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soluversworld · 14 days ago

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Caught him in 4k! Oh wait, Both of you are...ones! - Solivan Brugmansia x Yan! G.N Reader (Smut)

Genre: smut

Summary: —REQUEST COPIED

Reader is the same from the Sol series!

I apologize for this late, I hate this smut. I hate my writing, self doubt era came again..If you're Edgar poe allan's fan You might...enjoy a little.

I HATE THIS, THIS IS SUCH A BAD AND OLD DRAFT PLEASE, DON'T COME AFTER ME. sol is kinda top in this

( Reader is a g.n!)

words : 13k (WHY)

Content & Trigger Warnings (TWs/CWs):

Sexual Content / Heavy Suggestiveness

Sensual Touching / Physical Intimacy

Mutual Exploration / Inexperience

Strong Language / Dirty Talk (implied or actual)

Blushing / Flustered Behavior

Piercing Play (mentioned/suggested)

Power Dynamic Shifts (playful, consensual)

Mentions of Arousal (non-explicit but direct)

Emotional Vulnerability & Clinginess

Faint D/S Tension (soft dom/sub dynamics – non-explicit)

Heavy Romantic Tension / Love Confessions (implied)

Fade to Black or Cut-off Scene (depending on how you end it)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

“Take care of Sol for me, okay?”

And just like that, he walked away.

You slipped into your apartment, shutting the door behind you. The darkness wrapped around you like a second skin. You groaned, fingertips brushing the wall as you searched for the switch.

The silence buzzed in your ears.

You flicked on the lights and were greeted, as always, by the warm, flickering glow of a single bulb that probably hadn’t been changed since the dawn of time. Your apartment—your god-awful apartment—looked just as miserable as you left it.

Peeling wallpaper curled like dead skin off the corners of the ceiling. The floor creaked with every step you took, protesting your presence like the building wanted you out just as badly as your landlord did.

The place. Your apartment.

Handpicked by Mr. Z himself—how generous, right? A second-floor rat hole near the park, not far from your school. A commute on rainy days, a walk on sunny ones, like you lived some idyllic city-life dream.

It didn’t allow pets. Something about "past complaints"—as if the neighbor’s roaches weren’t already squatting rent-free in the walls. The broken window in your room? Still unfixed. And if the landlord caught wind of that, he’d chew your neck like a starving mutt.

But it wasn’t just a crappy apartment. It was yours.

Or... it was supposed to be.

The land.

The land your father entrusted to you. The land Mr. Z came to take, that smug little bastard with his crisp suits and crocodile grin, calling himself a “nice guy” while casually tossing people off metaphorical—and sometimes literal—ledges.

You had no idea why he was so willing to shoulder your rent, your food, your tuition, your entire fucking life. But deep down, you knew the truth. It was never kindness. Never charity.

It was a game.

A trade.

Your land... or your head.

You stood in the middle of your shitty apartment and tried not to shiver. Not from cold—but from how close you were to snapping. You clutched at the thought like a lifeline. That land. That land was everything. It was the one thing still tying you to your past, to your family, to your sense of self. And losing it?

You would break.

Your hands trembled. Your mind spiraled. A sharp twist of pressure built in your chest, scraping against your ribs like rusted wire. You could feel the insanity curl up your spine like vines—

—until you remembered Sol.

The pressure cracked.

You remembered how Sol tilted his head, how his voice curled around your name like a secret. You remembered his laugh. His eyes. How safe and dangerous he made you feel all at once.

And just like that—you started laughing.

You pressed both palms to your cheeks, barely able to hold your face together, tears streaking down in hot, erratic lines. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp before it broke into messy, shaking laughter.

“FUCK...” You wheezed, half-sobbing. “Fuck, Sol...”

You dropped to your knees, the cracked tile biting into your skin. Your body rocked with hysterical laughter, voice raw.

“Heheheh—ahhh!!” You screamed. “FUCK—HAHAHA—FUCK!!”

You scrambled to your desk like a lunatic possessed, yanking out your sketchpad, markers spilling like blood across the surface. You started to draw him.

Your fingers didn’t stop moving, even as your breath hitched and stuttered, even as you cried harder and harder, smile widening until it hurt.

“Sol,” you whispered between gasps and giggles. “I saw you. I got you. I have you...”

And maybe that was the scariest part.

You weren’t scared anymore.

You were thriving.

You held your thumb, biting down on it like it could muffle the whimpers bubbling up in your throat. One hand clutching the bandages he'd left behind, still faintly smelling like him—like sweat, like warmth, like danger. You crushed them to your chest like a lifeline.

Ah... ahh... It was too much. It wasn’t enough. You wanted more. More of him. More touches. More of that soft, sinful voice that wrapped around you like silk and chains.

Your body rocked forward, a small, broken sigh slipping through clenched teeth as you leaned over your sketchpad. The lines on the paper blurred, not from poor technique—but because your eyes were swimming.

Your hand kept moving. Drawing him. Like your fingers were puppets and his memory was the puppeteer.

"A-ah..." you choked out again, lip trembling but pulled into a wide, cracked smile. Your cheeks ached. Your chest hurt. Your lungs burned. But you didn’t care.

He made you smile. He made you smile.

And that was terrifying. And that was beautiful. And that was real.

You huffed, then giggled—this sharp little exhale that turned into a manic sound that could've been a sob or a laugh or both.

Your face dropped into the crumpled bandages as you whispered,

"Why the fuck do you do this to me..."

And all you could do was draw him again. And again. And again.

You clutched the bandages to your chest, the fabric warm against your trembling skin—soaked with the scent of him, like fire, like ash. There was no relief, no escape from the madness that churned inside your bones, for you had been marked, bound in an invisible thread by a presence both suffocating and sweet.

Your thumb, trembling and pale, bit into your own flesh, the taste of salt and blood a poor attempt to smother the ache rising from within. Each movement was a silent plea, a frantic whisper to make it stop—or to make it drown you completely. Ah… ahh… It was not enough. The hunger within you, the hunger for more—more of him, more of this maddening, intoxicating thing—grew unbearable.

Ah, the drawing! The lines on the paper blurred like forgotten dreams, impossibly distorted through the heat of your fevered mind. You could feel your hand shaking as it moved, guided not by reason, but by a wretched longing to capture something of him that you could not possess. His form, his smile, his scent—how desperately you sought him in this crude reflection.

“Ah…” A sound, a whimper that escaped your lips, twisted between a sob and a laugh, hollow and broken. The act of drawing—was it an attempt at salvation or a cruel ritual that tethered you to your torment? Your chest heaved, and the corners of your lips pulled, stretched into a grin that was not your own. A grin that he had planted deep within you, like a seed of poison that bloomed with every passing thought of him.

The ache in your cheeks, the weariness in your body, could not quench the fevered delight that surged within you. He had made you smile. He had brought you this strange, sickly joy—this thing that cracked your soul wide open and spilled it for the world to see, for the world to consume.

And yet, in the depth of your torment, there was no true horror, no bitter revulsion. Only the strange sweetness that clung to you, like a drug that tasted of ruin. Your heart raced. The laughter spilled from you like a madman's confession, sharp and jagged, the weight of it bearing down on you like a thousand unseen hands. Why? Why did he do this to you?

The question, like all the others, hung in the air, unanswered, abandoned in the void where reason had long ceased to reside.

You wanted to laugh. Ah—ah!!

The sound ripped through your throat like a gasp turned inside out, manic and breathless, dancing the razor-thin line between agony and ecstasy. Your shoulders shook. Your jaw ached. The kind of laugh that bubbles up when you're far too gone to cry. The kind that doesn't ask for permission—it erupts, uninvited, like wildfire through a paper house.

Your fingers twitched, still dragging that pencil over paper like a ritual knife carving holy symbols. His eyes. His mouth. That stupid smirk that made you want to scream and kiss and bleed all at once.

"Ah—ahAHA—!" Your head tipped back. Your knees hit the floor. You clutched your sketchbook like it was a holy relic, like it was the only thing anchoring you to a body you weren’t even sure was yours anymore.

He was there. Not really— But in the lines, the scent, the burn in your lungs as you whispered, “Sol… Sol, you bastard…” A shaky breath. A grin. “What did you do to me?”

You laughed again. You had to.

Because the truth was dripping from your lips like honey-laced venom:

You liked it. You liked this. You liked him.

And that… That was the funniest part of all.

You decided to skip dinner. Again. Your stomach growled like a feral animal, but you ignored it—because food meant risk. Food meant trust. And trust was a noose you weren’t ready to slip around your neck.

You hadn’t even touched the second batch he left you. The first might’ve been drugged. Might’ve been poisoned. Might’ve been laced with something that tasted like care and went down like control.

And Sol... your dear Sol... he’d smile through it all, wouldn’t he? He’d say something sweet with those devil-dipped lips, tilt his head in that soft, curious way, like,

“Don’t you trust me?”

And you’d say yes—even if every fiber of you screamed no. Because the worst part wasn’t the fear. It was the want.

So you didn’t eat. You wrapped yourself in your blankets like armor and pretended to sleep.

Not for rest. Not for peace. But to watch him.

You kept your breathing steady, shallow, perfect. The way your body stilled, the way your lashes fluttered—convincing enough for someone who wanted to believe you were asleep.

You listened. You watched. The way he moved. The way he stood over you, like a god admiring his creation. The way the shadows kissed the curve of his jaw, how he looked down at you with something terrifying and holy in his eyes.

And in that moment, you kissed his bandages. Pressed them to your lips like a prayer, like a confession. They were still faintly warm, carrying the echo of him—his presence, his pain, his claim.

You tucked them away. With your secret stash of photos. The ones you took when he wasn’t looking.

Then, finally, you slid under the covers. Curled up in the dark.

And went to bed.

Still pretending. Still smiling. Still his.

You closed your eyes, but sleep never came. It never could, not with the way your mind thrummed, electric, on edge—waiting. Hoping. Terrified.

And then—the sound.

Clink. The window. Your window. Slight, deliberate. Like the whisper of a knife slipping between ribs.

Your breath caught. Not out of fear—no, that wasn’t it. Not really. It was him.

He’s here.

Your fingers clenched around the pillow like a lifeline, knuckles whitening. You kept your body still, perfectly still, except for the frantic hammering of your heart. Maybe if you focused on pretending, you could convince even your own nerves.

"Hm...? Still broken, huh?" That voice—his voice—low and smug and impossibly soft. It slithered around the room like smoke. "You should be careful, pumpkin..."

You almost bit your tongue holding back the laugh. Fucker. Smug, smug, smug.

You teased him in your heart, biting the inside of your cheek to stay quiet. He thinks you’re asleep. Let him. Let him play his role. He’s more dangerous when he thinks he’s the only actor on the stage. He’s more honest. More him.

You swore you could hear the grin behind that mask of his.

Clad in black from throat to toe, with a mask of matching shade obscuring his face—except those eyes. God, those eyes. Red like a dying sun. Like the first blush of spilled blood. And they were glowing.

Glowing with love. Twisted, possessive, pure.

He moved closer, each step slow, reverent. Like he didn’t want to wake you—like he wanted to devour you whole.

And then—his touch. A single finger, tracing down your cheek.

Gentle. Precise. Claiming.

Your skin tingled. Your breath nearly hitched—but you kept it steady. You had to. Your heart? That traitor was doing backflips in your ribs.

He hovered there, beside you. Watching. Worshiping.

Sol: "Look at my sleepy sweetheart..."

The voice—his voice—slithered through the chamber like a dying hymn, each syllable weighted with a reverence so profound, so profane, it might have been uttered by a mourner at a lover’s grave. His tone was not one of cheer, nor of mirth—it was the tone of a man who beheld divinity in ruin, of a soul cradling its own damnation and whispering sweet nothings to the flame.

You lay still, a corpse feigning sleep, breath shallow, lashes shuttered over trembling pupils. The air hung heavy, cloying, perfumed with rot and roses. You could feel him before you heard him—felt the heat of him as though your body were naught but tinder awaiting the match. And oh, he was fire. A slow, crawling blaze. Not the kind to light a room—but the kind that swallowed it whole.

He stepped closer, and the night moved with him. Clad in black, cloaked in silence, his mask was the color of the abyss, hiding a face carved from longing and lunacy. But his eyes—ah, his eyes—were exposed. Red as a wound. Fever-bright. As if every heartbeat carved poems into his chest, and each stanza bore your name.

Sol: "Makes me wonder who supplies Hyugo those sleeping pills."

He scoffed, low, amused, the sound curling like a grin pressed against your ear. You wanted to scream with laughter—those shitty pills don’t work, Sol, not on me, not when I’m like this. But your mouth was sealed, your jaw locked in some twisted covenant of silence. You could only pretend, could only endure—and ache.

He reached for you. Not as a man reaches for a woman—but as a moth reaches flame. Slow, reverent, inevitable.

The mask fell away.

And then his face—that face—lowered, descending like a ghost of your most debased desires. He leaned in and breathed, breathed, burying his face into the tender hollow of your shoulder. A kiss fell there, light and damning, and the shiver that racked his body was not from cold.

It was need.

He inhaled. A deep, trembling, hungry inhale. And then he shook.

Like a man who had just tasted opium and couldn’t tell whether he was floating or buried alive. You felt it—the quake of his form, the tightening of his fingers, the stuttering hum against your skin. He drew you into his lungs like the scent of rain before the flood. His drug. His madness. His.

Your body burned—your fingers clenching in your pillow, the only tether between you and the scream coiled in your throat. You wanted to moan, to shudder, to call his name with all the madness he inspired in you—but instead, you lay there in martyrdom, in silence, in delirium.

Sol: “Fuck… you smell so good…”

The words were broken glass dipped in honey.

Sol: “Pardon me.”

His lips brushed your cheek, and your soul left your body in a quiet, choking cry that never reached air. Your pulse thundered like cathedral bells during a storm, and still you held on—fingers white-knuckled in fabric, breath held like a secret between two graves.

You were not asleep.

But God, you were dreaming.

And Sol—your blessed, ruined Sol—was the dream that would gut you from the inside out.

Ah—ah! The cry lodged itself inside your throat, thick and trembling, like a hymn unsung, trapped in the cathedral of your body. The ache curled tighter in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like thorns as he leaned closer, ever closer. His shadow loomed over you like a stormcloud starved for lightning. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t dare.

His hand—warm, calloused, trembling—slipped into yours. So slowly. So gently. A reverent act. A prayer disguised as a touch.

