open as you stare at the mark he just made. “Did you just—”

He shrugs, completely unfazed. “You were overthinking it.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half annoyed, half amused. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he gestures toward the canvas with a low chuckle, “now you know what to do next.”

You shake your head, but damn it, he’s right.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking your head as you look at the smudge he left behind. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite to your words.

Instead of wiping it away, you pick up your brush and swirl it into the same color, dragging it across the canvas with a newfound decisiveness.

“There,” you say, flicking him a look. “Happy now?”

He grins, arms still crossed. “Very.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re way too pleased with yourself.”

“Well, I did just solve your artistic crisis,” he points out. “Clearly, I’m a genius.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, okay whatever.”

The energy between you feels different now—lighter, easier.

For the first time, the weight of the situation, the awkwardness of being thrown into this marriage, feels like it’s taken a backseat.

He watches as you continue painting, his gaze drifting between the canvas and the way your expression softens when you’re focused.

“So,” he says after a moment, his voice casual. “Do I get credit for inspiring this masterpiece?”

You snort. “Oh, absolutely not.” Making him laugh.

You shake your head with a smirk, dragging another stroke of paint across the canvas.

“No credit,” you say firmly, glancing at him. “You ruined my masterpiece, remember?”

He scoffs, clearly enjoying this back and forth. “Ruined? Please. I gave it life.”

You roll your eyes, dipping your brush into a new color. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He leans back against your desk, watching you work, his amusement lingering. “Speaking of sleep,” he says after a beat, “shouldn’t you be, well, sleeping?”

You shrug, focused on blending the colors together. “I’ll sleep when I feel like it.”

“Which, let me guess… isn’t anytime soon.”

You shoot him a knowing smile. “Bingo.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the guy who just finger-painted on my canvas.”

He smirks, but there’s something softer about it now, something almost… fond.

He watches you for a moment longer, the playfulness settling into something quieter, more thoughtful.

“You really love this, don’t you?” he asks, his voice losing its teasing edge.

You pause for just a second before nodding. “Yeah. I do.”

The honesty in your tone seems to catch him off guard, but he doesn’t look away.

“Must be nice,” he muses. “Having something that’s completely yours.”

The words sit between you, carrying more weight than you expected. You glance at him, studying the way his expression shifts—something contemplative, something almost longing.

“You have that too,” you say, keeping your voice light but sincere. “Your company. You built that from the ground up, didn’t you?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, but… it’s different,” he says, his tone dry, almost dismissive, but with a subtle edge of something more—like he’s not quite willing to admit there’s more to it than he’s letting on.

You don’t push him for an explanation, and he doesn’t offer one. But the moment lingers, a small crack in the wall between you, revealing a glimpse of something deeper.

After a beat, he exhales and straightens up, his smirk never fading.

“Alright, Ms. Artist, I’m heading to bed before you try to drag me into one of your late-night painting marathons.” His tone is playful but carries that trademark cockiness, as if he’s just giving in to a battle he’s not willing to fight.

You smirk, twirling your brush. “Tempting.”

He chuckles, making his way toward the door before pausing. “Don’t stay up all night,” he says over his shoulder.

You hum noncommittally, already lost in your work again.

He lingers for just a second longer, watching you paint before shaking his head with a small smile and heading to bed.

“How cute.”

—•

The soft glow of dawn seeps through the curtains, casting a warm light over the room.

Sylus stirs, blinking awake in unfamiliar surroundings. It takes him a second to remember where he is—your home, your space.

The events of yesterday settle in his mind, the conversations, the laughter, the shift in whatever this marriage had been up until now.

Feeling restless, he gets up and makes his way toward your art room.

What he finds makes him pause.

You’re fast asleep at your table, head resting on your folded arms, surrounded by brushes, paints, and the remnants of a long night spent creating.

Stray streaks of dried paint smudge your hands and clothes, and there’s a faint rise and fall of your breathing—completely at ease.

Something stirs in him at the sight—something he can’t quite put a name to. A mix of quiet amusement, protectiveness, maybe even admiration.

His eyes shift to the canvas in front of you. He steps closer, taking in the bold strokes, the careful blend of color, admiring your craft.

He glances back at you, still asleep, and a small, almost knowing smile tugs at his lips.

For a second, he debates waking you. But instead, he just exhales, shaking his head slightly.

He moves over to grab the blanket resting on your beanbag, gently draping it over your shoulders.

A gentle smile pulls at his lips when you stir slightly, feeling a tiny twinge in his heart at the sight.

The next few days settle into an almost casual routine—he sleeps in your bed, while you spend your nights in the art room, lost in your work.

It’s strange how natural it starts to feel, how neither of you question the arrangement. You don’t cross paths much at night, but during the day, things have started to shift.

When you both sit down to eat, conversations flow more smoothly, no longer weighed down by forced politeness or hesitation.

You find yourself relieved that you can talk without overthinking, that the unfamiliarity between you is slowly fading into something more comfortable.

It’s not perfect, but it’s progress.

You both have come to appreciate these quiet moments—the small conversations over meals, the way silence between you no longer feels heavy but easy.

The initial awkwardness that used to define your interactions has slowly been replaced by something more natural, something that feels almost… familiar.

As he sits across from you at dinner, watching you absently push your food around your plate before taking a bite, a thought lingers in his mind.

One that’s been there since the morning he found you asleep in your art room.

“I’ve realized something,” he says, setting his utensils down with deliberate ease.

The words hang in the air, his tone quieter now, as if there’s something beneath the surface he’s not fully ready to reveal, but can’t help but let slip.

You glance up at him, waiting. “What’s that?”

He holds your gaze, his expression thoughtful, almost calculating. “I know very little about you,” he says, the words sharp yet strangely honest, as if he’s finally acknowledging the distance between you that’s always been there.

Because for years, you’ve been married in name alone, two separate lives running parallel, never intersecting.

But now, sitting here, the idea of knowing you—really knowing you—doesn’t seem so impossible.

You pause for a moment, staring at him after his admission, letting the words settle between you. Then, with a small chuckle, you shake your head.

“I’m holding my monthly art exhibition tomorrow,” you say casually, taking a bite of your food. “You can come see me in action if you’d like.”

There’s no pressure in your tone, no expectation—just an open invitation.

A chance for him to step into your world, if he wants to.

He blinks, clearly not expecting your easy invitation. Then, to your surprise, a small laugh escapes him—soft and genuine.

“I’d like that,” he says, his voice carrying an undercurrent of something more—something deeper than just polite acceptance, as if the idea of being part of your world, even in this small way, means more to him than he’s letting on.

Like he was hoping you wouldn’t shut him out.

He leans back slightly, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I’ve never been to an art exhibition that wasn’t some business event.” He tilts his head, considering. “I think I’d actually enjoy it, especially with good company.”

His eyes meet yours, something unspoken lingering there. It’s not just about the exhibition—it’s about being there with you.

And for the first time, this doesn’t feel like just a marriage of obligation. It feels like the beginning of something else.

Something real.

You chuckle, shaking your head slightly. “I’ll be busy mingling with critics and buyers.”

Then, with a small smile, you add, “But it’s a good opportunity to introduce my husband, don’t you think?”

His expression shifts, amusement flickering in his eyes as his smirk widens, like the idea actually pleases him.

“The chance to introduce my wife to the world…” he muses, his tone light but laced with a teasing warmth.

“Seems like a fitting first step, wouldn’t you agree?” His smirk deepens, as if he’s both enjoying the idea and the playful challenge it brings.

There’s a lightness to his words that wasn’t there before, something playful yet sincere. It’s not just about appearances—it’s about this, the slow unraveling of whatever has been keeping you at arm’s length.

The thought of stepping out together—not just as a formality, but as two people slowly learning each other—settles over him.

And he finds himself looking forward to it.

You nod, chuckling as the moment settles between you.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet anticipation, as if he’s already looking forward to the next step, the next move in this strange dance between you.

Dinner winds down not long after, conversation easing into comfortable silence.

When the plates are cleared and the night stretches on, you both naturally retreat to your separate corners of the house.

“Goodnight, husband,” you tease with a playful smile, watching as his lips twitch into a brief, amused grin.

He chuckles softly, brushing off the jab with a casual wave before heading up the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the quiet house.

The next morning, you’re up before him. You leave in a hurry, scribbling a quick note with the address of the venue and a messy apology for heading out first.

You grab your heels and bolt out of your penthouse.

By the time you step into the exhibition hall, the weight of your responsibilities takes over. The quiet thoughts of last night fade into the background as you focus on overseeing preparations, making sure everything is in place.

—•

“This here is something I did while I was in Venice. Notice how the blue fades a littl—”

Your voice carries through the exhibition, soft yet assured, as you introduce your work to a group of critics. Your hands move expressively, guiding their attention to the details only you could see, your passion evident in every word.

From the sidelines, Sylus watches.

There’s something mesmerizing about the way you navigate the room, speaking with ease, your confidence drawing people in effortlessly.

He hangs back, choosing not to interrupt, but watching everything with a newfound intensity. The paintings, the bold strokes of color, the way each piece seems to pulse with unspoken emotions—it’s all a reflection of you. He takes it in silently, as if understanding more about you with each passing moment, piecing together fragments of a person he’s only just beginning to see.

And for the first time, he realizes just how much he doesn’t know.

When there’s a lull in the conversation, he steps forward, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” he remarks, his tone light and teasing, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. There’s no real accusation in his words, just playful commentary as he watches you.

You turn at the sound, eyes widening slightly before recognition softens your expression.

A laugh escapes you, paired with an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

He chuckles, shaking his head with a smirk, his gaze lingering on you. “I was just teasing,” he says, his voice softer now. “I get it.” The playful edge remains, but there’s a quiet sincerity behind it as he watches you.

His eyes sweep over the room, taking in the vibrancy of the paintings, the way each piece seems to carry a piece of you.

“This is impressive,” he says, his voice quieter now, lacking the usual edge. It’s more sincere, almost contemplative. “Your art… it’s powerful. It speaks volumes.” The words seem to linger in the air, heavier than he intends, as if the meaning behind them is more than just a compliment.

Then he looks at you, his usual smirk creeping back onto his face. “I’m glad I came,” he says, his tone playful. “I didn’t know you had it in you. Thank you for letting me witness this masterpiece in person… I’ll try not to let it go to your head.”

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be a struggle to keep my head from swelling,” you reply sarcastically, leaning back slightly. “But don’t worry, I’m used to handling the adoration.”

You give him a teasing glance, clearly enjoying the banter,“Though, you could always be the one to keep me grounded… if you’re up for the challenge.”

He chuckles, the corners of his mouth curling into that signature smirk. “Ground you? Please, I’d never try to bring you down,” he says with a mock serious tone. “I’m just here for the show, and it seems like it’s one worth watching.”

He leans back, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Besides, someone has to keep you humble. Might as well be me.”

But then his gaze settles on you again, softer this time.

“Jokes aside, thank you,” he says, his tone softer now, more sincere. He glances around the room, taking in the atmosphere, before meeting your gaze again. “Your willingness to share this… it means a lot.” There’s a rare vulnerability in his eyes, a momentary shift away from the usual cocky facade.

You smile, though his sincerity makes you a little self-conscious. “Don’t mention it. It makes me nervous.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I’ll try to remember not to mention it then,” he says, the playful edge returning to his tone.

Then, after a beat, he glances around the gallery. “How about I explore a little more? Your work deserves more than a glance.”

It’s an offer, but more than that—it’s an invitation. A chance to spend more time together, to let this new dynamic between you take shape.

Your eyes brighten with excitement. “Sure! Let me guide you,” you say, before instinctively slipping your arm through his and pulling him along.

It’s a casual gesture, thoughtless in its ease. But when you realize what you’ve done, it’s already too late—his arm is warm beneath yours, his presence closer than before.

You hesitate for half a second.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he lets you lead, a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at his lips.

He allows you to guide him, his body naturally adjusting to the closeness, a quiet tension easing as he notices just how much he enjoys the comfort of your presence.

There’s something about the way you move, so sure and at ease, that makes him want to stay just a little longer in this moment.

As you lead him through the gallery, each piece you show him felt like a glimpse into your soul.

Every brushstroke, every color choice, holds meaning—emotions and memories you’ve poured into your art. He takes it all in, quietly absorbing the details, the stories that unfold in front of him.

It’s like seeing you through new lens, understanding you in ways he never had before.

Each painting speaks a language of its own, and as he listens, he begins to piece together more of who you are, beyond the artist, beyond the duties of a wife.

But then, as you laugh after a small joke, your gaze flickers to the corner of the room, and you immediately notice one of the sponsors.

“Oh, it’s one of the sponsors, I need to go greet them,” you say, still smiling but with a subtle shift in your demeanor. The playful tone that had defined your earlier exchanges fades, replaced by something more composed and professional.

He notices the change, the instant transition from personal to professional, and he’s struck by how effortlessly you slip into this role.

“Of course,” he replies, his own tone sobering slightly.

As he follows you through the crowd, he’s more intrigued than ever, observing this side of you—the confident, capable artist, handling business with ease and poise.

It’s clear that this world, these critics and businessmen, are all within your grasp, and you move through it with a natural authority.

When you reach the sponsor, you greet him with a warm smile, shaking his hand firmly. You turn to the sponsor’s wife and repeat the same polite gesture, your composure flawless.

He stands quietly by your side, watching you interact with a newfound appreciation, realizing that there’s so much more to you than he ever imagined.

And in that moment, he can’t help but feel a little in awe of you—of the woman you are, the artist you’ve become, and the world you’ve built for yourself.

Your sponsor smiles warmly, his eyes shifting between the art and you as he speaks, his tone full of appreciation.

“It’s an honor to be here,” he says, his voice genuine. “Your art is incredible, and it’s a privilege to support someone with such talent.”

His words hit you with an unexpected warmth, and you smile back at him, feeling proud and humbled at once.

His wife, standing beside him, nods in agreement, her gaze lingering on a particularly vibrant piece. “Your emotion shines through,” she says, her words genuine. “It’s truly commendable.”

You feel a rush of gratitude for their kind words and enthusiasm, and you respond, explaining your creative process with passion.

As you continue, the small talk shifts toward your techniques, the inspirations behind the paintings, and what each piece represents. The sponsor and his wife listen intently, genuinely interested in your work.

It isn’t until there’s a brief pause in the conversation that you finally glance around, noticing for the first time that your husband has been standing quietly to the side, watching.

You blink, feeling a little flustered. “Sorry,” you say with a small laugh, realizing how absorbed you were in the conversation. “I didn’t mean to leave you out of it.”

He looks at you with a mischievous smirk. “I don’t mind,” he teases, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not every day I get to be married to the star of the show.”

You roll your eyes at his playful jab, but there’s a smile on your face as you shake your head. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckles, taking a step closer. “I’m just enjoying the view,” he says lightly, his gaze softening as it lands on you. “But maybe it’s time to let the real professionals do their thing.”

His teasing tone, mixed with a hint of affection, makes your heart flutter a little, and you smile, feeling a warmth that only he seems to bring out.

You turn back to your sponsor, tugging at him slightly to bring him closer to you.

“So, is this your husband?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a second, you’re stuck, unsure of how to respond.

You glance at Sylus, then back at your sponsor, feeling a little bit awkward.

Husband. The word feels foreign, almost unreal, like something that doesn’t quite belong to the reality of your life.

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the odd feeling creeping up your spine. “Uh… yeah, this is Sylus,” you say quickly, your voice almost too high, too strained.

“My husband.”

There’s a long pause before you look at Sylus again, your gaze faltering just slightly. You’re not embarrassed, not really.

But the label feels heavy, laden with things you’re not sure you know how to express.

The sponsor’s smile widens, and he nods, taking in Sylus’s presence. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, offering a firm handshake.

Sylus gives a small smile, stepping forward with his usual confidence, his voice deep and calm. “Likewise. I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

There’s a certain level of control in his voice, the kind that makes it clear he doesn’t feel the discomfort that hangs in the room.

And it unexpectedly makes your heart skip a beat.

“I’m just lucky to be here, supporting my wife.”

The words echo in your mind long after they’ve been spoken. Lucky to be here. It’s a bittersweet realization, because while it feels like something is shifting, something is also still out of reach—like this marriage is still something you’re both learning to fit into, even after all this time.

The words husband still linger, and you’re not sure how to make them feel real.

You smile, keeping the tone light, not wanting them to see through the carefully constructed act.

“Oh, indeed, I am lucky to have such a supportive husband,” you say, turning to Sylus with a knowing look on your face.

He catches the glance, his expression shifting into something a little more playful.

He leans in just slightly, returning your gaze with an amused twinkle in his eye.

“Supportive?” he teases gently, a playful challenge in his tone. “I think you’re overselling me just a bit, sweetie.”

You raise an eyebrow, not backing down, but his smile is infectious. He turns to your sponsor and his wife, his smile widening, and the playful glint in his eyes only intensifies.

“I’m lucky she’s willing to put up with me,” he says, his voice light and full of humor, as if the whole situation is nothing more than a casual joke.

Laughter follows, both from your sponsor and his wife, and the moment becomes a shared one.

The conversation moves on from there, the atmosphere lighter, more comfortable as the day continues.

Everything flows smoothly after that—your interactions with the guests, the critics, and the businesspeople. The awkwardness of earlier fades into the background, replaced by the ease of familiar social exchanges.

The day progresses smoothly into the evening, the shared interest and appreciation for art serving as a bridge between you, Sylus, and the various guests.

The conversations and shared laughter are a welcome change from the usual strained interactions and distant politeness that have marked your relationship since the day he arrived at your doorstep.

As the crowd begins to thin, and the end of the evening draws near, there's a sense of contentment that settles over you, a feeling that the day has been more successful than you anticipated.

—•

The drive home is quiet, the sound of the tires on the road filling the space between you. Sylus’s hands grip the wheel with the usual steady confidence, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

The soft hum of the engine is the only noise as you both settle into the silence.

After a while, you break the quiet with a teasing smile, leaning back in your seat. “Sweetie, huh?” you ask, your voice light and playful.

Sylus glances over at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but he doesn’t break his focus from the road. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies smoothly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You chuckle, watching him as you fold your arms across your chest. “Oh, come on. The whole sweetie thing. In front of everyone? Really?”

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze still mostly on the road, but the corners of his mouth curve upward in a barely contained smirk. “I was just being polite,” he says with mock innocence. “Trying to fit in.”

You laugh at that, shaking your head. “You? Fitting in?” You snicker, leaning back in your seat. “I didn’t realize sweetie was part of your charm offensive.”

He chuckles, the sound low and amused. “Only when necessary,” he says with a smirk, his voice smooth. He shifts the car into park and turns the engine off. “Next time, I’ll be sure to be less charming.”

You reach for the door handle, shaking your head, but with a smile tugging at your lips. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, stepping out of the car.

As you both walk toward the elevator, the playful energy still lingers between you, a small spark of humor in the air. Despite everything, the teasing feels more natural, and somehow, it makes everything feel a little less complicated.