And oh, you wanted to squeeze back. To lace your fingers through his and hold him like he held your very breath in his palms. But you couldn’t—you mustn’t. This charade, this silent theatre of sleep, was your only sanctuary. If he knew—if he knew—the spell would shatter, and you would be lost, devoured whole by the flame you've been kissing in secret.

And then, he kissed your neck.

Soft. Tender. Possessive. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. A lightning bolt made of lips and heat. He lingered there, buried in your skin like a whisper that left bruises. And you—helpless, trembling beneath the weight of his love and your own starvation—nearly broke.

Your face. Oh God, your face. You didn’t know what expression had spilled across it, only that it must have betrayed you. Must have shown too much—too alive, too consumed, too awake. Did he see?

He paused.

Sol (in a murmur, sweet and broken): “Look at you… even in sleep, you ache for me.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw your arms around him, to weep into his chest and tell him, yes, yes, I do, I ache, I burn, I’m drowning in you. But your fingers only curled harder into your pillow, bones aching from restraint. He kissed your hand next—tenderly, worshipfully—as if you were porcelain and he was a priest.

Sol: “F-Fuck... you’re so sweet. It’s not fair.”

He laughed then. A low, breathless thing. Not cruel. Not amused. It was the sound of a man who had found heaven in the shape of a sleeping girl—and didn’t know she was burning alive in her silence.

You could feel your thighs trembling. Your spine was ice and flame. And still you played your part, the sleeping beloved, untouched by the tempest that pressed its lips to your skin and called it mercy.

But in your mind? In your chest? You were already ruined.

And somewhere beneath that blanket, your fingers twitched with the ache to touch, to hold, to moan. But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Sol: “Quite ticklish, aren’t you…”

The words fell from his mouth like sin dipped in honey—gentle, taunting, worshipful. And still, he pressed forward, a man drunk on the sacred altar of your skin.

His mouth returned to that spot—that spot, right where your shoulder met your neck, the very place where your breath hitched like a dying prayer. He kissed, then licked, and kissed again—slowly, deliberately, until the tender flesh bloomed with a feverish red. A mark. A wound. A brand. His.

Sol (low, bitter): “Those filthy scums think they could touch you…”

The softness was gone. In its place—rage, veiled in grief. The sheets beneath his hands crumpled like paper under flame as his fingers curled, trembling. His breathing turned ragged, heavy with possessive anguish.

Sol: “You’re mine. No one else. No one else.”

Each word was a vow.

—each syllable trembled like a blade held to the throat of fate itself.

Sol (a whisper, venom-soft): “You belong to me…”

His voice was not loud. Oh, no. It was a hush—a murmur that crawled beneath your skin and wrapped itself around your spine like a silken garrote. The kind of whisper that could undo kingdoms. The kind that could kill.

His fury did not burn; it smoldered. A low, steady ember in the pit of his chest, threatening to rise, to consume. But not you. Never you. You were the altar at which he knelt—bloodied knees and all.

Sol: “If I ever see those bastards again…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

His hand—gentle now—rose like the tremble of a dreamer in the throes of fever. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, movements reverent, as if you might shatter under anything less than worship. Then he pressed his lips to your forehead, a kiss so delicate it felt like a prayer.

And then—oh gods, and then—his mouth grazed the corner of your lips. Just there. A ghost of a kiss. A promise. A brand.

A shiver tore through him like a tremor through the bones of the earth. His breath hitched, caught between hunger and reverence.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear the sky in half and pull him inside your chest and never let him go.

Your fingers curled deeper into the pillow, the only tether you had left to the lie of sleep.

You wanted to hold him—oh, how you wanted to hold him.

But still you lay there, silent and still, skin alight, nerves screaming, as his breath ghosted over your neck again.

Sol (softer now): “You’re everything…”

He buried his face there again, at the cradle of your throat, where your pulse fluttered like a secret bird beneath your skin.

He kissed it once more. Slow. Possessive.

And you nearly broke.

Your thighs clenched beneath the sheets, your chest ached, and your throat pulsed with the weight of a scream you dared not let out.

Ah—ahhh…

Your heart beat like the wings of a trapped moth—wild, doomed, and so, so in love.

After sometime, he began to put on his mask.

WHAT

NO?

WHY!?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

One hand darted out, fingers closing around his wrist. The other pressed against his chest—his heartbeat kicked hard under your palm, like he’d been caught mid-sin.

He froze.

Not like a man caught in the act. Like a ghost realizing it had been seen.

And then—your lips brushed his neck.

Not gentle. Not asking. A brand. A spark struck to dry leaves.

His breath hitched. Sharp. Audible. His whole body trembled above yours like the strings of a violin pulled tight—too tight.

You felt the heat rise off him in waves.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

He whispered your name like it hurt.

Like a confession, a prayer, a curse.

His eyes—those impossible eyes, red and gold and glassy with disbelief—met yours. Wide. Unmasked. Wounded. Worshipful.

You saw it hit him all at once: you were awake. You had heard him. You had kissed him.

And you weren’t running.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him down, mouth ghosting his jawline now, hot breath against flushed skin. You wanted to drown in the scent of him, the weight of him, the ache in his touch.

He was shaking.

You’d never seen Sol shake.

He opened his mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to apologize—but all that came out was a choked sound. His hands hovered uselessly at your sides, like he didn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart.

Your forehead pressed to his. Skin to skin. No more lies.

And he whispered, barely a sound:

“…don’t leave me.”

You pulled him closer.

Not a word was spoken after that. There didn’t need to be.

That final thread snapped somewhere behind his eyes, the horror and the hunger crashing together in a kaleidoscope of realization. You didn’t forgive him.

You matched him.

“You’re not scared,” he whispered, almost reverently. “You’re not running.”

You laughed softly, cupping his face again like he was something sacred—fragile porcelain wrapped around dynamite. “Scared? Oh, Sol, I ran toward you.”

And he broke.

Right there. That beautiful, quiet little fracture. The air between you both was trembling now—charged like lightning trapped in a jar. You saw his pupils dilate fully, swallowing the gold in his irises like ink in water. His throat bobbed with a shallow swallow, and then—

“You...” he said again, like if he repeated it, maybe you’d finally flinch.

But you just smiled wider. Like a saint. Or a devil.

“I'm not dumb, Darlin!" you whispered, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. “You didn’t notice, did you? That I was baiting you just as much?”

His breath hitched. “You wanted me to—?”

“I wanted to see how far you’d go,” you cut him off, your voice featherlight, yet sharpened to a blade’s edge. “And darling, you exceeded expectations.”

He stared at you, that smug little mask he always wore peeling away at the corners. For the first time, maybe ever, Sol looked like he didn’t know what came next.

But you did.

“You asked me why I don’t hate you,” you said slowly, your lips ghosting just over his again, barely a breath apart. “The truth is…”

You leaned in, pressing your body just close enough that he could feel your heartbeat crashing against his chest like a war drum.

“Actually fuck that! I just love you! So tell me, Sol,” you purred, your voice dipped in sugar and venom, “What the hell are we gonna do with each other?”

He finally moved—only a twitch—but it was everything. His fingers clenched in your shirt, his mouth opened like he was about to confess or damn himself, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You licked the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate. Just enough to make him freeze.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you giggled, brushing hair back from his temple like a mother, like a lover, like a goddamn maniac. “You thought you were the monster in this story.”

He choked on a breath.

“But I think I just proved,” you whispered, nose brushing his cheek, “that we’re both wearing the same mask, darling.”

Then, you pulled back just slightly—just enough to meet his eyes. Both of you locked there, staring into something so horrifically perfect, it almost felt holy.

“So…” you said, your voice breathless, trembling with affection and madness, “why don’t we seal it?”

He blinked. “With what…?”

You grinned like the end of the world. “A promise. A kiss. Blood whatever! I don’t really care. Just make it hurt a little, Sol—so I know it’s real.”

You couldn’t help it—you were losing your mind for him. The way Sol looked at you with those eyes—soft, adoring, like he didn’t see the frenzy boiling under your skin. Like he didn’t realize you would ruin everything just to keep him close. Just to have him like this.

And yet.

You leaned in slow, your lips brushing the corners of his mouth again and again—taunting, torturing, giving him nothing but scraps. Little kisses like broken promises. You were so cruel.

He shivered each time, chasing after your mouth like he needed it to breathe. His hands wandered desperately over your back, trying to pull you closer, closer, like he didn’t understand that you’d already crawled inside him—mentally, emotionally, obsessively.

“Hah,” you giggled, that sharp little laugh you gave only when your heart was spiraling. Your voice dipped into something unstable. Sweet. Possessive. “Do you even understand how much it hurt when you kissed everywhere but my lips?” Your breath hitched. Your eyes glistened, wide and glassy. “The corners,” you whispered, like the word itself made you tremble. “You kissed the corners, Sol. Did you know what that did to me?”

You thought he’d be scared. You thought he’d flinch. But instead—

He looked beautiful.

So beautiful you wanted to crush him. Preserve him. Pin him open like a butterfly and say “mine.”

And then, finally—finally, your lips crashed against his. No teasing. No space. Just the kind of kiss that says you belong to me and I’ll break you before I ever let go. You held it, mouths locked together like you could pour your love down his throat.

Only when oxygen clawed at your lungs did you break away, panting.

Sol gasped—so pretty when he gasps—then surged back in. His tongue traced your lower lip, trembling, gentle, desperate. It shocked a breathy sound from your throat, high and too sweet. But your body didn’t hesitate—of course it didn’t.

He tugged you down by the back of your head, pulling you deeper, swallowing every sound you made. You were still on top of him, legs bracketing his hips, his mouth warm and wet and starved for you—just like you were for him.

Tongues tangled. Spit shared. You kissed him like you wanted to carve the memory into your bones. Like your heart would stop if you didn’t.

You shifted your weight to one arm, just enough to free your hand—because you needed to touch him. Not wanted. Needed. Craved it like air. Your fingers ghosted down the front of his shirt, the rough weave scratching delicately against your skin like it was daring you to go further.

But the way he wore it—tucked in all proper, all teasingly inaccessible—almost made you laugh. Was he trying to make you work for it? You didn’t mind. You liked peeling him apart.

Pinching the hem, you tugged the fabric free from his waistband, deliberately slow. Watching him. Waiting to see if he’d stop you. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Your hand slid beneath the shirt, palm pressing flat against the heat of his stomach. His skin twitched under your touch. His breath stuttered—oh, he was trying to hold it in. Cute. That only made you push higher.

Sol let out a shuddering gasp and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath—hot and uneven—brushed against your lips, your cheeks. You drank it in like it was sacred.

Your hand moved higher, fingertips skimming up until they found the firm curve of his pecs. You let your palm settle there, then squeezed—not gently. You wanted to feel him tremble. You wanted him to know it was you who made him weak.

And he did. His fist found your nightwear, fingers curling tight in the fabric, pulling at it like he couldn’t stand the tension building in his chest. His lips parted—but whatever he said was lost in a breathy, strangled sound. Mumbled. Meaningless.

Didn’t matter.

You translated for him. The whimper in his throat. The way his body leaned into your touch, even as it shuddered. You knew exactly what it meant.

He liked it. He liked you.

Your fingers roamed again, tracing every muscle, every dip and ridge like you were memorizing it for the last time. Sometimes you squeezed, just hard enough to watch him flinch—just hard enough to remind him he was yours. Entirely, irrevocably yours.

And he was so good for you. So beautiful, shaking under your touch like that.

God, you loved him.

You’d carve his name into your soul if it meant never losing this feeling.

Sol pulled you in like he couldn’t bear a single molecule of distance. His arms locked tight across your back and waist, holding you as if he was afraid you might vanish, might dissolve in the heat of the moment if he didn’t anchor you.

When his lips met yours, it was anything but gentle. The pressure—his mouth, his arms, his presence—closed around you like a vise. His legs shifted against yours, slotting into place along your sides, and for one brief moment, you thought: He’s letting me drown in him.

And then—without warning—he moved.

Your stomach flipped as Sol rolled you both over in one fluid motion, suddenly slamming you against the mattress with a low thud. You gasped, the breath ripped from your lungs not just by the motion but by the sheer force of him—the way he hovered over you now, the air thick with heat and tension, and something desperate clawing at both your chests.

The kiss had broken—but barely. A thread still tied you together, breath mingling, lips centimeters apart. His eyes remained closed like he was savoring the memory of the kiss… or afraid that if he looked, he’d see regret on your face.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when he was above you like this. Not when your body screamed finally, finally, finally.

When he finally let his eyelids flutter open, heavy-lidded and glassy with emotion, he blinked down at you.

And something shifted.

Because that’s when he realized. Realized what he’d done. The position. The weight. The pinning. The overwhelming closeness. And how you weren’t pulling away.

How you were staring up at him like he’d just handed you the entire world.

How your fingers gripped his biceps like they belonged there.

How you wanted more.

“Ehh, Sol,” you muttered, breath still hot and heavy against his lips, “you can actually top.”

He froze. Blinked. You felt the tension ripple through his whole body like a wave crashing—and then retracting.

His face went red.

The kind of blush that climbed from his neck all the way up to his ears, like his body was trying to reboot but the wires got crossed somewhere in his brain. His grip faltered just a bit. His mouth opened—no words.

Oh no.

You ruined it. You ruined the moment.

…Except—you didn’t think so. You thought he was adorable.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, suddenly hit by an overwhelming urge. “You’re so cute I’m gonna die.”

Before he could react, you reached up and squished his cheeks together with both hands, making him pout involuntarily.

“Jesus Christ, look at you! You’re blushing! Over me!”

“Y-Y/N—!”

You giggled. Cackled, actually. Then you leaned up and kissed the tip of his nose like you were branding it, your lips lingering obnoxiously long just to watch his brain implode in real time.

He went stiff. Completely red. Entire systems down. Emotion.exe stopped responding.

Sol.exe has stopped working.

“…You’re not normal,” he mumbled, stunned. But his hands were still on you. And his eyes were soft. And his heart was sprinting.

“And yet you’re still on top of me,” you whispered, eyes gleaming, voice soft but dangerous. “Who’s the real weirdo here, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

Sol’s breath hitched like he’d just been shot—by you, no less, loaded gun of a smile and that kiss to his forehead still echoing in his bones. He clutched at your sides like you were vanishing fog, blinking too fast, lips trembling around syllables that never made it out alive.

“You.. I… you r-really mean—” kiss Another one. Right to his temple this time. Gentle. Grounding. And ruining him.

His face flushed all the way to his ears, blotchy and blooming like a fever dream. Pupils blown wide, chest rising like he was preparing to confess to something unforgivable—or to worship.

And then your eyes dipped down. Your grin twisted. That deranged little sparkle lit behind your lashes.