—•

You sigh into the couch, the feeling of accomplishment settling in.

The exhibition is over, and the exhaustion from the day finally hits, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in having pulled it all off.

Sylus sits beside you, his presence offering a surprising sense of comfort. The evening has been far more enjoyable than usual, a welcome change from the usual tension between you.

He watches you, noticing the subtle shift in your demeanor now that the formalities are over.

There’s an ease to you now, a sense of comfort that wasn’t there before.

“A successful day, wouldn’t you say?” he says lightly, his tone genuine.

You smile, nodding. “Definitely. But exhibitions are always sooo tiring.”

He chuckles warmly. “I can imagine,”

Leaning back into the couch, the exhaustion from the day sets in, but there’s also a quiet contentment. “You handled the critics and sponsors with such grace,” he adds, his voice laced with appreciation. “It was impressive.”

You glance at him, a bit surprised by the praise, but it makes you smile. “Thanks,” you say quietly. “I just focus on the work, and everything else follows.”

He nods thoughtfully, clearly impressed. “You were in your element,” he says.

For the first time in a long while, the moment feels natural, and the silence that follows is comfortable.

You stand up from the couch, stretching your arms above your head. “I think it’s time for a little something to wind down,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Sylus doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes still half-lidded with contentment as he reclines, though he watches you move toward the kitchen with a quiet interest.

You head to the small wine rack tucked in the corner of the kitchen, scanning the bottles.

After a moment’s thought, you pull out a red, the familiar label catching your eye.

You twist the cap off, the sound of it breaking the silence.

“Care for a glass?” you ask over your shoulder, glancing back at him, a slight smile playing on your lips.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I suppose one glass wouldn’t hurt.”

You pour the wine into two glasses, the deep red liquid swishing in the glass as you move back toward the living room.

You hand him one, the weight of it comforting in your hand, before sinking back into your spot on the couch.

The moment feels quieter now, more intimate. There’s no rush, no agenda—just a simple act of sharing a drink to close the night. As you take a sip, you can feel the warmth spread through you, and for the first time in a while, everything feels… easy.

Sylus does the same, his gaze not entirely on the glass but more on you, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. The conversation has been pleasant, surprisingly so.

“So,” you begin, swirling the wine in your glass, “the exhibition was actually for charity. All the proceeds go to a local art program.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but also not easily impressed. “Charity, huh?” He leans back, his voice taking on a slightly condescending edge, the playful cockiness creeping in. “So, you’re not just out here making money off your art, you’re… playing the good Samaritan.”

You roll your eyes, amused despite the way his words land. “Did you forget my family is wealthy?” you deadpan, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “I don’t need to work. I do it because I want to.”

His lips curve into a knowing smile, “Yeah, I gathered that,” he replies, his voice light, though there’s a certain edge beneath it. “Must be nice to have all that freedom.” He eyes you with a smirk. “But I guess you’d be lost without some purpose.”

You glance at him, feeling the shift in the air. There’s always this push and pull with him—teasing, challenging, but beneath it all, something unspoken. “Not all of us have too much to do, you know?” you reply, matching his playful tone, but there’s a sharpness to it that lets him know you’re not backing down.

Sylus chuckles, shaking his head. “Guess you’re right. I’m sure someone has to remind you that you can’t just live off your family’s fortune forever.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s an undeniable amusement in your voice. “It’s called being smart, Sylus.”

He leans in slightly, his grin widening. “I’m not denying that. But sometimes being smart is about knowing when to stop pretending.”

The air between you crackles with something more, something that feels less like a game and more like an understanding between two people who’ve spent enough time circling each other to know that this playful back-and-forth is just another layer of the tension that exists between you.

You laugh softly, realizing the way he’s pushing you is just his way of engaging, his own twisted form of respect.

“You really know how to make a girl feel special,” you remark, the teasing laced with a hint of sarcasm.

His smirk only deepens. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

You study Sylus quietly, the wine making everything feel a little sharper.

His red eyes, intense and unsettling, seem to hold secrets you can’t quite grasp.

His white hair falls perfectly, almost too perfect, like it belongs to someone or something beyond this world.

And then there’s his physique—muscular, lean, controlled. It’s not just strength; it’s power that’s measured, deliberate.

Every move he makes, every word he speaks, feels calculated.

You can’t figure him out, but that’s what keeps drawing you in.

You lean back, watching him with a playful grin.

“You know, you’ve got that whole ‘brooding, mysterious vibe’ down to an art,” you tease, eyeing his striking red eyes and the way his white hair falls so effortlessly.

“With a physique like that, you should be charging for the privilege of just looking at you.”

You watch as his lips curl into a small, knowing smirk, and you can’t help but enjoy the way the playful jab hits him.

But in truth, there’s something about the way he carries himself that’s hard to ignore—like he’s crafted from a different world altogether.

It was as if you hadn’t noticed how attractive your husband was all this time.

Sylus’s lips curl into a smirk, his red eyes glinting with amusement. He leans back in the couch, his posture relaxed but still exuding that air of quiet confidence.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he replies, his voice smooth and teasing. “But I prefer to leave my looks to speak for themselves.”

He gives you a once-over, his gaze lingering just long enough to make it clear he’s enjoying the banter.

“Though, if I did charge, I’d probably be richer than your entire family.”

There’s no malice in his words, just that familiar cocky edge, and the way he says it is almost effortless.

You can’t help but laugh, his playful arrogance somehow making him even more intriguing.

“So,” you begin, breaking the silence, “you don’t usually talk much about… this.”

You gesture between the two of you with a teasing smile. “I mean, about us.”

He looks at you, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“What’s there to say? We’re both doing just fine, aren’t we? Playing our parts.”

The usual cocky edge is still there, but something about the way he says it feels a bit softer, a little more real, like he’s letting something slip he usually keeps guarded.

You lean forward, intrigued by the subtle change. “And what if I told you I didn’t just want to play a part?”

You sip your win.

“What if I wanted more than just fine?”

Sylus pauses, swirling his wine, his fingers lightly brushing the glass.

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze thoughtful as he considers what you’ve said.

After a moment, he speaks, his voice quieter, the usual challenge gone. “I didn’t think that was something we could have,” he admits, his words carrying more weight than he intended.

The atmosphere shifts, the playful banter fading, replaced by something heavier, something raw.

For the first time, it feels like you’re both letting down the walls that had kept you apart, not just as a married couple, but as two people who’ve never truly seen each other until now.

You watch him carefully, the question lingering in the air between you.

“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

You can feel the tension shift, like there’s something deeper he’s not saying, something he’s holding back, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for it—or if you want to know.

He exhales softly, his gaze steady as he looks at you.

“We’ve never really seen each other since the day we got married,” he says, his voice almost matter-of-fact, but there’s a shift in his tone—a quiet honesty that’s uncharacteristic of him.

It’s a simple truth, but it feels heavy in the space between you, like the foundation of everything that’s been left unspoken.

You glance at him, a quiet determination in your voice. “I mean, that can change… right?” you ask, your words a little softer than you intended, but there’s a hopefulness in them.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting from him, but you know that something has to shift—whether it’s here, or somewhere else.

He chuckles, a low, amused sound that lingers in the air. “I suppose it could,” he says, his voice taking on a teasing edge.

He meets your gaze, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But you’ll have to show me how.”

The words hang between you, carrying a hint of challenge, something daring in the way he looks at you.

You feel it—a shift in the air, subtle but undeniable.

His words linger longer than they should, a teasing challenge in his eyes that makes your pulse quicken.

You suddenly become acutely aware of how close he is, the way his presence fills the space.

There’s something in the way he looks at you, like he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to react.

The warmth that spreads through you isn’t just from the wine anymore.

It’s something different, something that pulls at you, making the air between you feel heavier.

You’ve always known Sylus was a puzzle, but now… there’s a temptation to solve it, to see just how far this playful challenge could go.

You try to shake the thought, but it lingers, a quiet anticipation building in the back of your mind. What if this moment—this teasing, this subtle shift—was something more than just a passing game?

Sylus smirks, his eyes glinting with amusement as he watches the change in you. “Why are you so quiet?” he asks, his voice low and teasing, like he’s enjoying the effect his words are having on you.

There’s a challenge in his tone, but it’s laced with something more—curiosity, maybe even a bit of satisfaction at having caught you off guard.

You recover quickly, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you poke his cheek.

“It’s called thinking,” you say, your voice light but playful, the teasing tone back in full force.

You meet his gaze, daring him to push further, but this time, the tables feel subtly turned.

Sylus chuckles, a low, amused sound that sends a shiver through you, before his hand shoots out, catching your wrist with a firm grip.

“Thinking, huh?” he says, his voice dropping to a softer, more dangerous tone. He pulls you closer, his smirk never faltering.

“Maybe you should share those thoughts with me,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he holds your gaze, the playful tease turning into something far more dangerous.

You feel your cheeks heat up as he pulls you closer, your heart racing in spite of yourself.

There’s a moment of hesitation, your breath catching, but you don’t pull away.

Instead, you sit there, caught between the warmth of his touch and the rush of emotion it stirs.

His grip on your wrist is firm, and the way he looks at you makes it hard to focus.

You swallow, trying to regain your composure, though the words come out softer than you intend.

“I… I’m not sure you’re ready for all of my thoughts,” you say, your voice a little flustered, but you meet his gaze, not backing down.

He leans in, his expression a mix of amusement and something darker.

“I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever thoughts you’ve got,” he says, his voice low and teasing. He holds your wrist a little tighter, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You’d be surprised how much I can take,” he adds with a cocky smirk, his words carrying an almost palpable tension.