“Oh... Sol,” you purred like you’d caught a secret. “You’re really…”

He looked mortified. Not from shame—no, shame couldn’t shake a boy like this—it was desperation. He was trying not to die. Trying not to implode right here in front of you.

Your laugh—God, that laugh—shattered the moment like a mirror.

“You’re hard already?” You cooed. “That forehead kiss really did you in, huh?” His hands were trembling now, clutching fabric like he could anchor himself through sheer will.

“I– I didn’t mean— it’s not— you kissed me and I just—!”

“Shhh,” you cut him off, thumb stroking over his cheek. “Even though I wanna take the lead…” Your voice dipped lower, silk wrapping around a blade. “I wanna see what you can do.”

You felt him twitch.

“I’ll have my turn later,” you whispered, almost reverent, almost cruel. “But tonight? Tonight we’re gonna help ourselves to everything. Slowly.” You leaned in close, nose brushing his too..

He exhaled like he’d been gut-punched by God.

His voice was barely there, breathy and wrecked already, like the mere idea of asking might ruin him:

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

God, as if he had to ask.

You leaned in, voice low and honey-slick, almost cruel with how soft it was: “You don’t have to ask.”

And then your hand—slow, deliberate—dragged up the inside of his thigh. You felt the jolt run through him, like a shiver made flesh, hips twitching the tiniest bit under your touch. His breath caught like he’d been holding it all night just for this moment.

He kissed you.

But not shy. Not sweet.

Starved.

It started slow, lips brushing like he was scared you might vanish mid-breath, but then he melted—tongue tracing yours, cautious at first, then bolder, desperate. His hands found your waist, fingers splayed wide, clutching like he needed you to stay real beneath him. You tasted the heat off him, tasted the tension and want and the way he kept breathing your name in pieces between kisses.

Your fingers gripped tighter on his thigh, and he gasped into your mouth, swallowing it back with another kiss, deeper this time, wetter, messier. His tongue moved with a purpose now—slow licks, teasing flicks, a rhythm he built between stolen gasps and muffled whimpers.

He kissed like he’d been dreaming of it for months. Like you were the only god he’d ever pray to again. Like every second without your mouth was a curse undone only by this.

And when you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, your lips swollen and his pupils devouring you whole—

You whispered against his mouth, “Sol… you kiss like you’re gonna die without it.”

He just moaned softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and shook.

Your hand threaded through that wild mane—black with streaks of radioactive green, warm from the heat pooling between you. His hair was soft despite the chaos, falling like ink between your fingers, that middle bang brushing your nose as you tilted his head just right.

You murmured, "Let me see you," and he did—eyes fluttering open, and fuck, they glowed. That twisted sunburst of color: burnt orange at the core, ringed in blood-red. Like staring into the last seconds before a supernova.

Then, oh… oh, you got greedy.

You kissed the spider bites on his lip first—just a soft nip, enough to make him shiver, then soothe it with your tongue. He whimpered, voice cracking like a prayer slipping into sin. Next? That long upside-down cross earring. You took the chain between your teeth and tugged it. A small sound escaped him—half gasp, half please—as your fingers trailed down his neck to his choker.

You nipped that buckle too. Clink. Your teeth caught the edge, and he twitched beneath you, body tense, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice barely hanging on. “You’re—ah—cruel—”

“Oh!!!" you purred, kissing up the line of his jaw, “we’re not even halfway.”

And then came the piercings.

You kissed each of them. Every little stud, hoop, and ring you could get your mouth on. You nipped, licked, and grazed teeth along every piece like they were your own personal playground. You even whispered to each one like they were separate lovers.

Left ear first—lobe stud, then the helix. Your tongue flicked over the metal, and he arched. Right ear next—double helix, slow kisses between them, then one quick bite that made his hips jerk. Then? The necklace—that key. You bit down on it and dragged your mouth up the chain like you were unlocking every inch of him.

And gods, when you finally tugged up his shirt and saw those nipple piercings—

You moaned like you’d found treasure.

“Awh, Sol… these? These are mine now.”

You nipped one with your teeth, and he cried out, thighs clenching, head thrown back so fast it nearly knocked you off-balance.

He was shaking. Writhing. You hadn’t even touched the hard part of him again yet.

And that was the plan.

"You're gonna beg, sweetheart," you whispered, lips brushing the metal again. "One piercing at a time."

You kissed them—slow and savoring. Each nipple ring cool against your lips at first, but that changed fast, your breath warming the metal, your tongue flicking against it just to hear him gasp. The piercings twitched with every flick, every soft suck.

His hands fisted the sheets, hips lifting without permission, a helpless grind into nothing. "Fuck—" he hissed, voice strangled, barely hanging on.

Your tongue circled one of the hoops, slow as sin, before you sucked—deep and filthy, like your mouth had every right to claim it. He whimpered, and the sound was wrecked. Like he was unraveling beneath you.

“Sensitive?” you teased, dragging your teeth along the ring before biting down just enough to make his back arch. “Thought you could handle a little attention.”

You switched sides, letting your mouth trail across his chest, kissing the space between—slow, possessive, like you were mapping him out. When you reached the other piercing, you didn’t wait. You closed your mouth around it and sucked hard, lips tugging until he moaned so pretty for you, like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

One hand stayed on his chest, keeping him steady. The other slid down—slow, slow—to rest just above his waistband. Not touching yet. Not giving—just threatening. Teasing.

"You’re falling apart and I’ve barely even started," you whispered, breath ghosting hot across his chest. "Gonna let me ruin you, Sol?"

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, pupils blown wide, chest heaving under your lips.

So you kissed the ring again—gentler this time, a silent good boy—and smiled against his skin.

"Don’t worry," you murmured, "I’ll take my time."

Your palm hovered just above the heat between you, barely grazing, and still—you felt it. Throbbing. Desperate. So hard it almost ached to look at. Sol’s breath hitched the second your fingers brushed over him, even through the layers. His hips twitched up, chasing the contact like he couldn't help himself anymore.

“I wanna help you,” you breathed, voice thick, trembling. “I wanna make you feel good, Sol…”

His name tasted like devotion and danger on your tongue. Your eyes, glossy and glassy, locked with his—and God, the way he looked back at you, pupils drowned in red and gold, lips parted, flushed and shining from where you'd kissed him raw… He looked like he’d break if you stopped. Like you were the only thing keeping him together.

"Please," he whispered, broken and breathless. “I… I need you…”

You pressed your forehead to his, panting together, your breaths hitching and stuttering in tandem. Two heartbeats pounding in sync, two souls tangled in fever. Your free hand came up to cradle his jaw as your lips ghosted over his—kissing without kissing.

Then you said it. Sweet and deranged, like a promise only you could deliver:

“This night’s for us. We’re gonna do everything, Sol… every slow, messy, perfect thing…”

And your hand slid lower, down, down—ready to show him exactly how much love you had to give.

Your breath hitched—not from the crushing hug (though god, Sol really didn’t know his strength), but from the heat radiating off him. That sound… the unmistakable, slow click of a belt being unbuckled. You froze, blinking up at him as he pulled you even closer, burying his face into your neck, like he was trying to hide the sheer intensity blazing across his flushed skin.

“Y-you don’t have to know everything…” he whispered, voice low, strained, shaky with nerves and want. “I’ll… I’ll teach you. If you’ll let me.”

Then you peeked under the covers—and there it was.

Throbbing.

Your cheeks flushed so fast it felt like a fever. You couldn’t look away. His cock twitched, hard and leaking, resting against the slope of his thigh, flushed so dark it almost looked angry. You swallowed hard, lips parting on a shaky breath as your eyes darted back to his face.

Sol wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely wrecked just from being seen.

“You’re so beautiful like this…” you said before you could even think to be embarrassed.

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

Your hand wrapped around him again—this time softer, a trembling curiosity guiding your touch. Sol gasped, his whole body jolting like you'd struck a nerve, forehead pressing hard against yours as he choked back another moan. His lips hovered just above yours, parted, hungry, desperate.

“D-don’t hold so tight,” he whispered, the breath of it fanning across your cheek, voice raw and pleading. “J-just… yeah. Like that…”

You adjusted instinctively, sliding your palm down the length of him with slow, reverent strokes. The way he reacted—hips twitching, lips falling open with another helpless sound—made your stomach clench with molten need. God, he was beautiful like this. Ruined just by your hands. Yours.

He groaned your name like it was the only word left in his vocabulary, each syllable dripping with devotion. His head tipped back, throat exposed, sweat-slicked skin gleaming in the low light. You couldn’t stop yourself—your lips found the curve of his jaw, then his throat, tasting the salt of his skin as he shuddered under your touch.

Your pace quickened. He was getting louder. So were you.

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t careful. It was consuming. Teeth, tongue, heat. A clash of need and reverence, of wanting to devour and worship at once. You moaned into his mouth..

He cried out your name like it was a prayer and a curse in one—shattered against your hand, clinging to your body like a lifeline, hips stuttering as he finally, finally let go.

Warmth spilled across your clothes, thick and hot, soaking the front of your nightwear..

Both of you froze.

Sol’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, then dropped to the ruined fabric between you. His entire face flushed crimson.

“...Oh f-fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, voice still broken from the high. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

You stared at the mess, then back up at him. Your smile was slow and wicked.

“Well, someone owes me laundry,” you murmured, leaning in to steal a kiss from his swollen lips. He melted into it immediately, pliant and eager, still twitching from the aftershocks.

Then you pulled back just enough to whisper, breath hot against his mouth:

“How are you gonna make it up to me, Sol?”

His eyes widened—then darkened. Hands trembling, he cupped your cheeks, like you were something holy. Something he’d ruin again and again just to worship better the next time.

"I'll....!"

His breath hitched as you tilted your head, offering your neck like an invitation, like a challenge. And Sol? He was never one to back down from a dare—especially not when it tasted like your skin and sounded like your voice moaning his name like sin.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse and reverent. His fingers ghosted down your sides, just shy of where you really wanted them. “You know what happens when you tell me I can start…”

You didn’t answer with words—just arched your hips, smug and wicked, watching his pupils blow wide. That was answer enough.

Sol’s hands moved with a hunger he could barely hide anymore, sliding under your wear to trace the slope of your waist, then curling possessively around your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You tease me like that,” he muttered against your collarbone, lips brushing the heat of your pulse, “and expect me to behave?”

He bit down gently, enough to make you gasp—then soothed the sting with his tongue. Marking you, loving you. He trailed kisses down the side of your neck, slow and messy, until he reached the hollow between your shoulder and throat. He sucked a deep bruise there, then pulled back just to admire his work.

“Mine,” he whispered. “Mine.”

His hands slipped lower—one grounding you by your hip, the other sliding down between your thighs, teasing the waistband like he wanted permission even now. But you’d already handed him the reins. And the rope. And maybe the whole damn chariot.

You gasped when his fingers dipped in—just one at first, slow and gentle, testing. You clenched around him immediately, and his breath caught.

“Oh my god,” he moaned softly, forehead pressing to your shoulder. “You’re already—fuck, you feel so good.”

He didn’t even give you time to catch your breath before the second joined in. His rhythm was deliberate—patient, almost reverent—but the way he curled them? Filthy. Perfect. Designed to make you sing for him.

And sing you did.

Every whimper you gave, every gasp and curse and half-begged Sol, had his cock twitching against your thigh again. But he didn’t rush. Not yet. He was watching you—fixated, obsessed, cataloging every flutter of your lashes, every hitch of your breath, like you were a song he was learning by heart.

“God, you’re so beautiful when you get like this,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “All smug and cocky one second, then falling apart for me the next…”

He kissed your cheek, then your temple, then buried his face against your neck, fingers picking up speed as your hips rocked into his hand.

“I wanna ruin you slow,” he murmured. “I want to. Make you cry out so sweet no one’ll ever look at you again without knowing you’re mine.”

You moaned his name—raw, needy—and that was it. His pace faltered, then grew firmer. Deeper. Devoted.

You could feel the heat coiling tighter in your belly, dragging you under with every curl of his fingers, every dark promise against your skin.

His fingers hovered over your chest, tracing the lines of your body with a slow, deliberate touch. It was almost torturous, the way he teased—lingering, never quite touching where you needed it, like he was savoring the way your body reacted to each brush of his fingertips.

"You feel so good," Sol murmured, eyes dark with desire as they dropped to your chest, his breath hot against your skin. His lips followed the trail his fingers had just left, trailing kisses down the curve of your neck and then across your collarbone, moving lower with each slow exhale.

The pressure on your chest was light at first—barely there, like he was testing the waters—but you knew better than to mistake it for innocence. His touch was possessive, controlled, a slow burn that had you gasping, heart racing.

He grazed over the soft fabric of your shirt, fingertips just brushing your skin, making you crave more. "You like this, don’t you?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, like he was enjoying the power he had over you, the way you melted under his touch.

Without waiting for an answer, Sol's hand slid beneath your shirt, cupping your chest with a possessive pressure. The heat from his palm spread through your body like wildfire. He didn’t hold back, kneading and massaging gently, just enough to make you shiver, to make you ache for more.

He loved the way you responded—so responsive, so eager to give him what he wanted. His thumb brushed over your nipple, once, twice—deliberate, circling, drawing out a whimper from your lips. He smiled at that sound, pressing his chest to yours, the weight of his body only adding to the intensity.

"I won't let an- Not him....Especially him....," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His other hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, giving a subtle push to coax you closer to him.

"Y/n.."

You gasped, your chest rising sharply with each breath as his touch became more insistent, more demanding. Each stroke sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel your body responding, tightening, yearning for more of his hands, his touch.

Sol’s mouth found yours again, messy and desperate, and he groaned into your lips as his hands kept working you over, feeling every inch of you like he couldn't get enough. His fingers were all over you now, pulling at your shirt, tugging it off with impatient desperation.

Sol’s hands roamed over your body, the facade you’d been holding onto—your smug control—started to slip, thread by thread. His touch was unrelenting, driving you closer to the edge, pulling out the needy parts of you that you usually kept buried beneath layers of deflection.

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid down to the sensitive spot on your inner thigh, the heat radiating from his touch setting your skin ablaze. You tried to hold it together, tried to keep your usual cool, but it was becoming harder and harder with each passing second. His teasing was pushing you past the point of control.

“Sol...” Your voice came out breathless, softer than you meant it to be, a desperate plea slipping from your lips before you could catch it.

He paused, just for a moment, his fingers hovering on your skin as he looked up at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn’t that cocky smirk you were used to—it was softer, almost knowing. Like he could finally see through you, see that all that smugness you’d been holding onto was just a shell.

“Are you finally gonna let go?” he whispered, his voice laced with something far more tender than you expected, despite the hunger in his eyes. “You need me, don’t you?”

You tried to bite back a moan, tried to hold onto the last shreds of your defiance, but it was impossible. The need was there—aching, overwhelming, raw—and you couldn’t hide it anymore. You gave him a look that was no longer playful or mocking. It was pleading, exposed, a silent surrender.

“I do,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. “I need you.”

Sol’s breath caught, the realization dawning on him as he saw the shift in you—how you were no longer in control, no longer the one who was teasing and taking what you wanted. Now, you were the one needing, the one falling apart in his hands. His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw the raw intensity of his desire match yours.

“I need you, too,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with something deeper than lust—something possessive, something real. His hand moved again, more urgently now, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

The shift in the air was palpable now, the balance of power changing in the space between you. He was no longer just teasing you—he was giving you what you craved, just as you had given him everything he wanted. Your walls were gone, shattered by the intensity of his touch, and now all that was left was the raw need you both shared.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear with a sinful sort of gentleness. “I said I was gonna go in,” Sol murmured, voice thick with promise—and before you could even gasp out a “Wait—”

—his fingers pushed in.

The sudden stretch made you jolt, hips instinctively jerking forward into his hand. The gasp that left your throat was half surprise, half moan, and your fingers clenched tight around the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t stop—no, he curled them slow, deliberate, like he was already memorizing the shape of you, the way you reacted, every twitch and breath and tremble. You bit your lip, but that smug composure you wore so well? Gone. Utterly demolished.

Sol noticed. Oh, he noticed. And he looked so smug about it.

"Thought you were the one teasing me," he whispered, kissing your jaw, his fingers moving with aching patience. "But you're already falling apart on me, Pumpkin."

You tried to glare. You really did. But all that came out was a whimper as he added a second finger, your body tightening around him, breath coming in short, shaky bursts.

“You're...!” he murmured, dragging his lips down your neck, tongue teasing the skin before he bit down just hard enough to leave a mark. “I'm making you feel like this. No one will ever...!”

Your head tipped back against the pillow, overwhelmed—by the heat, the stretch, him. Your legs fell open just a little more without thinking, hips starting to rock in slow, desperate rhythm against his hand.

"You're clenching so tight, Pumpkin." he muttered, mouth brushing your ear again, "Like you don’t wanna let me go. Like your body knows it’s mine.”

You let out something between a curse and a plea, and Sol—bless his sinful heart—just chuckled low in his throat, fingers working deeper, stroking just right.

His cock pressed against your sex, hot and heavy, his other hand still between your thighs—fingers slick with everything you gave him. His breath stuttered, voice low and wrecked as he leaned in, lips ghosting over yours.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he murmured. “So damn warm around my fingers… can only imagine how good you’ll feel around this.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails leaving faint trails as your body trembled under the weight of him. You barely had a second to respond before—

He pushed in.

Slow, relentless, deep—filling you with every inch, drawing a strangled sound from your throat as your forehead dropped to his shoulder. The stretch had your whole body clenching, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the way every nerve lit up under his touch.

“F-fuck,” Sol hissed into your neck, voice thick with awe. “You take me so well… like you were made for me.”

That did something to you. Your whole body reacted—pulling him in closer, tighter—and he groaned, caught between control and desperation. One hand slid up your chest, teasing and playing with every sensitive spot he could find, making your hips rock helplessly into his.

He started to move. Slow at first—deliberate, dragging each thrust out to feel every inch of you shudder around him. You couldn’t pretend anymore. The smug mask you wore had shattered, replaced by whimpers and gasps and the way your nails bit into his skin.

And he was drinking it all in. Obsessed. Devoted.

He kissed you again—hot and hungry, his tongue slipping against yours, coaxing more of those beautiful sounds from your lips. He needed them. Needed you.

“Too much—ah! S-Sol…!” you choked out, barely holding onto words as your body arched into him, trembling and raw with every overwhelming sensation.

His rhythm faltered, just for a breath, and his gaze flicked up to meet yours—concern and lust tangled in those deep, dark eyes.

“Wanna be on top this time?” he rasped, voice soft but hoarse with need. “You can set the pace... take what you need.”

You tried to nod, but the moment you moved, your limbs faltered. You were boneless, wrecked, trembling from the aftershocks still rolling through your nerves. “I… I-I—” you tried, but the words melted against your tongue, leaving you breathless and aching.

He kissed you. Slow and reverent. A kiss that tasted like yes.

You shifted, trying to reposition yourself with what little strength you had left—but your body shivered from the stretch, the heat, the sheer intensity of him still buried inside you.

“Hey, hey…” Sol whispered, arms catching you gently. “Let me help you, pumpkin.”

He guided your hips with a care that almost made you cry—like you were something precious, like he could fall apart just watching you fall apart. The moment you finally sank down on him again, your back bowed, a sharp cry slipping from your lips as your hand flew to your mouth—biting into your thumb and nail just to ground yourself.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching your reaction like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “You feel incredible... Look at you.”

Your breath stuttered. His hands cradled your waist, steadying you, but you could feel his restraint unraveling with every passing second.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathed. “You’re perfect like this. Want me to move with you? Or… just let you take what you want?”

You swallowed hard, still biting your thumb, unable to answer—so you just rocked your hips experimentally, and shuddered when the sensation ripped through you like lightning.

Your moan came out shattered.

And Sol?

He looked like he’d die happily just to hear that sound again.

Your forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, lips brushing over the sensitive skin there as you tried—tried—to move.

He held you close, arms wrapped tight around your back like he could fuse you to him, breathing heavy and ragged against your shoulder. “You okay?” he murmured, his voice low and trembling.

You nodded against his neck. “Y-Yeah, I just—” You shifted your hips, slow and shaky, but even that made your breath hitch and your legs quiver. The overstimulation hit like a wave, rolling up your spine and curling your toes.

Then again. Just one more push. Just one more move.

Your thighs shook. You bit your lip. Everything felt too good, too much, and it made your muscles jelly.

“Shit,” you hissed, nails digging into his back. “What’s… wrong with me?” You half-laughed, half-whimpered, breath catching in your throat. “Why am I so—why are you so damn deep?”

Sol’s arms tightened around you instantly, and you felt it—the way his breath stuttered, the way his heart slammed in his chest right against yours. That wicked, warm chuckle rumbled through him.

“Guess I just fit you too well,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Or maybe you’re just that gone for me, huh?”

You whimpered, biting your knuckle again. He tilted your head back gently, nose brushing yours, voice thick with a mix of awe and filth.

“You’re not broken,” he said, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “You’re just so full of me you don’t know what to do. Let me help.”

And before you could protest—he rolled his hips up into you.

Slow. Smooth. Deep.

“Guess I’ll have to help a little,” Sol murmured against your ear, voice honey-slick and low.

His hands moved to steady your hips, fingers splayed wide as he guided you slowly—gently—down again. Your breath hitched hard, every nerve flaring as you sank into the heat of him. He was already shaking, just from watching you fall apart above him.

“You’re really trembling inside,” he groaned, awe and reverence tangled in his voice. “Pumpkin… I never thought we’d be doing this. Not like this. Not so—” His voice cracked as he looked up at you. “So close.”

You tried to say something back, but all you could do was whimper, your voice lost somewhere between need and disbelief. Your face was burning, your whole body flushed from the inside out.

And Sol saw it—every flicker of emotion, every twitch of your lips, every clench of your fingers in his hair.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “Your face right now…” He looked wrecked. Adoring. “I wanna satisfy you more. Make you fall apart again. And again. Until that smug little mask drops for good.”

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your fingers curling in the sheets. Sol met you halfway, hands still guiding you, breath syncing with yours as the rhythm built between you like a secret language only your bodies could speak.

n Sol’s eyes—something darker, more needy than you’d seen before. His hands were still guiding you, but they were trembling now, almost desperately, as if he was afraid you might slip away from him. His chest rose and fell with each strained breath, and his gaze never left your face, burning with intensity.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice rougher than before. “I can feel every inch of you. Your heart, your breath, your body... I can’t get enough of it.”

His lips brushed against your throat, hot and possessive, as if marking you, claiming you with each kiss. It was almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, like he was driven by something more than lust—need. You could feel it in the way his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, urging you deeper. His lips trailed along your jaw, desperate but gentle, like he was savoring every second of this.

“Don’t... don’t pull away,” Sol gasped, his voice low, strained. “I need you... I need you with me. Don’t go anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. He kissed you again, his touch becoming more urgent, more possessive, until you could feel the weight of his emotions crashing into you—raw, unfiltered, as if he were willing to burn everything just to keep you here.

And in that moment, you realized: it wasn’t just his body that he was offering—it was his soul, his vulnerability, his fear of losing you.

His words were barely a whisper against your skin: “You’re mine, right? You’re not going anywhere...”

"Sol... shit, I—" Your voice cracked on the edge of a gasp, spine arching helplessly into his touch. "I’ve never been so—so greedy... I need more..."

Your words were barely coherent, trembling out of you like confessions in the dark. You clung to him, breath hitching with every aching movement. Your whole body felt too hot, too sensitive, too full—like one more touch would shatter you completely.

And Sol, sweet Sol, was smiling down at you with a look so tender it hurt. His fingers were still working you open, slowly, lovingly, obsessively—his other hand cradling your cheek as if you might break. You looked up and—fuck—you were gone.

“Hey, Y/N,” he whispered, voice syrup-sweet, eyes glittering with something deranged and soft all at once. “Look at me.”

You did—and instantly regretted it, because those eyes—those spiraling, impossible eyes—locked you in place. That inner ring of burning orange, surrounded by crimson-red, swallowed you whole. Your breath caught. You couldn't look away if you tried.

“Swear to me,” he murmured, his voice suddenly trembling at the edges. “Swear you’ll stay with me. Always. I need to hear you say it.”

“I—I’ll stay,” you gasped, lips brushing against his. “I’ll stay w-with you, Sol—Sol!! AHHH—!”

Your words broke off in a cry as another wave hit, tearing through your body. His name was the only thing left on your tongue. Your thoughts dissolved completely, leaving behind only raw need and that voice—his voice—telling you how good you were, how much he wanted you, how much he needed you to stay.

Sol kissed your cheek, then your neck, then your lips again, all while whispering like a man possessed: “That’s right. Mine. You’re mine, pumpkin... forever.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against yours—wild, unhinged, terrified in its own way.

No one had ever held you like that. No one had ever wanted you like that.

Sol started to move—slow at first, like he was savoring the moment, savoring you. Every shift of his hips sent another shock of heat through your already overwhelmed body, and you couldn’t stop the gasps that tumbled from your lips, couldn’t hold back the broken whimpers as the pleasure spiraled way past what you thought you could take.

You were barely conscious of your own voice—just helpless, dazed sounds between half-finished words, desperate declarations tumbling from your mouth like confessions in a fever dream.

“C-can’t... can’t think—ah, Sol—! I wanna stay—I belong to you—!”

Those words snapped something inside him.

He froze for half a second—just one—but his breath hitched, his grip on you tightening as if he was anchoring himself in your heat, your need, your truth

His eyes were wide, glassy with something raw—something shattering. And then he moved again, with more force, more need, like your words had sunk straight into the core of him and detonated.

"Say it again," Sol gasped, voice cracking like his heart was too full, too fragile. "Say you belong to me—"

You couldn’t even speak. Your body was trembling, helpless in his arms, your face pressed to the crook of his neck as he held you like he’d never let go. All you could manage was a choked, breathless whimper of his name, and that was enough. Too much.

He kissed the side of your face like he was praying. Like you were sacred. Like he'd break if he ever lost you.

"You’re mine," he whispered hoarsely, a promise and a plea. “You’re mine and I’m yours and—gods, I don’t care if this world burns, just stay with me.”

You tried to nod—tried to respond—but the waves crashing through your body stole everything. Your breath. Your thoughts. Even your strength. You could only cling, nails digging into the fabric on his back as your body arched into his, as he moved faster, deeper into whatever bond had fused your souls together.

Sol was unraveling. You could feel it—every sound he made, every tremble in his voice, every desperate grind of his hips said the same thing:

"I love you. I need you. I can’t lose you."

And just when it felt like your world would collapse from the inside out—

He buried his face against your neck, gasping raggedly. "Y/N—!!" His voice cracked as he reached his peak, breath hitching, movements slowing into deep, shaking pulses. You felt him fall apart around you, within you, every bit of that obsessive love spilling out in every broken whisper and trembling kiss.

And even in the aftermath—panting, sweaty, and trembling in his arms—you knew:

This wasn’t just need.

It was devotion. It was possession. It was love—sharp-edged, overwhelming, maybe even dangerous.

You didn’t even know when it shifted—when your legs were pushed back, when his weight settled over you like a storm you couldn’t escape, didn’t want to. Sol’s hands gripped under your knees, spreading you open with a reverence that burned. His gaze locked to yours, wild and worshipping, like he could see straight into your marrow and wanted to carve his name into every inch of it.

"Look at me," he panted, voice low and ragged. "I need you to feel how much I want you—how much I need you. Like this. Always like this."

Then he sank back in.

Deep. Full. Unyielding.

You cried out, fingers scrambling at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch, the impossible closeness. His body caged yours, chest pressed flush to yours, his mouth kissing your tears away even as he wrecked you with every thrust—slow at first, almost reverent.

But it didn’t stay slow.

He snapped his hips forward, hard, fast—desperate.

The sound of skin on skin echoed, lewd and dizzying, your broken moans swallowed by his kiss. His arms trembled with restraint, but his pace never stopped, hips grinding in deep with every stroke like he was trying to brand himself into your bones.

“I can feel you,” he gasped against your mouth. “Clenching around me like you were made for me—like you belong to me.”

Your body gave no answer, only a choked sob of pleasure that made his pupils blow wide, made his control unravel at the seams. He hooked your thighs tighter around his waist, angling himself just right until stars exploded behind your eyes.

And when you cried out his name again, broken and raw and holy, Sol lost it.

He slammed into you with a grunt, forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling as he moved faster, harder, chasing something that felt more like a fall than a climax. “That’s it—take it, take all of me—”

You were shaking, overstimulated and breathless, but he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. His rhythm turned erratic, deeper, needier, like every thrust was a vow:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

And then he shattered.

With a strangled cry, he drove in to the hilt and came undone—his entire body trembling, hips twitching with every pulse of release, his face buried in your neck as he chanted your name like a lifeline.