You stare into his eyes, the intensity of the moment pressing in on you.

There’s something in his gaze, something daring, almost challenging, that makes your heart race and your thoughts scatter.

You don’t look away, meeting his stare with equal intensity, feeling the weight of his words sink in.

The space between you feels charged, every second stretching longer as you wonder what comes next, and whether you’ll be the one to break first.

You lock eyes with him, the air between you thick with tension. “Well, right now I’m thinking…” you begin, your voice steady but laced with a playful edge.

You let the words hang in the air for a moment, your gaze never wavering from his. “I’m thinking you might just be overestimating yourself.”

You allow a small, challenging smile to tug at your lips, the boldness of your words matching the quiet fire in your eyes.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans in just a bit closer. “Oh?” he says, his voice dripping with amusement, like he’s enjoying the tease.

You can feel the shift in the air, the space between you suddenly charged, and your heart races slightly.

There’s something in his gaze—sharp, expectant—that makes your words falter for just a second, but you hold his gaze, not backing down.

You don’t back down, your smile growing as you lean in just a little closer. “Oh, I’m sure you can handle it,” you tease, your voice dropping to a lower, more playful tone. “But I’m starting to wonder if you really know what you’re getting into.”

Before you can finish, he moves quickly, his grip tightening, and in one swift motion, you find yourself flipped onto your back.

His body hovers over yours, eyes flashing with a challenge that mirrors your own. The playful smirk remains, but there’s something else in his gaze now—something more intense, as if he’s not just teasing anymore.

The air around you thickens with tension, and you can’t help but feel the pulse of something raw between you.

Sylus leans in, his smirk growing as he locks eyes with you. The playful challenge in his gaze deepens, and he lets out a quiet laugh, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Are you sure you aren’t the one who doesn’t know?” he says, his words sharp, teasing, with an edge that makes it clear he’s enjoying every second of this.

His eyes search yours, daring you to respond, his presence hovering over you like a challenge.

The words hang in the air between you, thick with unspoken challenges. You feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity in his eyes stirring something deep within you.

The room feels smaller, the silence stretching between each breath, every second dragging as the tension builds.

You don’t look away, the quiet defiance in your eyes mirroring his. Your pulse quickens, a strange mix of excitement and uncertainty bubbling to the surface.

There’s something in the way he looks at you—dangerous, magnetic, as if he’s daring you to test him, to see just how far this moment could go.

Sylus leans in just slightly, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re not backing down, are you?” His voice is a low murmur, the tease still there, but there’s a deeper edge to it now, a hint of something more than just playfulness.

He’s waiting, watching you, as if giving you the choice—whether to push further, or pull back.

The air feels charged, thick with anticipation, and for the first time in what feels like forever, everything else fades into the background. It’s just the two of you, suspended in a moment that could tip in any direction.

“And what if I don’t want to?” You almost whisper, your eyes darting between his eyes and his lips.

His smirk widens, a dark glint flickering in his eyes as he leans in even closer, the space between you shrinking until it feels almost unbearable. He studies you, eyes tracing your lips, then locking onto your gaze.

“Then you leave me no choice,” Sylus says, his voice low and charged, the last word barely leaving his lips before he moves.

He closes the distance in a breath, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. It’s not gentle—it’s fierce, claiming, like he’s tired of pretending, tired of holding back.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding you, pulling you deeper into him, as if this—you—are the one thing he’s finally decided not to resist.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t pull away.

Instead, you match him, your hands instinctively gripping the front of his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely.

It’s like something unspoken between you snaps—weeks of tension, distance, denial—gone in a heartbeat. You move with him, meeting his intensity, letting yourself get lost in the heat of it. There’s no more tiptoeing around what this is, no more carefully measured words. Just the raw, unfiltered truth spilling out between your lips and his.

And for once, you don’t think. You feel.

Your lips move with his, fierce at first—months of distance, silence, and buried tension unraveling all at once.

But somewhere between the heat and urgency, something softer breaks through. His grip on your wrist loosens, and instead, his hand brushes up your arm, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the feeling.

You feel the shift in him—in the way his mouth lingers against yours, less demanding now, more searching.

As if he’s not just kissing you to claim something, but to ask.

To ask if it’s okay. To ask if you’ll stay.

Your hand finds the side of his face, your fingers threading through his hair, and he leans into your touch like it surprises him—like he didn’t expect you to be gentle with him.

His breath stutters against your lips, and for a moment, he doesn’t say a word.

When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes aren’t sharp or teasing.

They were vulnerable.

“I didn’t think you’d ever really let me in,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not like this.”

You swallow, the weight of his honesty settling somewhere deep inside you.

You press your forehead to his, your own voice quiet, but steady. “I didn’t think you wanted in.”

A small, almost broken laugh escapes him, and he closes his eyes for a second, as if trying to catch his breath—not from the kiss, but from the truth of it all.

His fingers curl gently at your waist, not to hold you in place, but to ground himself.

In this moment, there’s no performance. No witty banter.

Just the two of you, raw and real, finally facing what’s been simmering beneath the surface.

And neither of you moves to fill the silence. You just stay there, forehead to forehead, breathing in sync—two strangers bound by marriage, now bound by something that feels a little too much like possibility.

His forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you is thick—not with tension, but with something quieter. Something fragile.

You feel the slight tremble in his fingertips where they rest at your waist, a small, involuntary movement that betrays the carefully constructed control he always wears. It makes your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect.

“I never wanted this marriage,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “Not because of you… I just didn’t want another thing forced on me. Another thing I had to pretend to care about.”

You nod slightly, your hand still resting gently against his cheek. “Me neither,” you whisper. “But I stopped pretending a while ago.”

He lifts his eyes to yours then, searching, as if trying to read something between the lines of your face. His walls are still there—thin now, cracked—but still fighting to hold.

And then, quietly, almost reluctantly, he says, “I don’t know how to do this. With you. I don’t know how to be this.”

You smile, soft and a little sad. “You don’t have to know. Just… don’t walk away from it.”

He doesn’t answer—not with words, anyway.

Instead, he leans in again. This kiss is nothing like the last. There’s no urgency. No challenge. It’s slow, cautious, vulnerable. Like a question.

And you answer it by kissing him back—slowly, fully—giving him that wordless assurance he never knew he needed.

In that moment, there’s no arrangement. No distance. Just two people, bare and honest, finally letting the silence between them speak.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath still shallow, the usual sharpness in his eyes dulled by something more unreadable.

“You’re not what I planned for,” he says lowly, almost like a confession he didn’t mean to voice.

You raise a brow, lips curving. “What, you planned for a quiet, obedient housewife?”

He smirks faintly. “No. I didn’t plan for anything. That was the whole point.” His eyes hold yours. “You weren’t supposed to matter.”

The bluntness of it should sting, but there’s something in his voice that softens the blow—like it bothers him more than it should.

You take a breath, steady. “And now?”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, with a half-laugh, half-sigh, he mutters, “Now I’m figuring out how to want something I didn’t ask for… without completely ruining it.”

Your heart stirs at the honesty buried beneath the arrogance.

“So don’t ruin it,” you say softly.

He watches you a long moment, and then with a dry, amused smile, he murmurs, “That’s the problem. I don’t usually miss.”

Then he rests his forehead against yours again, letting silence say what words can’t.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, the quiet between you stretching, but not in discomfort.

It’s the kind of silence that feels earned—like neither of you needs to fill it just yet.

You feel his breath slow, even out, and his hand doesn’t move from your back.

For someone so used to control, he holds you like he’s trying not to lose his grip—not physically, but emotionally.

And you can feel it, the effort it takes for him to stay in this moment, with you, without armoring up.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile against him, the corner of your lips brushing his. “Takes one to know one.”

He exhales through a quiet laugh, but it fades fast, replaced by something heavier in his expression.

When he pulls back to meet your eyes again, that calculating glint is still there, but dimmed—replaced by something far more human.

“Don’t make promises you don’t mean,” he says, low and serious now, “because I’ll take them. And I won’t give them back.”

You study him, heart catching at the weight of those words.

For Sylus, that is vulnerability. That’s as close as he gets to a warning… or maybe, a plea.

You nod slowly, your voice steady. “I don’t offer anything I’m not ready to stand by.”

That answer hangs in the space between you like a held breath. And something in his eyes shifts again—his walls still standing, but the door slightly more open now.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just leans in and kisses you again, slower this time. Like a man testing a lock he never thought would open.

Like maybe, this time, it just might.

The kiss fades slowly, the heat giving way to something quieter—gentler.

Sylus doesn’t move far, just enough to press his forehead against yours again, his breathing calm and even now. Neither of you says a word, and neither of you needs to.

You both sit there, tangled in each other, the wine forgotten on the table, the night wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His hand rests on your waist, fingers lightly curled but relaxed, no longer holding on like he’s afraid to let go—just there, steady.

Your head slowly sinks to his shoulder, and he doesn’t stop you. He shifts slightly to accommodate you, letting his arm wrap around your back. You feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart—unrushed, unguarded.

For all his sharp words and cold calculations, he’s warm.

Solid.

Present.

His voice is a whisper, barely audible, as if he isn’t even sure you’re still awake. “This… isn’t so bad.”

You smile sleepily, eyes closed. “No. It’s not.”

And that’s it.

No grand declarations. No promises.

Just the two of you, close for the first time in a way that feels real.

Eventually, the weight of the night pulls you both down.

Without a word, Sylus shifts, gently tugging you with him as he leans back onto the couch.