“Y/N… Y/N—fuck, I love you—I love you so much I can’t—can’t breathe without you—”

You held him as tightly as you could, every part of you aching, humming, complete. He stayed buried deep inside you, wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go, like pulling out would unravel everything.

And maybe it would.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was him giving you everything.

His obsession. His madness. His love.

And in that dazed, dizzied haze, as your body trembled in the aftermath and his heart thundered against yours, one thing was clear:

You were never getting out of this.

And gods help you…

You didn’t want to.

You didn’t even get a moment to breathe.

Sol was still inside you, still trembling from his high, but his mouth was already moving again—soft kisses, scattered like devotion across your jaw, your cheek, your lips. And then, without a word, he rolled his hips.

Slow. Deep. Heavy.

Your body jolted. A strangled sound caught in your throat, half-moan, half-beg, but it never made it past your lips—because he kissed you.

Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Tongue claiming, teeth grazing, swallowing every ruined sound you tried to make. You couldn’t even gasp. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was feel—his hips grinding into yours again, filling you to the hilt, his body somehow more feverish, more hungry than before.

“You can take it,” he breathed between kisses, voice dark and reverent, wrecked by love and lust and something far too raw to name. “You’re perfect—gods, you feel so perfect like this. So full of me.”

Your nails dragged down his back, helpless, overstimulated, trembling from how much you needed him, even as your body screamed from the intensity. He moved deeper, slower this time but with that same unbearable pressure—like he wanted to melt into you, fuse your bodies until there was no more him or you, just us.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even as his hips rocked into you again. “I can’t stop. I should—but I can’t. Not when you’re like this. Not when you feel like—like home.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, reverent, lips dragging over yours like he could taste your soul on your tongue. You whimpered against him, tried to speak, to moan—but the pleasure was too much, the fullness too overwhelming. All you could do was sob softly into his mouth as he started to move faster, desperate for another high, another chance to lose himself in you.

“You’re mine,” he breathed against your lips, fucking you through the aftershocks, through the haze, through the surrender. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Sh-shit—Sol—wait—!” you choked, but your voice cracked on a sob as his hips pounded into yours again, no room to think, no room to breathe, just the sound of slick, obscene rhythm and your own whimpers catching in your throat.

You tried to push at his chest, not really meaning it, just needing something to hold onto—but he only groaned, low and wrecked, and leaned down to kiss you—soft, almost sweet, completely at odds with the way he was driving into you like a man possessed.

“Just a little more,” he panted into your mouth. “Just a little more,Pumpkin—come on, stay with me.”

You couldn’t. Your back arched, legs trembling, pleasure shattering through you again so fast it knocked the breath from your lungs. You moaned something—his name, maybe? A plea?—but it was swallowed by the way he bit down gently on your neck, groaning against your skin like he was trying not to lose himself too fast.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasped, still thrusting, still holding you so sweetly, like you were precious even as he ruined you. “We’re gonna be together, okay? From now on. Just us.”

He licked over the bite he left, kissed your cheek, and kept going—slower, now, but so deep, like he was trying to carve himself inside you permanently.

“We’ll eat good food. We’ll be happy. You won’t need anyone else, Y/N,” he murmured, voice shaking with something more than lust. “You’re mine. I’m yours. No one—no one will love you like I do.”

You stared up at him, dazed, lips parted to respond but all that came out was a soft, broken cry as your body clenched around him again.

He smiled, so soft, eyes wide and in love and unhinged.

“And you won’t love anyone like you love me. Right?” he whispered.

You tried to say yes—tried to breathe it, to nod, anything—but your body betrayed you, trembling and writhing beneath him, lost in the feeling of him pushing in, pulling out, fucking that question into you like he needed the answer etched into your bones.

And he took it as a yes.

He kissed your temple, lips brushing the sweat-slick skin like a promise.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “No one else. Just us.”

His name tore from your lips in a gasp, and with one last, deep thrust, he came—hard, pulsing inside you, shaking as if he'd just been brought to the edge of some abyss.

His body tensed, fingers digging into your skin as he gripped you close, holding you like his very existence depended on you being there—on being his. He buried his face against your neck, leaving soft, ragged kisses as his breath hitched in the aftermath, his body trembling with exhaustion and still needing more.

You could feel him inside you, warm and spent, but there was no relief—not really. You weren’t sure where he ended and you began, the line blurred by the way your bodies intertwined, by the way he held you so tight, so desperate, as if there was nothing left for him to hold onto except you.

He whispered your name, broken and raw, so tender despite everything.

“You... you’re mine. I’ll keep you safe. Keep you close. Never let you go,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and shaky.

Your mind was a haze, thoughts swimming as you struggled to gather yourself, but he kept you there, pressed against him, unable to move, unable to break free from the pull he had on you.

“I love you. I need you,” he said softly, his voice cracking on the last word.

And then, as if the intensity of what had just happened wasn’t enough to bring him to his breaking point, he pulled you even closer, his lips brushing your ear.

Sol’s grin was like a damn sunbeam, glowing with something that was all devotion and satisfaction, his chest still rising and falling quickly as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, like he couldn’t get close enough to you. The moment was everything to him—the sweet aftermath, where the world felt soft, and all he could do was hold you and drown in how good you made him feel.

You were too dazed to speak, too lost in the warmth of his body against yours, the softness of his breath on your skin.

His lips were gentle as they pressed against the sensitive spots of your neck, leaving kisses so soft, so loving, it almost felt like worship. He pulled you in closer, not letting you go, even though you couldn’t form a coherent thought at the moment.

“You did so good, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice still thick with need but now touched with tenderness. “So, so good. I’m so proud of you.”

He said it like it was a sacred truth. His words melted into your skin, every word a claim, a reminder that you were his—and he wasn’t letting you forget it.

His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you tighter, his grip firm but with an underlying softness that only spoke to how deeply he cared. He tucked you against his chest, his heart still beating hard against you, as if it couldn’t slow down just yet.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice muffled and full of warmth. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, Y/N. I’ve got you.”

You felt like you might melt into him, his warmth spreading through you, his kisses and soft reassurances so grounding you couldn’t help but sink into the safety of his embrace. There was a sweetness to him now—clingy but in the most affectionate, secure way—as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

He wasn’t letting go. Not now, not ever. And you couldn’t deny how right it felt to be so completely his.

You could barely keep your eyes open, the world spinning and your body so spent from the intensity of everything that had just happened—but something inside you snapped.

The laughter bubbled up, low and deranged, escaping your lips before you could even think twice about it. It was manic, almost delirious, but it was real. You were feeling it—feeling him, feeling that wild, crazy need to take control now, to flip the script just a little.

Sol, his face still buried in the crook of your neck, froze for a moment. His breath hitched as he pulled back slightly, eyes wide and glowing with that possessive hunger, that unshakable devotion.

“What… what are you—?” he started, but you silenced him with your eyes.

You could barely keep yourself together, but there was fire in your chest. You were done being so lost in him, done just lying there while he took the reins. No, this time, you were going to show him.

“I wanna take control too,” you muttered, voice raw, the grin pulling at your lips almost feral. “This isn’t over yet, Sol. Night’s ours. Let’s love each other too much, okay?”

His eyes widened, pupils dilated, the grin curling on his lips as he tilted his head slightly. He was shocked—and yet, the way his hand slid over your side, the way his thumb brushed against your skin, made it clear: he loved it.

“Fuck, Y/N… you think you can handle me?” His voice was low, teasing, but that gleam in his eyes said something else entirely—something darker, something like he was ready for you to burn everything down with him.

His arms were still tight around you, but now, it was almost like he was daring you. Daring you to take the reins and lead him somewhere new, somewhere he was all in for.

You woke up, your body still humming with the aftershocks of last night. But something was... different. You looked around, confusion clouding your mind for a moment—until your gaze fell on the pretty man beside you. The one who had stolen your breath away with his wild, captivating energy.

Sol.

His hair—black with those electric green streaks—looked even more striking in the soft light of morning. It cascaded in a half-up-half-down style, those bangs framing his face in a way that made his eyes even more arresting. His irises—oh, gods—those hues of orange and crimson, like they could see right through you, like they were made to entrap you.

You couldn't look away. Even as he lay there, peaceful, so effortlessly beautiful in his sleep, you found yourself staring, not even caring if it was a little unsettling. He was yours now. You couldn’t stop the way your heart raced at the thought.

You reached out and gently patted his head, your fingers grazing the strands of his hair, feeling the soft texture. It was almost too much, too perfect, too real. And just like that, those vivid eyes blinked open, meeting yours with that sleepy confusion, before they sharpened and narrowed, those mesmerizing eyes locking onto yours.

"Good morning, Sol..." you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips as your pulse quickened. You had to explain. You had to claim him.

"We need to take a bath... Y’know?" Your voice was light, teasing even, but underneath was something darker, a promise of what was to come.

For a moment, Sol stayed silent, his gaze steady, those eyes studying you. There was something about the way he looked at you now—it was almost like he was waiting for you to confirm what this was, what you were. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You held him gently by the face, your fingers brushing against his skin, before pulling him closer, locking eyes with him as if you were both trapped in this moment. This love.

“This isn’t a dream,” you murmured, voice turning darker, more twisted. “We’re together now, Sol. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Forever.”

Your smile, deranged, yandere-like, spread across your face as you whispered it again, your hands gripping his face more firmly now.

“I love you. I love you so much, Sol,” you confessed, the words leaving your lips like a vow. Your voice was almost manic, desperate. "No one else could ever love you like I do. No one can have you but me. You're mine—body, soul, everything. And I'll never let you go."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, his breath mingling with yours, and you wanted to savor every second of it. The world outside—irrelevant. All that mattered was that Sol was here with you. And you were never letting him leave.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, your breath shaky, heart thudding in your chest.

"You're mine, Sol. Always. Forever. And there's no way out, is there?"

You managed to hobble to the bathroom with Sol’s help, giggling the whole way like you weren’t on the verge of collapsing. He bathed you both gently, sweetly, as if you were glass he’d cracked with his love last night and was now trying to piece back together. His touches were reverent, every kiss to your shoulder like a whispered apology and a promise.

And then—he said it.

“Let’s skip university today.”

You blinked at him.

"Together?"

He grinned, still wet from the bath, towel hanging low on his hips, eyes sparkling like he’d won the damn lottery. “Yeah. Let’s just... be us. Just for today.”

You could’ve cried. But instead you nodded and muttered something like, “Okay... only if you make curry.”

That made him laugh. A full, warm laugh, like you hadn’t completely shattered him the night before with how much you loved him.

Later, he was at the stove, humming while the smell of spicy, warm curry filled the air. You tried to help. Really, you did. But when you tried to stand—

“Ah—!” you winced, collapsing right back onto the futon, legs still jelly.

“Hey—hey, hey!” Sol rushed over, panic rising. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, grinning way too wide. “Can’t walk because you... you know.”

His face flushed a deep crimson, but he didn’t deny it.

Then, as he was stirring the curry, his voice came soft. Too soft.

"...Did you look after me too?..I mean"

Your grin widened—slow, almost foxlike.

You raised your hand and pointed to the cupboard in the corner. Sol tilted his head in confusion, then padded over.

When he opened it...

Silence.

He stared.

There, in a neat but deeply unhinged box, were dozens of photos of him. Drawings—some accurate, some bordering on manic. His used bandages. Pieces of fabric from his worn clothes. The one with a heart drawn around his face in red marker. Oh. And the other side?

Your notes.

Obsessive, stalker-style notes. Favorite foods, times he left campus, places he sat when he was sad, one particular napkin , Multiple drawings of him "Y/N + Sol 4ever" scrawled beneath.

His hands trembled as he picked up a drawing of himself you did from memory—wildly off-proportion, but filled with adoration. The kind of adoration that could turn a person feral.

You tilted your head and asked sweetly, “Why’re you red, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

He collapsed.

Like, full-on faceplant.

“SOL?!” You scrambled (as best you could) over to him, panic blooming. “SOL ARE YOU OKAY?! BREATHE, BREATHE—OH GODS I BROKE YOU—”

You pulled him into your lap, frantically patting his cheeks as his body shuddered, somewhere between laughter and a panic attack. His face buried in your chest as you whispered urgently, “You’re mine, Sol. Don’t break. I can’t fix you if you break—!”

But Sol just let out a breathy, dazed laugh.

“I—I was the-” he muttered, staring blankly at your shrine box. “I thought I was the insane one. I thought I was obsessed. But you—you—”

You grinned, cradling his face, nose touching his. “You love me, right?”

He blinked at you, dazed. “Yes—of course—”

“Good.” You kissed his forehead. “Because You loved me first. I’ll love you forever. And if you ever leave me, I’ll carve your name into my skin and haunt you!”

He just stared. Still red. Still broken.

Still so yours.

And somewhere in the kitchen, the curry began to burn. But neither of you cared.

#tkatb #the kid at the back vn #tkatb x reader #the kid at the back sol #tkatb vn #tkatb sol #the kid at the back x reader #solivan brugmanisa x reader #solivan brugmansia #solivan x reader #the kid at the back #sol x reader #sol brugmansia #tkatb smut #solivan brugmansia x reader smut #the kid at the back smut #tkatb sol x reader #tkatb sol smut

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heartfullofleeches · 6 months ago

Text

Sub Yan + "Motherly" Darling Blurb.

(Reader is G.N, but they're called mother/mommy)

"Hand."

The walking signal flashes white as the countdown commences, seconds ticking away as Sammy nervously tugs at the string of his sweatershirt. "Um. You remember that I'm twenty-"

"I don't give a God damn how old you are, Sammy. Either you take my hand or you are not crossing this sidewalk.

You always do this to him. Why do you always do this?- From packing an extra sweater for him in your bag to demanding he walk on the inside of the street away from the path of the cars, Sammy has taken your friend group's title for you as the - "mother of the group" alot closer to heart than before. It was endearing at first, and still is, but he failed to take into account the lengths you'd go to insure your loved ones' safety.

"O..okay...Mommy."

Sammy's eyes widen as the hood of his sweatershirt tighten around him - fingers yanking the ties as far as they'll give. He wishes it would swallow him whole.

"Shit. I didn't meant to- What I was trying to say was!.....I'm so sorry... Just, just leave me here.. I'll catch up later...."

"I'm not going to leave you here by yourself, Sam."

"...I know.."

#Sammy my oc #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere blurb #male yandere #sub yandere

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icebearpopsicle · 10 months ago

Text

⁠✧Baby Steps⁠✧

(Shouta Aizawa X G.N. Reader)

Warnings: Aizawa is 38 here, age gap (like it's 13 years), smut part is shitty and kinda rushed, excessive use of the word "as" because i literally cannot write, gentle dom, aizawa is kinda overbearing, dub con(?) jus towards the end though,

Word count: 2.3k+ words

Author's note: this is shitty but i hope you enjoy it ♡ ♡/ aizawa is out of character/ smut is bad cuz i am even worse at that sorry ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ/

You stretched your back, hands clasped behind your head, hearing the faint sound of your spine cracking against the support of your chair. It has been hours since you started scrolling, looking for a job, your palm sweaty from holding the mouse. A click here, a click there, and a scroll downwards, then upwards again. You had recently moved here after graduation, and while you were managing well initially, the high cost of your apartment and day-to-day expenses had become too much to sustain without a source of income.

You scrolled further down when the computer screen displayed some words that caught your interest:

Name: Shouta Aizawa

Age: 38

Requirement(s): Babysitter

Requirement Information: 2 kids

Salary: To be negotiated later on

Contact details: [email protected] / XXXXX-XXXXX

Posted 1 hour ago

Okay, yeah, that was pretty brief, but the timing gave you hope that you might just get the job, so you clicked on his phone number and started typing away on your keyboard.

"Hello, I saw your post about wanting a babysitter and I was wondering if the spot was still free?"

You hit the send button and got up from your seat for the first time in hours for a small break. After about 20 minutes, you checked for a response and opened the chat again.

"Yes, it is. If you're interested, please come tomorrow at 8 am if you're available," followed by a link to his location.

A smile claimed your lips at the excitement of finally landing a job after so many tries.

When you saw his age, you definitely didn't expect him to be this... hot? Which father of two kids is this hot?

"Good morning. I believe you contacted me yesterday evening, yeah?" His smooth, deep voice is like music to your ears as you look at the sleep-deprived man towering over you. Rough stubble covers his face, his hair cascading to his shoulders, as his broad shoulders lean against the door frame.

"Oh... ah... yes, good morning. It was indeed me who contacted you... sir," you reply as he gestures for you to enter his house. You then take notice of his lavish yet cozy home, with toys scattered in the hallway. You both enter the kitchen, and he jerks his head toward a seat at the table with a low hum.

"Would you like to drink anything?" he asks, picking up his mug from the table as you shake your head.

"I am gonna be asking you a few questions and I need you to be honest with your answers." he commands, taking a seat opposite you. His black shirt puling slightly upwards, revealing his wrists as you give a simple nod.

"Firstly... What is your age?" He asks taking a sip from his mug.

"I am 25 years old.. sir.." You reply confidently however there is a frown on his face at your response. Was he... Upset? Afraid to loose this opportunity you quickly try and talk about your past experiences with kids as he interrupts you.

"No, it's not that I just hope you aren't lying about your age"

"Why... Would I?" You ask with a frown enveloping your face.

"I wouldn't believe you to be 18 with a face like that" He replies his tone rather blunt.

Ouch. His straightforwardness stinging lightly.

"Moving forward... do you party, drink or any of those stuff?"

"No, sir."

"Hmmm ... Fine, I suppose you can start working from today"

You give him a small smile as you mutter a small 'thank you'.

"Got any questions?"

"Actually yes! I was wondering where the kids might be so that I could ensure they're comfortable with me being around!!"

He gives a slight nod before replying his voice surprisingly gentle and low when talking about them "Yeah, they're sleeping right now. My eldest son; he wakes up at 9 and my daughter wakes up at 10:30." He gestures to a picture on the mantle showing a purple haired boy and grey haired girl laughing and playing together as you hear the faint sound of him taking a sip from his mug.

"They are so adorable." You gush smiling at their innocent faces. "And could I get some more information on what their personalities are like?"

"Hm.." he hums as he finishes the drink on his mug and sets it down on the table.

"Well my son is 9 years old, Shinsou that's his name, he doesn't warm up easily to people but he is quiet and usually plays with Eri or alone. Eri is my daughter she is 5 and quite literally the opposite of her brother, ahem.. she is talkative and quite sensitive. None of them are picky about their food, they eat anything that they're given and nor do they have any allergies.. and yeah that's about it.." He says rubbing his hands together and you can hear how rough and dry they are.

It had been two weeks since you started working in his house and only then you realised how often Shouta stayed away from home, any free time he got he would spend it with his children, taking them out for activities, cooking for them, playing with them, seeing how close he was with his son and daughter often left you with a smile on your lips at the close bond of the family. True to Shouta's word you could really see the difference in the way Shinsou would behave around you and around his father or sister and somewhere deep down you were a bit upset but you knew that all of this takes time and as long he was comfortable enough to have you around you were fine. But Eri on the other hand was absolutely adorable, she adored you and you adored her, say if you were watching Shinsou and Eri play it was Eri who would call you over and ask you to play with them. Aizawa on the other hand was always kind and formal with you sometimes even bringing takeaway for you, but whenever he was over you couldn't help but just look at his biceps the way they would bulge out from his shirt when he folded his arms, the way his hands would be disturbed with veins when his grip would tighten even in the slightest, and maybe.... Just maybe, you tried to catch his attention by wearing really short shorts or a tshirt that hug your body just at the right places.

But alas it was only you who kept drooling over him....

or that's what you thought...

You were seemingly unaware the amount of self control Aizawa had to practice just not to fuck you dumb on his cock.

It had been three months since you started working for him and you still found your gaze lingering on him for too long, initially it was at his face, then down to his broad shoulders, and then his chest, then it was further down to his hands and finally it was on his......

"Are you sad cuz papa isn't home today?" You hear the innocent voice of Shinsou behind you having counted your sighs since you woke up, which was according to him, around 32.

"No, no of course not Shinsou.. I am totally fine, just a bit tired" You lied, obviously you would. Why would you admit to finding Shinsou's father hot. Other than the fact that you want him to ruin you till you can't form any thoughts. And you definitely were sad that Aizawa was working till 9 pm that too on a Sunday.

Shinsou mumbles an "Okay..." walking away to colour his book that he had been previously doing before being worried about you. A few minutes after he had approached you, your face suddenly lit up as you realised that Shinsou was worried about you, you rushed up to him from the kitchen counter to the living room abruptly sitting down in front of him

"Are you worried about me Shinsou?" You ask excitedly your smile radiant. Shinsou earlier looking up at you looks away from embarrassment not replying, his ears turni red and you just couldn't help the aww that left your lips.

"Awww you're so cute!!" You squeal and your hand automatically goes to ruffle his hair and he doesn't pull away not this time and you realise that he has gotten comfortable with you, at that moment the door clicks open as Aizawa enters the house and peeks into the living room to see what the commotion was about.

"Papa!!!!" Eri squeals noticing her dad in the hallway as she runs up to him and Aizawa picks her up his voice gentle and soothing "Hey my love" He says kissing her on the cheek as she giggles from his stubble pricking her soft skin.

"Sup kiddo" Aizawa comes near you and Shinsou with Eri in his arms.

"Hello.." Shinsou greets him quietly as Aizawa bends down to ruffle his hair.

"All good?" Aizawa asks him and Shinsou nods as he goes back to colouring his book, Aizawa finally looks at you making your heart almost leap out as he gave you a small smirk "You seem happy, what's up?" He asks with a small groan as he puts Eri on the floor and she runs off playing "Shinsou let me ruffle his hair and he was worried about me!!" You reply excitedly your wide smile bringing a low chuckle from him.

"Oh yeah? What exactly were you worried about Shin?" Aizawa questions sitting down to look at what his son is colouring.

"(Name)-san was sad that you were working this late" Shinsou replies nonchalantly and you swear your eyes hadnt widened this much in your life, you feel the heat rush to your cheeks and Aizawa's eyebrows raise as he gives you a quick side glance before looking at Shinsou, he is about to say something when you interject denying strongly. "Shinsou!! I told you I was tired!! Thats not the case!!"

"Or, tired they say" He adds briefly, Aizawa doesn't even get the chance to say anything as you immediately get up picking up Eri and Shinsou taking them to their individual rooms ignoring any protests of Shinsou claiming how he was a big boy and he could stay up late, you argue with Shinsou for atleast half an hour before he finally agrees to sleep even though he was angry at you.

You head downstairs sighing and praying that Aizawa didn't pay much heed to whatever Shinsou said before as you head towards the living room to pick up the scattered toys and crayons only to be met with the sight of Aizawa sitting on the couch and while normally he isn't intimidating the way he sat with eyes closed, arms folded his right leg over his left reminded you of your father and his strict nature slightly intimidating you, quietly you pick up the toys glad that he fell asleep; as you picked the last of the toys you heard Aizawa's voice boom through making you freeze in your tracks "Still upset that I had work today?" You dont reply for a long time not trusting yourself to speak but when you do your voice is slightly shaky "No... No not at all.. why would I be.. you know Shinsou he just says whatever he wants..."

"Oh yeah? Does he?"

"........ okay well not ... Not exactly....."

You mumbel turning around to face Aizawa only to find him standing infront of you as looking down at your compared to his smaller form.

"Well then, answer my question."

You look away nervously chewing on your bottom lip, coating them pink with saliva, Aizawa tries to resist the urge to kiss you but fails as he grabs your face roughly pulling it closer to his, smashing his lips with yours. The kiss is sloppy and desperate and you can sense the sexual tension between you melting away.

You both pull free from the kiss, the room filled with pants, yours being much louder than his, taking in huge gulps of air.

You feel Aizawas arms wrap around your waist pulling you closer towards him.

"My room or the couch?" He whispers in your right ear his voice sending shivers along your spine.

It had been an hour since Aizawa had been prepping you after finding out you were a virgin, where once it burned to even have a single finger of his inside you, now you could easily 4 of his fingers at once.

Yet, tears spilled from your eyes when Aizawa pushes his dick (just the tip) inside you as Aizawa kisses away you tears with soft coo's of 'just a bit more' 'you're doing so good baby' 'it's just a few more minutes yeah, we will start to feel good real soon' rubbing soothing circles in your back as you sink your face into his shoulder blades, his intoxicating cologne filling your nostrils; finally after what felt like an eternity your hole sits down on his his dick as he gradually thrusts into you making you whimper and groan.

"So fucking good for me.. shit... Ugh... Fuck so tight, so fucking compliant.... Shit baby .. you feel so good"

You hear him praise you but you're barely able to register even a single word due to your muddled state of mind, your whines get louder, his thrusts getting more faster and rapid now. He hits a particularly sweet spot as you rise your head to scream at the pleasure coursing through your body "That's the spot is it." Aizawa grunts angling his hips to hit that spot, chortling at your desperate and meek attempt to push him away.

"Cum... Sh...shit... Gonna cum... Fuck..."

"Yeah? Gonna come for me? Gonna come from this cock fucking you stupid?"

You nod your head frantically chanting a mantra of 'so good's', orgasm coursing through your body, your body trembling from the aftermath of your orgasm as you lay limp against his chest.

After what feels like a few minutes you feel Aizawa thrust into you making you whine from the overstimulation

"Cant... No... No please... Hurts..."

You try to push him away only for him grab your wrists with his hand behind your back as he increases the pace of his thrusts

"I am yet to come baby, just a few more rounds 'kay?"

#x reader #male reader #female reader #bottom male reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader #aizawa shouta #bnha x reader #aizawa x you #aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #aizawa x male reader #aizawa X female reader #smut #bnha smut #fanfic

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moonlitchimes · 28 days ago

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Today - Ronin x G.N Chronically Ill Reader

First time writing for this fandom as well as fanfiction itself in over a decade so please excuse any grammatical errors, oocness, etc dhsdhh. Might come back to revise it later, hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!

Reader has an unspecified chronic illness and is experiencing flare-up symptoms in this, I tried to be as vague as possible to leave their diagnosis up to interpretation.

word count | 1133 no warnings for this one <3

Today you wake up cold.

Which is, by all accounts, a bit odd. Soft sunlight filters through the curtains, sleepily draping over your form and that of the strong frame curled around you. You should feel warm, but you don’t. Instead, it feels as if you’re standing outside in a winter storm—drenched in icy rain—and not wrapped in the arms of your furnace of a boyfriend. You drift for a while, taking a minute—or perhaps several—to bask in the rare calm that has settled as the sun begins its slow crawl over the horizon.

However, the biting chill festering in your bones only becomes harder and harder to ignore. And as consciousness eventually creeps upon you once more, you become aware of a dull ache in the small of your back.

That’s where it begins, anyway—it always does—before slinking its way up your spine and stretching itself languidly across your shoulders like an overzealous cat. It takes its time digging its claws into your skin, sharpening the ache into a searing that tears into your veins and blights your blood until all your body knows is pain and nothing else.

You screw your eyes shut, doing your best to ground yourself: rough hands curled firm but careful around your waist, warm breath puffing against the crook of your neck, soft hair tickling your cheek. Some days, the easy repetition is enough to help you focus—to function with the pain. To ignore it—as much as it can be ignored—until you can stumble into some form of normalcy.

Today is not one of those days.

The torment that has been simmering throughout your body finally comes to a boil. A pitched keen escapes from your parted lips before you can stop it, and you stiffen as you feel Ronin stir from behind—no doubt roused by the sounds of your suffering. You bite down so hard on your lip to trap any more whines that you taste the sharp tang of copper on your tongue, another wave of agony wracking your hunched form. Wordlessly, you pray to whatever higher being that may be listening that he settles.

No such luck.

“Darlin’,” mumbled against your shoulder, still rough with sleep. “Way too early t’be up an’ about, y’know.”

His words are met with tense silence, the only sign of acknowledgment from you being a slight twitch in your taut frame.

Ronin’s brows draw together, the teasing edge fading—if only slightly—into cautious concern. “Baby?” he tries again, more alert this time. “Look at me.” Firm—not a request, no matter how undemanding it sounds.

You’re terse when you finally gather the strength to choke out a response. “It’s nothing, Ro.” A beat—your tone shifts into something more casual, an attempt at nonchalance. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s something, darlin’.” He’s always been able to see right through you. He exhales softly, shifting until he’s propped up on his elbows before repeating, “Look at me.”

When you finally face Ronin and see his dark, knowing eyes—always so perceptive, always seeming to know you better than you even know yourself—you’re unable to hold it in any longer. Your facade crumbles like withered bone, pain etched clearly across your face.

Whatever composure you had been feigning, you are still only human—still unable to ignore your own suffering, no matter how hard you try.

It felt ridiculous, in a way.

All these years, you had walked this same road alone, time and time again. Never had you had someone to lean on; never had anyone—beyond some choice doctors—bothered to truly concern themselves with your condition. You had long since grown used to this—to saving yourself.