You go easily, your body curling into his without resistance, your head finding its place against his chest.

One of his arms wraps around your shoulders, the other resting lightly at your waist, fingers brushing soft circles against your side.

Neither of you says it aloud, but there’s a silent agreement between you now—this is okay. This closeness.

This pause.

You stretch your legs out along the cushions, and he shifts slightly to fit against you, their bodies fitting together more naturally than either of you expected. The kind of closeness that would’ve felt too intimate just a days ago now feels… right.

His breath is slow and even, his voice a quiet murmur against your hair. “Try not to hog all the space.”

You smile into his shirt, barely able to keep your eyes open. “Try not to fall in love.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh—but doesn’t reply.

And in the silence that follows, you both drift off. Entwined, comfortable, and for once—completely unguarded.

—•

You wake slowly, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, casting a golden hue across the room.

The blanket draped over you is warm and grounding, a quiet reminder of the man who must’ve placed it there sometime after you fell asleep.

As your eyes adjust, memories of last night return in waves—the closeness, the shared vulnerability, the quiet shift between you. You stretch, a lazy smile tugging at your lips at the thought of falling asleep in his arms.

“Sylus…?” you call out softly, your voice still laced with sleep when you realize he’s no longer beside you.

There’s a brief pause before his voice drifts in from the direction of the kitchen. “In here,” he replies, his tone carrying a warmth that wasn’t there days ago, laced with something new—comfort, familiarity.

You sit up slowly, the blanket sliding from your shoulders as you peek around the corner toward the sound of his voice.

There is something almost surprising, seeing a man who is so used to ordering people around, standing in your kitchen.

A smile spreads across your face, soft and a little shy.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright with sleep and something lighter—hope. Something that finally feels like the start of something.

He turns at the sound of your voice, eyes meeting yours with a subtle, knowing smirk rather than a soft smile.

He stands at the stove, one hand resting lazily on his hip, the other holding a spatula with far more confidence than the state of the food warrants.

“Morning,” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just burn half a pancake. “Don’t look so impressed. I’m aware culinary greatness is unfolding.”

You shuffle over groggily, blinking at the plate.

The pancakes are definitely overcooked—edges crisp, center uneven—but they smell decent enough.

You raise a brow, trying to stifle a laugh. “Is this… edible?”

He glances down at his creation, then back at you with the faintest shrug. “Technically, yes. But let's just say there's an undeniable charm in the unexpected."

You let out a laugh, and that seems to amuse him more than anything.

“I do not usually cook,” he adds casually, not defensive, just stating fact. “I delegate. But I figured you deserved the full husband experience.”

He offers you a plate with a raised brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Your choice to indulge or abstain. But know that the consequences of both will be equally... interesting."

You shake your head with a small smile and take the plate from him, setting it aside without a word.

“Here, let me,” you say softly, already moving to the sink to rinse the pan before grabbing a clean one from the cabinet.

He doesn’t argue.

Just steps back and leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you retrieve two eggs from the fridge and crack them into a bowl, your movements smooth and practiced.

You glance up at him with a playful smirk. “You don’t cook for yourself, do you?”

His lips twitch into a faint grin. "Who needs responsibility when you can have hired help?"

You let out a quiet laugh, whisking the eggs. He watches, not saying much, but something in his expression shifts.

It’s subtle—the way his gaze follows your hands, the slight tilt of his head—but it’s there.

“I could get used to this,” he says after a moment, tone casual, but with that dry, amused edge he always carries. “You, barefoot in the kitchen. It’s very… traditional of us.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Careful, Sylus. You’re starting to sound like a husband.”

He gives a slow, deliberate shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”

You chuckle as you pour the egg mixture into the hot pan, the soft sizzle filling the quiet space between you.

“It’s fine. Food’s my domain,” you say easily, giving the eggs a practiced stir with the spatula. “You mind grabbing two plates?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Nodding as he moves towards the cabinet.

He locates the plates with little effort, setting them down on the counter beside you without fanfare.

Then he leans back, arms casually crossing over his chest as he watches you work—observant, unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something different in his eyes.

“Need me to do anything else?”

You glance at him with a small smile. “Your presence is helping plenty.”

That catches him off guard, just a little. His expression doesn’t change much, but something in his posture shifts—less guarded. A beat passes.

“Bacon or ham?” you ask, reaching for the pan again.

“Bacon,” he says without missing a beat. Then, with a faint smirk, he adds, “Crispy. Like I like my enemies.”

You snort at that, shaking your head as he watches you with something just short of fondness—his version of it, anyway. Not loud, not obvious.

But it’s there. In the quiet. In the way he doesn’t look away.

You nod once at his bacon preference, grabbing the pack from the fridge and peeling it open with one hand while the other adjusts the heat.

Four strips hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle, the scent quickly joining the warm air of the kitchen.

Without missing a beat, you reach up for the loaf of bread perched on top of the fridge.

You slice four even pieces, slip them into the toaster, and return to the bacon, flipping each strip with the same casual confidence you’ve carried all morning.

Behind you, Sylus leans against the counter, arms folded, eyes following your every move—not critically, but with a kind of quiet intrigue.

“You’re good at this,” he says, voice calm but firm. “Efficient. Focused. Slightly intimidating.”

You glance back with a smirk. “Making breakfast intimidates you?”

“No,” he replies smoothly, meeting your eyes. “You do.”

There’s no flirtatious smirk this time, no teasing lilt—just the weight of honesty, dropped between you like a stone in still water.

And for a split second, the room feels a little smaller, a little warmer.

“I had to figure it out on my own,” you say with a small chuckle, flipping the bacon as the edges curl and crisp.

“Living alone sort of forces you to pick up a few skills.”

You glance over your shoulder with a wry smile.

“Guess I’m just fulfilling the age-old prophecy—women in the kitchen and all that.” The laugh that follows is light, self-deprecating, meant to dismiss the weight of the words before they settle.

But even as you turn back to the stove, you feel Sylus’s gaze linger.

Sylus chuckles, the sound low and dry, his eyes following your every move with quiet calculation.

“Well,” he says, his tone edged with his usual blend of irony and amusement, “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting to marry someone who creates masterpieces by day and make culinary wonders by night.”

The toaster pops, and you turn to retrieve the bread, a light laugh slipping past your lips.

“So you did have expectations,” you tease, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he steps a little closer, folding his arms, his expression unreadable—but focused entirely on you.

“I expected cold, distant, maybe dull. The motions of a formal marriage,” he says bluntly. Then, after a beat, his voice drops a notch. “Not you.”

The simplicity of the words is weighted, deliberate.

His gaze lingers, not in a rush to pull away. “I thought I knew what I was walking into. I didn’t.”

You slide the plate toward him with a quiet clink, then settle into the seat across the counter, propping your chin in your hand as you watch him.

“I’m glad to have surprised you,” you say with a small chuckle, the edge of your smile teasing. “Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

Sylus picks up his fork, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Mm,” he hums, stabbing a piece of bacon. “Unpredictable women are dangerous.”

He takes a bite, chews, then adds—without looking up, but with unmistakable meaning.

“Lucky for you, I don’t get intimidated easily.”

You snort, “Aren’t you the lucky one here?”

Sylus smirks, slow and deliberate, his fork pausing midair as he looks at you.

“Is that right?” he says, voice smooth with just the right touch of arrogance. “You make a compelling argument.”

He takes a bite, eyes never leaving yours.

“But don’t get ahead of yourself,” he adds, tone dry. “If anyone’s lucky, it’s both of us. You get me—I get breakfast. Seems like a fair deal.”

He leans back, sipping his coffee like he didn’t just casually declare himself the prize.

You roll your eyes, poking at your plate, “Has your mother called?” You asked, making small conversation.

Sylus lifts his mug, taking a slow sip before answering, his tone dry as ever.

“She did. Wanted to know if I was still alive… or being held hostage.”

You huff a laugh. “And what did you tell her?”

He sets the mug down, meeting your eyes with a lazy smirk. “Well, I told her if I was being held hostage, at least I was being fed properly.”

There’s amusement in his voice, but beneath it, something else lingers—something quieter. Less about the joke, more about the fact that… he doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

You shake your head at his words, fighting back a smile as you take another bite of toast.

The kitchen falls into a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.

Just the quiet clatter of cutlery, the soft hum of the morning light through the curtains, and the subtle, lingering warmth between you.

For all the tension, all the silence that defined your marriage in the beginning… this—this—feels like the start of something different. Something real.

Sylus finishes his coffee, his gaze drifting over the quiet domesticity you’ve both stumbled into. Then, without looking at you, he says calmly, “She also asked if I was planning to come home soon.”

You pause.

“And?” you ask, keeping your voice light—casual, though your heart beats a little faster.

He finally meets your eyes, something steadier in his expression. “Told her I wasn’t done here yet.”

A beat.

And then he adds, dryly, “I’m still here, figuring out if I’m the lucky one.”

You roll your eyes, chuckling under your breath. “You are.”

He smirks, but says nothing more.

And just like that, over burnt pancakes, crispy bacon, and quiet confessions—you both realize the distance that once defined your marriage… is no longer so wide.

Maybe this isn’t the life either of you expected.

But it might just be the one worth choosing.

masterlist

[b1xi]

𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐟𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫

Timeskip! Tsukishima Kei x fem reader

Warning: fluff, nsfw (just a little), pregnancy ¡Minors do not interact!