The support of another had always been something foreign to you—a nice dream, but still a dream all the same. Back then, it hadn’t mattered that no one cared for you (but you had wanted it—god, how you had wanted it). You had come this far on your own, so why bother changing that now? Today you will smile—biting your tongue. You will grit your teeth and bear through the pain. There is no need to cry like some sort of child, to weep about how badly it hurts. You can get through this on your own.

Alone. Always alone—

You’re shaken from your thoughts by a sudden brush against your cheek, eyes snapping open to meet dark ones—like a void, like oblivion.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs, catching a stray tear on his thumb from where it rests against your cheek—and oh, when did you start crying?—”So get out of that head of yours, ‘fore it swallows you whole.”

He didn’t wait for you to answer, leaning back with all the self-assurance of a predator, his eyes as sharp as blades. “Shoulda woken me,” he drawls—low and smooth as sin—as he watches you. “You don’t gotta suffer in silence like some damn martyr, not with me.”

He doesn’t touch you—not wanting to cause you any more pain—but he stays close, waiting with all the patience of a darker saint.

Something in you comes loose at the sight, your breath shuddering as you acquiesce, “I’m sorry—” But he doesn’t let you finish, huffing in fond exasperation as he inclines his head. “Not wantin’ an apology, darlin’, just let me take care of ya.”

Because that’s what he always does, isn't it?

Ronin—who, despite all his threats and talk, had seen you, a no-name writer in need of inspiration, and become your muse.

Ronin—who had placed a knife into your hands, lips against your ear, who had given you a choice of how you wanted your shared story to end.

Ronin—who had kissed you in a blood-soaked alleyway with a wolfish smile, like he had known what you would choose all along.

Ronin—who had barged into your life with a wild grin and bloodstained teeth—planted himself firmly by your side and refused to leave, like he belonged there. Like you belonged to him.

(He did, you did.)

Ronin—who knows you better than anyone else, who has slasher movie marathons with you just to have an excuse to hold you close, who stayed up all night researching your condition when he found out just so he could take better care of you.

Ronin who loves you.

“You don’t have to.”

“Wasn’t askin’ for permission, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now—not quite soft, because what part of Ronin is?—but gentle. Warm, despite the teasing edge. “‘Sides, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

For once, you don’t meet his banter with your own.

“I love you, Ro.”

A pause—his eyes soften. A small breath. His voice dips into something more genuine, more real. “Yeah. I love you too, darlin’.”

Tomorrow, you hope to wake up warm. But if you don’t, Ronin will be there.

And maybe that’s enough.

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #killer chat x reader #ronin x reader #kc ronin #kc ronin x reader #ill cross-post this to ao3 later #once my new account gets approved dhsdhs #my writing #not used to writing ronin so hopefully its not horribly ooc #ill improve as i go haha

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kyufessions · 2 years ago

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koala

synopsis: you help your boyfriend take his makeup up off after work

pairings: idol, boyfriend! chenle x g.n. reader

genre: domestic, fluff

word count: 1.0k

a/n: got this idea from the recent weverse live. sigh.

general taglist: @jwnghyuns @eaudenana @soobin-chois

the creaking of the front door didn’t alarm you, knowing it was your boyfriend after a long day of promotions. you knew he had been on his way, you just didn’t know he’d be here so soon. on your face sat an animal themed face mask and on your feet a foiled foot mask, with only five minutes left for each as a horror film played on the television. as the footsteps approached closer, your eyes stared out to the door frame and stared at the groggy man with a full face of makeup and tired eyes that widened at your state.

his lips upturned at sight in front of him, the smile weak but facial expression entertained. tossing his bag to the designated corner, he drags his feet into the bathroom and grabs some makeup cleaner, a washcloth, and plops down next to you. you just stare at him, a small grin on your lips. “you look cute.” he says as he looks up to you, moving his body so his head is laying in your lap. “is that a panda?”

nodding, you place a quick peck to his lips. “you look tired, baby. how was work?” you lean over to start taking the foil masks off your feet, rubbing to excess into them and tossing the masks into the trash bin next to the nightstand as chenle tells you about his day. when you turn your head, you notice him holding the cleansing balm and washcloth out towards you. tilting your head for the dramatics with a smile, you look between him and the items. “what’s this for?”

“can you wash off my makeup for me, please?” an exaggerated pout makes way onto his face, earning a small chuckle from you. soft moments like this with chenle happened every so often. your relationship was very playful and fun, the soft moments came and went but the love was always there and never questioned. but whenever either of you were ever this vulnerable with one another you never batted an eye, just went along with it.

opening up the banila cleansing balm, you take out the scrapper and start putting small amounts of it throughout his face. his eyes flutter shut, enjoying this small moment between you two. the sound of the terrifier 2 plays in the background, the vulgar noises going through one ear and out the other. you focus on making sure you get each part of his face but avoiding his eyes so as to not irritate them, watching all the colors mix together on his face as they melt into an oil mixture. wetting the wash cloth with your water bottle, you bring it to his face and start washing off the oil and making sure there’s no excess.

as you begin to wash off the oil, chenle’s eyes open back up to watch the process. his eyes watch you focus with your bottom lip out in a pout, eyes slightly squinted as you make sure to get every inch and not stain the new pillow cases you just bought last week. once you announce you’re finished, he slides off the bed lazily and tosses his clothes into the hamper. as he does so, you finally take off your face mask and throw it into the trash bin and soak the rest of it into your skin. as you tossed the mask into the garbage, you felt chenle wrap his arms around your waist and lay his head back in your lap.

when you looked down at him all he wore was his boxers and a basketball tee, his eyes still tired but grin still exuding happiness. you automatically wrap your arms around him, confused but allowing it to happen. “what’s gotten into you tonight?” you tease, causing him to look up at you.

“谢谢.” was all he said, his grin turning into a tired smile before placing a kiss to your thigh.

“i’m your partner, you don’t need to thank me.” you reply, placing your lips on his quickly before pulling him into his spot on the bed next to you.

he allows you to do so, secretly enjoying it anyway. the movie is long forgotten at this point but you don’t forget to make a mental note to rewatch it tomorrow when you have the time. you move the blanket so it’s on top of both of you and your boyfriend and allow him to cuddle up next to you, your arm wrapping around him and hand landing in his hair to play with his now messy strands.

“rough day?” you asked as he played with your shirt, his head on your chest and his breathing becoming slower. you can tell he could fall asleep any second now, but you always wanted to make sure he got everything off his chest he needed to so he didn’t sleep with anything heavy on his mind.

he moved his head up and down as if in a nodding motion. “yeah, just a lot of dance practices and interviews.” he lets out a deep sigh against your skin, causing a shiver to run up your spine as the ending credits roll from the end of the film. his one leg intertwines with yours, wanting to become even closer as he continues on about his day. “i finally have a day off tomorrow though, so that’s good.”

humming in agreement, you look down at him and press a small kiss to the top of his head. “about time.” you sink your body further down into the mattress, feeling your eyes getting heavy as well. as you reach over and turn off the nightstand light, you continue with your sentence. “my little koala has been working hard lately.”

although exhausted, chenle’s head shoots up and his eyes shoots daggers at you. his nose scrunches in disgust, hating the stupid nickname. “i hated that so much.” he pecks your lips before resting his head on your chest again, cuddling back into your warmth. “you’re lucky i love you.”

you roll your eyes, adjusting yourself in a position to get comfortable for bed. “yeah yeah, you love my stupid nicknames.” you feel him tap your side with his thumb two times, signaling something. “what?”

“you didn’t say it back.”

“chenle. you know i love you too.”

“just say it back, please. so i can go to bed.”

“i love you too.”

“good.”

even when half asleep he’s extremely stubborn.

#kyufessions nct #nct dream #nct #nct chenle #nct dream chenle #chenle fluff #chenle #zhong chenle #chenle x reader #nct imagines #nct x reader

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fluffiematcha · 9 days ago

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EYES LIKE JEWELS [drabble]

“jewel-like eyes, love like a galaxy”

yoon jeonghan × afab* reader | fluff , est. relationship , slice of life | warnings: my english is rusty

* i say afab but can be read as g.n reader

“Look, aren't the stars beautiful?” eyes gazing up at the starry sky, you admire with wonder the work of Mother Nature.

“Uh-huh,” Jeonghan nods absent-mindedly, his gaze fixed on something else.

He thanked his mind for deciding to get out of bed and suggested a night walk, even though his body wanted to slumber until tomorrow morning the moment he touched the bedsheets.

The look of adoration, of pure enchantment in your eyes is something worth sacrificing a few hours of rest for, he decides.

He feels warm and serene deep inside, reassured that you have managed to keep your pure side in this world that never has a minute to breathe.

You suddenly can't sit still, jumping up and down excitedly. “Look look, a shooting star! Did you see it?!” you exclaim joyfully, turning your gaze towards Jeonghan while pointing to the direction the star took.

He hums the same way he did earlier. You look at him impassively before letting out a chuckle of amusement at his reaction, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he was caught red-handed.

“You don't even look at the sky!” You playfully hit his shoulder, letting out a laugh. Jeonghan simply smiles at the melodious sound of your laughter and lets out a contented sigh.

You avert your gaze at the sky once more, this time a happy smile dancing on your lips. “Thanks for taking me out. I think I really needed it.”

His brain just short-circuited. ‘Thank you God and all the deities on earth and heaven for giving me this idea.’ he thinks to himself.

Fingers intertwined with yours, he continues his contemplation of your features. And that's when he notices that your eyes...

Your eyes reflect the twinkling of the stars.

In your eyes, he sees a whole veil of stars. In your eyes, he sees the lights of the night. In your eyes, he sees a form of Nature's jewels.

Slowly, gently, without knowing how to stop, his hands come to cup your face. He turns your face towards him, meeting his gaze. “What is it?” you ask, curious about his sudden gesture. Your hands come to envelop his, gently squeezing them.

Jeonghan presses his forehead against yours, gazing into your eyes. He realizes that even though the stars no longer illuminate your gaze, your eyes keep this light in them.

This warm, cozy glow of love. This love that warms his heart with every smile, every laugh, every little gesture from you. “Your eyes shine brighter than the stars,” he says, not at all embarrassed that he's just said one of those corny tv lines.

Because that's what he really thinks. That's what's filling his mind right now.

You look at him, flabbergasted. “What was that for?!” you exclaim after a moment of silence. Your ears feel hot, almost as if they're boiling. Your face feels hot too. You tighten your grip on his hands a little more.

Jeonghan lets out a breathless chuckle. “You're adorable.” he coos, rubbing his nose against yours.

“I love you.” the confession suddenly comed, whispered in a low, honeyed voice. His voice is so tender that you want to look away. But you can't. Because you are just as imprisoned by his charm as he is with you.

So instead, you smile at him tenderly, nuzzling in his touch as you say “I love you too” to Jeonghan, the man who holds your heart in the palm of his hand.

“jewel-like eyes, love like a galaxy”

✎ a.n. hi hi! it's been a while since the last time i wrote something. again, i don't know what to think about this, i just wanted to get it out of my head.

for those who reached the end, thank you so much for reading ✿

#𖹭 . fluffiematcha #seventeen #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #jeonghan fluff #svt #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan #yoon jeonghan

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vandme12 · 3 months ago

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SPREAD HIS ROT - Ronin x G.N Reader

This is my first one-shot for Killer Chat! I'm so excited to finally take part in the event hosted on the official Discord server. I can't wait to share to write more for this awesome fandom!

PROMPT : SPREAD THE ROT

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

You are a journalist. A "Criminal Journalist." That's what they call you. You have to photograph every crime scene, chase every siren, dig your nails into every open wound of the city. And you hate it.

It's not the blood that really gets to you. It isn't the bodies, the way they slump against pavement like so many discarded mannequins. It's not even the smell—the acrid mix of gasoline, iron, and whatever someone had for dinner before he was reduced to a chalk outline. No. What you dislike is the paycheck. Because the paycheck is always inadequate.

$35 a shot. $50 if there's a face, a really good face—one that makes the morning readers spit out their coffee. If you catch the moment of grief, the mother screaming, the tears cutting through streetlight shadows, you might get $75. Big money. If it's a cop, even better. A dead officer brings in at least $100.

But rent is due in two days, and your pockets are filled with nothing but lint and cigarette butts. So you’re out here again, wedged between alleyways and car wrecks, chasing something worth it. Because it’s never enough.

Tonight's scene is run-of-the-mill. Liquor store, busted register, a guy with more holes in him than a bad alibi. You take the shots-angle the camera, let the lens tell the story. You could do this in your sleep. You have done this in your sleep.

The cops barely acknowledge you anymore. One of them, a rookie, side-eyes you with disgust. You ignore it. You don't care.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Because truth is, you do care. Not about him. Not about them. Not even about the dead guy cooling on the linoleum like a forgotten steak. What you care about is the fact that this? This isn't enough.

There was a time when it was. When sneaking under crime scene tape gave you a rush, when a good shot meant something. But now? Now it's just scraps. And you're tired of scraps.

You want more.

More than the measly checks. More than the dead-end calls from the editor. More than the half-hearted bylines that no one reads.

You want a story. A real one. A big one.

The kind that would make your name stick in people's throats like a hard pill. The kind that would make the networks pay attention. The kind that would make the money pour in.

So you begin to watch. Really watch. Not just the crime scenes, but before and after. Who shows up first? Who leaves last? Who lingers too long? Who pretends not to care? You learn the rhythms of the city's violence. You start predicting it.

It was getting late at night when you came across the scene. A body, twisted in ways that only seasoned detectives can cringe upon. The kind of thing which you would only have heard from the darkest corners of the internet but never thought to see middle suburban streets, thick with the stench of decay, the crimson rivers trailing out from beneath the body like a gruesome map marking the end of a life.

But it wasn’t just the blood or the brokenness of the body that grabbed your attention. It was the artistry.

The killer didn’t just murder this man—they played with him. The victim was arranged like a grotesque puppet, limbs contorted in unnatural positions, eyes wide and glassy, staring into the abyss of whatever hell the Butcher had dragged him from. Whoever had done this didn’t care about the man’s life. No, they cared about the display—the theatrics of death. You could see it in the way the body was laid out like a performer on a stage.

You stood there, looking at it, your breathing steady, heart detached. You were a member of this world, after all—an observer, an architect of stories. This was not meant to touch the horror in which others would splinter. It was just for what it is: an opportunity. An image.