Part 2

Babyfever! Tsukishima Kei had never considered himself a family man. It's not that he was against the idea, he just didn’t see it as a priority. His life revolved around his career, his peace of mind, and the comfort of the routine he had built with you. However, everything changed with a simple yet devastatingly impactful image: you, holding the baby of one of his acquaintances in your arms, laughing softly as the little one tried to reach for you with its tiny hands.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who had initially observed the scene with feigned indifference, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, found that there was something in the way the baby clung to you, in the warmth with which you rocked it and whispered softly, that left him completely still. His heart, always so reserved, gave an unexpected lurch.

Babyfever! Tsukishima noticed it wasn’t just the baby that looked happy. It was you. There was something in your smile, in the way your eyes shone with sweetness, that made him imagine — for the first time — what it would be like to see you like that with your own child.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, one night, while you were half asleep on the couch, let the question slip out in a casual tone, almost as if he didn’t care about the answer:

"If you had a baby… who do you think it would look more like, you or me?"

Still with your mind foggy from sleep, you blinked a couple of times, trying to make sure you hadn’t imagined those words. Tsukishima rarely spoke without thinking, especially about topics as… significant.

"Huh?" you murmured, rubbing your eyes before searching for his figure beside you.

"Forget it" he muttered with feigned indifference.

Babyfever! Tsukishima started sending you cute baby videos on any social media where you were connected, making sure to do it at times he knew you'd see them.

“What’s this?” you wrote after receiving a video of a baby laughing hysterically while playing with its pet, right in the middle of your workday.

“It was sent by accident.”

It wasn’t true. He had carefully selected it, waiting for the perfect moment to send it to you, just like the other videos he had saved for later.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who you always lose track of when you go shopping together. One moment, he's by your side in the home section, commenting with disinterest on the prices of bed sheets, and the next, he disappears without warning.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who you end up searching for everywhere, checking the sports section because you think he might have gotten distracted by something there, then you pass by the stationery section because you know he has a weakness for office supplies, but he’s not in either of those places.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who, when you finally find him, is standing in the baby aisle, facing a shelf full of toys. He has a neutral expression, hands in his pockets, but his eyes scan every detail: the soft plush toys, the musical mobiles, the tiny rattles designed for little hands.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who acts as if nothing happened when you drag him back to the shopping cart, but later, as you check the items, you notice something new in his hands: a small plush doll that he now holds without letting go.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who, when you ask him if he plans to buy it, simply shrugs and drops it into the cart without a word.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who doesn’t take his hands off you when you get home, holding your waist firmly from behind while you try to get the keys, his body pressed against yours with a closeness that leaves no room for distractions.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who complicates even the simple task of opening the door, his breath grazing your neck as he murmurs an impatient “Are you taking this long?” even though it’s him who keeps pressing you against the door.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who holds your hips firmly, his thumbs tracing small circles on the fabric of your clothes, as if he can’t help it, as if he needs to feel you closer.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who lets out a frustrated sigh when you finally manage to open the door and gently pushes you inside, not taking his hands off you for a single second.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who you had never seen reach this level of desperation, cornering you against one of the walls as soon as you cross the door, not caring that the shopping bags fall to the floor with a dull thud.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who kisses you with such demand that you can barely keep up, his hungry lips capturing yours, his tongue claiming every sigh that escapes your mouth.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who holds your face with a firm hand, his fingers sliding to the base of your neck, forcing you to receive each kiss with the same intensity with which he gives them.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who leaves you breathless, pressing his body against yours, his hands exploring your waist with a need he had never shown so openly before.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who barely separates by a few millimeters, his breath heavy and his gaze dark, whispers against your lips with a voice deeper than usual, "Please, babe, please."

"Please, what?" you gathered all the strength you had left to form a sentence, your mind occupied with Tsukishima, who slid his lips down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses marked by urgency, his hands gripping your hips as if they were the only thing keeping him in the present.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who grits his teeth, frustration vibrating in his chest, his fingers gripping your skin tighter as if he feared you might reject him.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who breathes deeply, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes burning with a need he had never shown so rawly before.

“Let me do it, babe... let me get you pregnant.”

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who had never begged for anything, but now he did it shamelessly, without reservations, because the idea of seeing you swollen with his child was the only thing he could think about lately.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who kisses you with even more desperation, as if trying to convince you with every brush of his lips, with every ragged breath against your skin.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who murmurs against your ear, his voice deep and full of promises, “You’d be so beautiful... so perfect with my baby inside you.”

Babyfever! Tsukishima effortlessly lifts you into his arms, carrying you to the bedroom with determined steps, because there was no turning back now, because you'd already seen the way he looked at you, as if you were everything he'd been waiting for.

Babyfever! Tsukishima, who doesn't let go all night, making sure to spill his seed inside you as many times as necessary until he's convinced the job is done.

He has you panting and moaning nonstop beneath him, your cheeks wet from your eyes watering with each orgasm.

Babyfever! Tsukishima who, even after the desire has settled, still clings to you, holding you tightly to make sure you feel safe, calm, with no intention of letting you go.

[pukefactory]

hii!! ik you’ve already done MANY of these, but can you do another salesperson ENA x reader? It can be any scenario , i rlly wanna know what u come up with :D Also, I rlly like ur writing keep up the good work !! (also ty 4 being the first person ive seen 2 make a dream bbq ena x reader lol)

Author’s Note

Thank you for your kind words, friend! I couldn’t think of a specific scenario, so I put together a collection of small moments that will hopefully be entertaining.

- COMET

•☽────✧˖°˖ CLEAR SKIES ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Random Headcanons Featuring Salesperson Ena X Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You made the fatal mistake of showing even mild interest in whatever it is Ena is selling today. Now you’re being followed through the casino, the market, the lonely door, as Ena flips between her red and pale yellow sides, alternating between an enthusiastic business pitch and aggressive interrogation. “Are you seriously passing up this once-in-a-lifetime investment?!” she demands, and before you can answer, the red side leans in, grinning. “Or perhaps… could we negotiate an exclusive partnership?”

☆ Ena decides you’re her new business associate, whether you agreed or not. You now have a clipboard, a suspiciously empty briefcase, and a list of names to track down. What’s being sold? She won’t tell you. “Would ruin the mystique, dear associate! GØD frowns upon spoilers!” But based on the transactions she’s making, you’re 75% sure this is a pyramid scheme. The 25% uncertainty is because you did see one of her customers float away after shaking her hand.

☆ In a casino full of existential horror and sentient human legs, it’s Ena’s personal mission to drag you into the most absurd bets possible. “I wager my entire life savings that I can swallow this dice whole!” she announces to a horrified crowd. When you try to stop her, she spins dramatically, gripping your shoulders. “Darling. Do you believe in me, or not?”

☆ It’s well past midnight, and you’re seconds away from sleep when Ena shakes you awake. “I have a business plan,” she declares. “We buy a haunted mansion, rent it to the emotionally unstable, and profit from their misfortunes!” You groggily tell her this is not how rental properties work. She immediately flips to her Meanie side. “Then you come up with a better idea, genius!”

☆ Mid-conversation, Ena sometimes freezes. Not in a normal way, but in a glitchy, geometric way—like her code is trying to process something too big. “What if I’m just a character in a vast, incomprehensible narrative, doomed to never truly exist beyond my roles?” she asks, unblinking. Then, without missing a beat, she slaps a business card into your hand. “Speaking of roles! You’d be perfect as our company’s new financial advisor!”

☆ Ena thinks she’s helping. She’s not. You find someone attractive? Ena is instantly at your side, loudly pitching you like a limited-time offer. “You see, this lovely entity comes with many benefits! Great conversational skills, a solid survival rate, and—get this—a sense of humor! A rare find in today’s market!” You have never been more humiliated. Ena, meanwhile, is writing down notes for her next attempt.

☆ You complain about a minor inconvenience, and Ena immediately suggests the most dramatic, legally questionable solution. “Your neighbor is too loud? What if we relocate their entire apartment? Quietly, of course. No one would notice, yes?” You tell her this is not how laws work. She squints at you, thoughtful. “Hmm. Sounds like a you problem.”

☆ Ena has a tendency to give things away. Not always hers, either. You’ve seen her hand off priceless artifacts, other people’s hats, and one time, your entire coat to a complete stranger. “It’s called networking, darling! One day, this connection will be invaluable.” (This person never appears again.)

☆ Ena doesn’t say she likes you. Instead, she keeps offering you deals. Discounted scams, highly illegal bargains, exclusive investment opportunities. “Normally, I’d never offer such a valuable package to an ordinary customer,” she croons, spinning on one foot. “But you, dearest associate, are special.”

☆ Sometimes Ena takes your hand and pulls you into a place that shouldn’t exist—a marketplace built from fractals, a forest of mannequins that whisper stock market predictions, a hallway that loops in reverse if you walk forward. “Business never sleeps,” she tells you, smiling. “And neither do the possibilities!”

[badbtssmut]

Reckless and sweet

What if you are equally in love with two guys and really can’t choose? You date them both. But when Taehyung and Jungkook find out about you playing them, they decide to dick you down together, you were the one greedily taking two dicks anyway, so what’s the problem?

Contains: attempt at porn with plot, implication that fortune tellers don’t work, reader will get caught so prepare for some feelings of anxiety, fear, etc, the guys tease reader when she’s caught, reader is dating them both without them knowing, text AU mixed with story writing, reader is a cute coquette girly, some angst, reader will have sex with both guys

Smut JK: Missionary, pussy licking and fingering, his face in her pussy

Smut Tae: riding, boobplay, from behind

Smut both: taking turns, blowjobs, missionary, reader is told she has a slutty face, dirty talk, they both cum in her, boobplay

Admin note: make sure to open the images, tumblr might crop some of the convos

“What brings you here, dear?”

"I can't choose between two guys. I… need help."

The fortune teller nodded knowingly, her fingers shuffling the tarot cards. "The cards will guide us," she said, spreading them out in a maze like pattern. "Let us see what the future holds for your heart."

You watched the fortune teller as she turned over the cards, one by one, the flickering lantern light illuminating each card. "There it is.” She tapped the card. “This card stands for “soulmate” and in combination with this card, it leads to…” Her hand inched closer to the two photos you had laid out. "I see, I see. This card shows that this young man is the one for you." She tapped on the photo. "The cards don't lie."

"Oh…” You slumped into your chair, a little disappointed.

“You seem disappointed, were you hoping for the other man?”

“No, that’s… not it. It’s nothing.”

Why tell her that this is your fifth attempt today to consult a fortune teller? And that everyone gave you a different story.

You stood up and paid her for her service. "Thank you for your help, Madam. I will take your words into consideration."

You weren’t a bad person, really. You didn't seek Taehyung and Jungkook out with the intention to cheat on them; all you desired was an unbiased answer, just a little something to ease your indecisiveness and help you decide. But… the results of all the tarot readings were inconclusive.

Your best friend told you to pick already and not lead them on any longer.

But that was easier said than done.

Your best friend wouldn’t understand, she isn’t you, she doesn’t experience the guys the same way you do— you were convinced if she had the same predicament that she would do the same thing you did.

But she didn’t have the same predicament, she had her soulmate already. So, you wouldn’t expect her to understand.

You stared at the phone in your hand, your thumb hovering over the texting app that will connect you to either Taehyung or Jungkook.

Which would it be?

You let out a sigh, putting the phone down.

Why did this have to be so difficult? You couldn’t recall the last time you had to make such a damned difficult decision.

Then, the doorbell rang, ripping you out of your focus. You got up and headed for the door, and once you opened the door, you were met by the delivery driver.

"Good evening, Miss. I have a package for you."

"Thank you.” You accepted the package and closed the door. You looked at the package and noted that the sender was Kim Taehyung.

“Gosh, he’s so sweet.” You smiled. He knew that you had been feeling blue lately and must’ve decided that he wanted to cheer you up a bit.

But if he knew the reason for why you were down, he would’ve probably smashed and broken this present in a thousand pieces.

You opened the package, carefully, not wanting to rip the packaging, and took out the present inside.

It didn’t take long for you and Jungkook to retreat to the bedroom after you arrived at his place, and you were soon lying naked on his bed, his tongue exploring every inch of your pussy, his fingers buried deep inside you. Your legs shook with anticipation, a soft moan slipping from your lips as your hands tangled in his hair, pushing his face deeper into your pussy.

“I love how wet you get for me. All soaked and ready to be fucked," Jungkook flicked your clit with his tongue, before he moved away and started to pump his errection. His fingers were still inside of you, his fingers curling and hitting that sensitive spot deep within.

"O-oh!” Your body curved along with his movements.

“Yeah? That’s a nice spot, hm? Like it right there, feels good there?”

You could only nod, your voice trapped in your throat.

Jungkook continued to finger you, his thumb circling your clit, and you felt your orgasm build up. However, before you could hit your climax, Jungkook pulled away, and replaced his fingers with something much better.

He slowly thrust into you, filling you up, and his head dropped into the crook of your neck, his hot breath tickling your skin. "Ah, fuck."

You were a moaning mess underneath him, your eyes closing as the pleasure intensified. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. The both of you didn’t speak; simply enjoying each other's bodies connecting.

Jungkook's thrusts increased in speed and power and you could feel the familiar coil tighten again, your body arching as you cried out.

"Close, close…” You panted.

"Come, baby. Let it all out," he whispered in your ear, leaving kisses on your neck.

That was all you needed, and your orgasm came crashing down, a loud moan slipping from your lips.

Jungkook wasn’t far behind, riding out your waves of orgasm until he, too, came.

After the sex, Jungkook went to the kitchen to prepare dinner and you stayed in bed for a few minutes, and decided to check your phone for any notifications, and you saw a message from your best friend.

You joined Jungkook in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen island as you watched him cook. His broad shoulders and toned back faced you, and he was only wearing his joggers which he put on after the sex.

It was a nice distraction from the earlier chat you had with Ara. Part of you thought that you went too far, but another part of you felt like it was justified to respond the way that you did. She was constantly pushing you to choose already, but she failed to realize just how difficult it was for you to choose. Both men were absolutely perfect and there was zero fault in them… and that was the whole problem. You had waited for one of them to mess up; to start an argument with you, tell you they were an ex felon, kick a puppy, yell at a service worker, shove an old lady… ANYTHING. But their faults never came, not once have they slipped up and made you think that you wanted to break up with them.

Ara's words played over and over again in your mind.

You are doing this to protect both men's hearts. Yes, that's it.

“Babe?” Jungkook's voice interrupted your thoughts, and you realized that you were staring at the table. He had set the plate in front of you and sat opposite of you, but he noticed you neither acknowledged the food or him. “You okay?”

You blinked and looked up, seeing the concerned look on his face. You managed a smile, "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry… I just was thinking of something.”

Jungkook was smart enough to know that something was bothering you, so he didn’t let go, and pressed; “What’s going on?”

You hesitated, looking down at your food, pushing the noodles around with the chopsticks.

Jungkook reached across the table and held your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Just... tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

You looked up at him. Your expression softened, and you sighed, deciding that you needed to tell him what was going on.

"Well..." You started, your heart pounding against your chest. “I was speaking with my best friend and…” You took a deep breath, gathering the courage to tell him the truth. You were really going to do this, weren’t you? It felt somewhat… relieving to do this. No more sneaking, no more having two accounts, no lying or cheating anymore.

“She disapproves of our relationship because we are moving too fast.”

You couldn’t do it.

You were such a coward.

“Oh, I am sorry babe, what do you think? Are we moving too fast? I mean, we are in a good place right now, right?” Jungkook asked.

You felt a little bad for making him worry, so you shook your head and gave him a smile.

"We are in a good place. Don't worry about it, she's just worried and doesn't know you."

"Should I meet her?” Jungkook asked.

“Meet who?”

“Your friend, silly.”

Oh boy. If he was meeting her, there was no telling what could happen. What if Ara ran her mouth? What if she told him everything? What if she messed up? No… it was too risky.

“She’s… an exchange student abroad, but if she ever visits home, I’ll let you know, and we can meet up. How about that?"

The lies just kept piling up…

“I missed you.” You murmured against his lips.

“I missed you too.” Taehyung deepened the kiss, his hands slipping underneath your shirt. His touch made your skin tingle and your stomach flutter, his hands were warm and big and his fingers spread over your back, pressing you closer against his chest.

“Did you?” You asked, between kisses.

Taehyung smiled, his tongue caressing your lips, before it slipped into your mouth. You let out a moan, your hands running up his toned arms.

His hands trailed further up, cupping your breasts and you gasped, breaking the kiss, but he didn't give you time to breathe, his mouth capturing yours again. His tongue was dancing with yours and you were left breathless when he eventually broke the kiss, his hands kneading your breasts.

“Mhm, I did. A lot. You are always on my mind. When I wake up, when I go to sleep, during work, when I am working out, in the shower, even when I eat, you are always on my mind, y/n"

His confession made your heart explode, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks, you didn’t expect that answer.

Taehyung took your hand and placed it on his groin. "See what you do to me, hm?" He said with a smile.

Soon, you were riding his cock, his errection peeking through the open gap in his pants, and your panties dangled onto your ankles as you rode him. His hips on your waist and he was guiding your body, making you move the way he wanted.

"I love it when you fuck yourself on my cock," he grunted. “Keep going, love.”

And that you did, until you physically weren’t able to anymore, and Taehyung took over, laying you down onto the bed, and you laid on your stomach, your hips propped up with a pillow as he started to fuck you from behind.

You couldn’t help the cries escaping your mouth, as he pounded into you, his cock hitting your g-spot with precision. Your fingers gripped onto the sheets, your face buried into the mattress.

His hands were on your waist, holding you steady as he fucked you senseless, and you could hear his heavy breathing. Then, one last pump, and he came first, letting out a deep groan.

He slowed down for a moment, before riding out his orgasm in you, until you came. Your orgasm came crashing down on you, and you whimpered and cried around his cock, and as you laid there trembling, you asked yourself; how were you ever supposed to choose between them?

It didn’t matter.

You didn't want to choose between them.

You couldn’t choose between them.

And like that, time passed by. The two of them showered you with gifts, attention, love, and affection nonstop, every day. You were constantly on the fence, debating whether you should stop or not… but it all just felt too good, you couldn’t imagine life without either of them.

The snow crunched underneath your feet, the cold air brushing against your skin as you walked through the snow covered park, and it was getting colder by the minute. Your hands were shoved into the pockets of your coat to keep you warm.

“Are you cold?” Taehyung asked, at which you nodded. He took your hands and held them. “Do you want to go in the Gondola lift?” He nodded his head in the direction of the ski lifts, and you glanced over.

“Yes, that looks fun, let’s!” You followed him, holding his hand. You stood in the queue for a few minutes, wrapping your arms around Taehyung and resting your head against his chest as you snuggled up to him.

Soon, it was your turn and Taehyung held the door open and you scooted right next to the window, glancing out. The view wasn’t that noteworthy yet but you were sure that would change soon.

“There, now we are all together. The three of us."

Huh? You turned your head and looked at him. Taehyung stepped in, and sat next to you, and you noticed the other man standing in the doorway.

Jungkook.

A pang of happiness temporarily shot through your chest, you had missed him and you loved seeing him again, but then a realization dawned on you; they knew about each other.

And that realization quickly morphed into fear, and your heart began to pound.

You were caught.

You jumped up and tried to make a run for the door, but Taehyung grabbed your wrist and pulled you down, forcing you back down on the bench. “You’re staying right here.”

“N-no, I want to go, no!”

Your gaze flickered back and forth between them, and you felt like a trapped animal, your body frozen as your mind ran wild.

Jungkook locked the door behind him and sat down to your left, while Taehyung sat on your right; you were sandwiched in between them.

No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening.

“Why are you so shy all of a sudden, babe? Usually you are so talkative, aren’t you?" Jungkook mocked.

Your eyes filled with tears, and you lowered your gaze, ashamed. Afraid to look them in the eyes.

“Don’t you like our surprise? We prepared it all for you, love.” Taehyung placed a hand on the back of your neck, his touch causing you to flinch, and he forced you to look at him. “I thought you wanted us both, and now that we are here, you refuse to talk to us? Is that how it is?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t answer. You didn’t know what to say, what to do. "Answer him," Jungkook's tone was icy, and your body shook, you were petrified, unsure of what they would do to you. And just like that, you kept your gaze on your lap, and you managed to not say a word all the way back to the end point of the ski lift ride. At the end of the ride, Jungkook and Taehyung guided you back to the cabin, where things between the three of you would change forever.

“If you want two cocks so bad, then fucking take them both.”

You were on your knees, in between the two of them, as they took turns thrusting their dicks into your mouth, one after the other. Their moans filled the room, along with the occasional gagging sound that you made.

Your body was in overdrive; it was as if your brain couldn’t comprehend that your two favorite men in the world were face fucking you both right now.

You didn’t expect it but… you were soaking wet.

“That’s it, show Taehyung how we always do it when he’s not around, don’t be shy baby.”

Taehyung pulled his cock out, and now Jungkook was the one in your mouth. You drooled over his cock, and his hand rested on the back of your head, pushing himself further inside, his errection hitting the back of your throat.

Taehyung took your hand and wrapped it around his cock, and you started to rub him off as you continued to suck Jungkook off. The two men groaned as they hovered over you, and you didn’t think you could hold it any longer.

“I’m wet, really wet, need cock, please.”

At that, Taehyung pulled you onto your feet and picked you up, before laying you down on the bed.

“Wet? Show us then, babe.” Taehyung cooed, pulling your clothes off you, and now Jungkook was in the room as well. “Spread those legs, show us how wet you really are. Do you need cock?"

"Yes, yes, please!" You spread your legs wide, exposing yourself to them, and having both of their eyes set on your pussy made you even wetter.

"This pussy is so greedy, and so fucking needy, it's dripping. Look at that.” Taehyung’s finger lingered down your folds, teasing your entrance. “So wet for us.”

Jungkook got onto the bed, deciding he’d be the first to give you what you want; cock. He hovered above you and slipped his cock in, and you moaned as his length filled you up. You wrapped your arms around him, as he thrust in and out.

This must be a dream.

Taehyung placed a hand on your cheek and turned your face to the side, his hardened cock staring right back at you, and you opened your mouth, inviting him in.

Both men fucked you, and your mind was completely blank.

Taehyung chuckled. “Damn, that pussy really is wet huh, those sounds are something else."

You couldn’t reply, as your mouth was stuffed with his cock, but you knew exactly what he meant, the lewd sounds your pussy was making was embarrassing, but also turned you on more and more. Taehyung’s hands trailed to your chest, kneading your tits. “You love it, don’t you? When we both fuck you. That slutty face tells me everything I need to know, and I bet this greedy pussy is going to come all over his cock soon, won’t it?" He pulled out his cock out of your mouth.

“Yes.. love it.” You tilted your head back, your back arching as Jungkook started hitting you in a good spot. “O-oh…”

Taehyung moved next to Jungkook and his tip teased against your swollen clit, the head rubbing against it, and that nearly sent you over the edge.

“A-ah!” You gripped onto the sheets, as the knot in your lower belly tightened, and your body tensed up, your pussy walls clenching around Jungkook’s cock.

“That’s the spot?” Jungkook teased, gripping onto your thighs to keep you in place as he picked up the pace.

“That does seem to be the spot, look at her face, she loves that spot.” Taehyung started to smack your clit with his cock, and that sent you over the edge, the knot in your stomach exploding, and you came all over Jungkook's cock, a loud cry escaping your mouth. As you came, your pussy milked his cock, hard, and he couldn’t last much longer, his cum shooting deep inside of you, Jungkook rocked his hips back and forth and only stopped when he was sure that every seed was spilled inside of you.

Jungkook pulled out, making way for Taehyung, who eagerly lined his cock up to your entrance. Jungkook came to lay down next to you, pressing his lips against yours as Taehyung pushed every inch into you, filling you up again.

"That's it, take that cock, love, Jungkook really warmed up that pussy for me, hm? It's squeezing my cock, so tight."

Taehyung fucked you with fast and deep strokes, his cock sliding in and out with ease as you were soaking wet, drenching the sheets underneath you. Jungkook started to kiss your tits instead of your lips, his tongue swirling around your nipples.

Your body was completely overwhelmed by pleasure, your head thrown back, and your mouth hanging open, your cries filling the room. You felt Taehyung grab your leg and push it over his shoulder, and pull you closer, his cock hitting deeper and faster, and you didn't know how much longer you'd last.

"Please, more, don't stop, don't stop." You begged, your breathing becoming faster.

Jungkook kissed your neck, "Such a greedy pussy, and it loves being fucked, doesn't it?" He grabbed your hand, holding it as you gripped onto it.

"Mhm, it loves it." You whispered, glancing at both men. Oh they were so perfect, they were everything you ever dreamed of, and more.

"Tell him you love it, baby." Jungkook encouraged.

"L-love it, so much, ah, ah…” You whimpered as Taehyung picked up the pace, your body bouncing up and down the bed, your tits bouncing all over the place, and it was all too much. You reached your high, another orgasm rushing through your body, and you cried as your pussy clenched around his cock.

"Yes, yes, that’s it…” Taehyung grunted, his pace now slow and deep, wanting to feel your pussy massage his cock and then he finally released himself, his hot seeds filling you up, and he rode out his orgasm, until there was nothing left to give.

“Oh…” You whimpered, turning to your side, completely exhausted, closing your eyes for a moment.

In the end, you didn’t have to choose.

[gojosatoruwifey]

ㅡbath manual section 6 (Σε λατρεύω)

✑ this started on that trailer (❦ ᴗ ❦ ✿) i've been spamming the screen when this beautiful man appears, he is such a cute puppy, i wanna smooch him with affection. anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this small offering it's been a while since i wrote (˵◕ ɛ ◕˵✿)

MINORS DNI

✿ warning/s: smut, explicit, bathroom sex, manhandling, pussy licking, a bit manipulative phainon and his willing participant reader, hint of reader being part of the astral express, let me know if i missed something!

✿ character/s: phainon, fem! reader

📜🖋️🎀SUPPORT MY KO-FI🎀🖋️📜

“the longer we’re together in the water, the more thorough the cleansing will be.”

what bullshit. you thought as you struggled to stop any noises threatening to escape from your throat yet your body betrays the facade you wanted to show. the warm water cascades down your bare body, the temperature helping the tensed muscles from fighting all day to loosen, it would be such a relaxing experience if not for the warm, calloused hands caressing your sides, gentle and firm and refusing to part ways with your flesh.

very same hands travelled downwards, towards the backside of your thighs. your breathing shudders as he lifts one of your legs to drape it over his broad shoulder. icy blue eyes admired the sight before him, a slice of heaven waiting for him to taste, the droplets of water on your taut skin making you even more enticing.

he wasn’t lying.

“the warm water will help you relax, while my touch makes your senses come alive.” is what he said earlier, a whisper—a peek of what’s to come. “...open yourself up to the connection between two lovers…” his tongue flicking to your sensitive nerves without stopping as his fingers dig into your soft skin. “...meant to be sensual and intimate experience to bring two bodies and souls together…it’s all part of the ritual.” you can’t remember what the rest of his words he spoke of. how could you—when his touch is working to drown you in the heights of pleasure?

he plans on bringing every last one of your senses fully to life.

his tongue, slick and hot, gently coaxes moans to your lips, reverberating through the empty room. you don’t know how long he was there, kneeling in front of you, each of his ministrations making you lose your mind. his hands are keeping you in place in the wall, despite the overwhelming sensations he is bringing you, he is still your grounding space.

the gentle laps strokes the fire in the knot in your lower belly, you want to move yet your lover is determined to be the one giving you pleasure, feeding your desires like he can't get enough. your fingers grip his white locks, phainon’s eyes roamed over your body with appreciation. their icy blue imprinting this image to his mind—he’ll remember this on days he is away from you. he can feel you writhe under his touch, moaning to your taste as you gasp sharply at the sensation. “phainon-!”

he did that again only to see you shuddered, your eyes fluttering close, moans escaping your lips. his eyes glint in satisfaction. phainon brings over your other leg to his shoulder as you’re now completely in his mercy. your eyes widened when his tongue prod at your wet hole deeper, fucking in and out, loud moans and spills of his name fills the private bath making phainon greed for more.

the manual he gave to you before he ripped it out of your grasp to demonstrate it instead, long forgotten outside along with both of your clothes. what kind of a host would he be if he doesn’t show you the proper way to bathe in amphoreus? 

he might just have to publish another bath manual reserved just for yours and his eyes only.