Pulling your camera from your bag, you took the shot. Your hands had moved with a precision, the lens snapping the exact right angle, the perfect composition. The angle of the body, the pools of blood, the quiet devastation of a life snuffed out. And then, once you had it—that shot—you made the call.

The police were on their way, but you were already deep in the game. You'd sold your soul to this grind long ago, and when opportunity knocked, you answered.

It didn't take long for the scene to make headlines. It was gruesome, shocking, a real masterpiece of death. The caption screamed across every paper, every screen:

"Yet Another Killing from the Butcher: 600th Victim"

You felt that familiar rush, the adrenaline of knowing you'd made it. This wasn't just another shot for a local rag. This was the kind of image that would get you noticed. You hadn't just captured death; you've captured the moment. And it worked. The media ate it up.

But what happened next was even more unexpected.

A week later, your phone rang. It was a blocked number. The kind of call you usually ignored. But for some reason, you picked up.

"Is this the photographer from the Butcher's 600th kill?" The voice was low, professional.

"Yes," you answered, keeping your tone neutral, businesslike. It was all just another part of the game.

"We need someone to help us with the investigation," the voice continued, "and we think you're a good fit. You're good with cameras, and we think you might be good with… us."

There was a pause before the voice added, "You've got the knack for catching things, the kind of things we can't. We want you on our team."

You raised an eyebrow. Not what you had envisioned. "I have no interest in the investigation," she said. "I just take photographs."

"We're aware of that," the voice said, dripping with an amused understanding. "But we need your eye for detail. And we'll make it worth your while. We're paying double what you'd normally get, plus a few bonuses for the really interesting shots. We think you can help us get closer to the Butcher. What do you say?"

It was a tempting offer—extra cash, exposure, a chance to build something more than just another gig as a photographer. This wasn't the typical work for a freelance camera guy. And the extra bucks would help, sure. A name in the papers.

You agreed, naturally. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about what came with it. The access. The stories. The people who came with the cases. The murderers. The killers.

You were with the investigation team for weeks. They knew you were neutral, that you didn't care about their moral compass. Neither about the good guys nor about the bad guys. You cared only about the shot. Death, arrest, or slip-up—whichever it was. You were there for the story, for the image.

Now you became the lifeline of that team. Those photographs were not only for public display anymore but were also becoming tactical. You assisted them trace the pattern of the Butcher, picked details they had not seen—details so small and yet so large in their visibility. Your pictures were now an integral part of their strategy. The more they used you, the more they dragged you into their web, and the more you liked it.

The cases became personal. but for them. You'd see the tension in their eyes when they looked at the new photos. They were obsessed with stopping the Butcher, but you were obsessed with capturing his chaos, his carnage.

By the 30th victim, it all began to feel less of a job and more of a sick, almost morbid routine. You were no longer just recording the murders. You were investigating them, peeling away the layers of butchered bodies and their stories. With the body count of the Butcher rising, a disturbing pattern of these killings was beginning to appear. These weren't some random murders, but they had a purpose.

Most of the victims, in retrospect, were not so good people. I mean, at least in any conventional or traditional sense. There were abusers, predators, men who had been arrested multiple times for things that make your skin crawl. You found a pattern in their criminal records—domestic violence, assault, even worse crimes. These were men who lived off the pain of others and hurt those weaker than them, and somehow—somehow—they got drawn to the Butcher.

You started connecting the dots. The men, the pattern of their crimes, that they were easy to find—and almost as if they were looking for him. It didn't take long for you to conclude: the Butcher wasn't killing for fun. No, he had a method. A twisted logic. He had a reason. And that reason, as it appeared, was much more complicated than people had assumed: that most of his victims weren't exactly innocent. They were guilty of hurting other people, usually ways in which society either wasn't enabled to punish or chose not to. The more you looked into the pasts of his victims, the more you would find yourself wondering if maybe—even by default—he had a point. You certainly weren't condoning his actions. Murder was never the solution. But you could see why he picked these men. You could almost understand the reasoning behind it.

The Butcher wasn't an idiot killer, not really. He had his reasons—no matter how twisted, no matter how broken—and they made a sick kind of sense. But it wasn't enough to elevate him. You couldn't make a hero out of a man who solved problems with blood and violence. Normal people didn't solve their problems that way. But you couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of. appeal in the chaos he created. He was a force. A force that made people feel something—whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely. And that? That was powerful.

But there was more to it than just that. You could not ignore the sense that crept into your mind in the past few weeks.

Love.

You abhorred the word, but there it was. It was subtle at first, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind whenever you studied his work. You saw it, the way his killings made people care, made them look, made them pay attention. Now you were no longer just following the trail. You were investigating, learning, feeling. Now this was no game for you. No, it was personal. You found yourself almost rooting for the man even as you tried to keep your distance.

But there was more. The photos. The shots you'd taken—each one was feeding your reputation, making you a name, a force in the media, the same way the Butcher was in the criminal world. You had a strange feeling that, without his kills, you would have remained just another nameless photographer. But with him? With him, you had power.

And that was dangerous.

You started to feel like you owed him. It was twisted, perverse, but he was feeding you—feeding your career, feeding your hunger for success, feeding your need to be noticed. Every photo you snapped, every shot that landed in the paper, was part of his story. Your story was his. And maybe, just maybe, that was what you needed. Maybe you were as broken as he was. Maybe you both thrived in this world of rot, feeding off each other, pushing each other into darker, more dangerous corners.

You were obsessed. But the truth was, he was feeding your obsession.

The rot seeps in slowly, unnoticed at first, like a shadow on the edge of your vision, a whisper on the edge of your thoughts. It crawls through your mind, curling into the crevices where your ambition used to live, until it finds the darkness you never knew was there.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing—just a job, just another image captured for the cameras, another headline. But the truth tastes different when it settles on your tongue. It tastes like blood. It tastes like him.

The rot begins as a question, a fleeting thought: Why does it make you feel so. alive?

It isn't the death which attracts you; no, but it's about the purpose itself, the maddening madness through each slash he gives with that knife. Beautified carnages, art made from destruction lies before you – victims twisted in ways that go beyond broken human shapes, more like pieces falling into place because they were so meant to. It's because they were set there for just this sickened, twisted waltz orchestration.

You try to deny it. You try to look away, but the rot follows, creeping through the veins of your heart. It sinks into the muscle, spreading through the blood, until your pulse beats to the rhythm of his kills. You feel it in your chest, the cold gnawing hunger for what he creates. You tell yourself it's just the shot, just the fame, just the game. But you feel it. The thirst. The craving.

Why are you so attracted to him?

Why do you let his rot grow inside you? Like a seed planted deep, so far inside you can't tell where the darkness ends and where you begin.

The brain is a fragile thing, after all. And yours, for all its intelligence, is no match for the poison he's planted in it. The more you photograph, the more you study his art, the more it feeds you. And you've become so hungry for it, you can taste the rot creeping deeper, gnawing at your mind. Each photograph is a poison in itself, a drop of venom that sinks deeper into your veins until your body shakes with the need to capture more.

He's just not a murderer anymore. Now he is a lot more, a lot, much more to you. The muse, that obsession of art you can never look away from. And he scares you—as if one photograph more, study one body part more, can make you irrevocably lose yourself at his hands forever.

It's in your bones now, the rot and the need; the darkness will creep up like something living around your ribs where you can't catch a decent breath of the air in them. You find yourself trying again, but somehow it's almost impossible to keep going; maybe the air becomes so thick from the weight around your ribs: the weight chokes. So, it stays inside your soul.

You remind yourself that you're better than this, that you can walk away. But you can't. You just can't escape what is inside you now.

His kill, his art—it feeds you. It gives you a name, a place. It makes you someone. The world sees you for your pictures, your work. But underneath it all, you know—it's him. He is feeding you. His blood, his violence, his chaos, it's in you now. You've inhaled it, drunk it down, and it has lodged itself in the core of who you are. And you can't deny it anymore.

Why so addicted to him?

You're the thing you once feared becoming: consumed by the rot, driven by a need to capture it, witness it, and be near it. You once thought he was the villain. But now? Now you think maybe you always were the villain in your story. Maybe you were always wanting this darkness.

Maybe it’s you who’s been rotting all along.

You have to go now- To see if the butcher gifted you with another body.

The alley is deathly silent as you step into it. A hollow sense of dread crawls down your spine, a cold sweat forming on your brow. This place, this alley—it's where most of the Butcher's victims are found. His 633rd victim, right here. You hold your breath, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. And then-there's a sound. A soft, muffled sobbing. It breaks the silence, raw and full of terror. But then, impossibly, it's joined by something else. A laugh. Low, guttural, dripping with amusement. Your body freezes. That laugh. You know it now, deep in your bones. It's him.

The Butcher.

You've seen his work. You've followed his trail. But hearing him laugh, hearing that sound come from the shadows, makes everything real in a way you weren't prepared for. You creep forward, silent as a ghost, looking around the corner. There, in the dim light, stands a figure. The air seems to curve around him, suffused with something darker, something wrong. His presence is overwhelming—like the world itself is holding its breath. He's tall—too tall, standing just over six feet. His presence radiates chaos, a perverse kind of power that almost makes the air feel heavier. His dark burgundy hair falls messily under a black beanie, a devilish set of horns jutting out above it. The horns are almost laughable in their mockery of the devil himself, and yet—they're not. His leather jacket shines black in the sparse alley light. That's the kind of leather that crackles with menace, like it's soaked up too many sins. Scissors protrude out of the top, jagged and sharp, And the red 'X' pin on his chest—an enigma that's as much a part of his identity as the scars he's surely accumulated over the years. Safety pins dangle, like a string of symbols no one can fully decipher. His shirt underneath, emblazoned with a skull, a death's head reminder of the man standing in front of you. And his eyes—those eyes. Black as pitch. They pierce the shadows, and you feel like he sees you, even though you're still hidden. Those eyes are endless, voids pulling you into them. He plays with the man on his knees, a feeble, shaking figure caught in his hands. The victim's face is white, eyes open wide with terror. His voice is pleading, begging, but it's of no use. The man laughs, low and cruel, a laugh that freezes the soul. "Why didn't ya just do the world a favor? huh?" His voice drips with mockery, the words drawn out with a slow, deliberate menace. "So many. opportunities. *so many* chances for you to not mess up, to get away. But here you are, crying like a little shit." The laugh that follows is like a death knell. The man steps forward, and the air crackles with tension, under the palemoonlight, his crowbar glinting as if made of steel with the shimmer of an extension of his dark soul. The victim trembles; he knows—the feels—that the end is near. You're still frozen in place, hidden in the shadows, unable to tear your eyes away. And now you know that connection is undeniable.

This is him.

The Butcher.

The Devil.

His personality so well-crafted that even now, even standing in the midst of carnage, he is acting. Every movement, every word he says is part of the act. He is *playing*—but you can't tell if he's playing with the victim or with you. And then, as if he feels your presence, his head tilts slightly, those black eyes narrowing as they sweep the darkness, seeking. You inhale sharply, heart hammering in your chest. You’ve been caught. But what is it? Is it fear? Or is it something else? That glint of curiosity, that subtle tug in your chest—you’re fascinated. Not just by the violence, but by him. This man, this monster. He isn’t just killing for the sake of it. No, there’s something else there. Something almost. personal. And you’re afraid. Not of him, not yet—but of yourself. How did that happen? What drew you into him? When you're there documenting horror and madness, is it then where you become mired in this same mess you are recording and stuck on this thread of madness? You can feel it now-the pull, the addiction. The way the rot spreads in your chest, creeping into your heart. It's not enough to just watch anymore. You're part of it now. And you wonder,

is it too late to stop? He turns away, the Butcher, his steps measured, casual. He does not even look back; he leaves behind a dying man, like a discarded rag, casualty of his twisted performance. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, carried off by darkness, leaving behind only the groaning man on the ground. You are frozen, frozen in place, as the man on the ground starts to move, slowly, weakly, lifting himself on his quivering arms. He speaks and his words are just a jumble of incoherent mumbo-jumbo, blurred with blood and agony. "Help me." he whispers, barely above a whisper, a plea barely reaching your ears. But you hear it. You hear it like a siren's call. He needs help. He's begging for it, his face twisted in agony, still so sweet even in his bloodied state. A part of you wants to be disgusted by it, wants to feel the horror of the moment, but the truth is—you don't feel anything anymore. The part of you that was human, that was once connected to sympathy, to empathy—it's gone. And the worst part? You don't care. Your eyes lock with his, dead, empty. And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because here he is, pleading for help, for mercy, with all his innocence shattered, and yet—he doesn't even know how little he matters to you. He doesn't realize how close to death he is. Your eyes slide down to the ground, to a small rock. It's nothing. A simple thing. Lying in the dirt. But it is all you need. You do not even hesitate. You take it, holding it in your hand, the weight of it, cold, solid, filling the hollow place inside you. You approach him, the blood-soaked man who still thinks he can beg for his life. So sweet. So innocent. So stupid. He looks at you approaching, his eyes widening in a mix of hope and confusion. "Please. help me." he manages to croak, reaching out a shaking hand toward you. And it's almost laughable. He thinks you're here to save him. But you aren't. Not anymore. You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s not a smile of sympathy or warmth. It’s a smile that says, "You shouldn’t have asked for help." You place the rock on his chest, pressing down, the pressure against the bloodied skin making him gasp in surprise. His weak attempts to push you away are futile, and with a twisted satisfaction, you press harder, forcing the rock into his ribs, into his lungs. The sound of his breath faltering, the desperation in his eyes—it only excites you more. You hit him once. Then twice. And again, until his cries for mercy dissolve into nothing. Until the last breath escapes him, and he slumps into silence. You don't feel that rush of adrenaline you thought you would. There's just. peace. A stillness that settles over you like a blanket. The world becomes quieter, emptier, and you realize—you've crossed a line now. You've killed, just like him. Just like the Butcher. But it doesn't matter. You never wanted to stop. The man's body lies motionless at your feet. You look down at him, expressionless, but a hint of satisfaction. You don't want him to crawl to the police. You don't want anyone to expose the Butcher. Because now, in a way, you are part of it. You're tangled in his web, drowning in it. You move away from the body, as if savoring the movement. Your movements are slow, deliberate. No racing heart, no fear or guilt.

The world slants, as if shifting ever so slightly, in your acquisition of him. One photograph at a time. Early on, you had harbored the briefest of reservations. But these fade away in the shadow of your obsession. The photographs are no longer about bringing the truth to light, about illuminating his murders. They are your collection now. His murders become a series of images, each one a little closer, a little more intimate, a little more personal. Each picture captures more than death in it; he is an artist, and you are just an unspoken observer, a notary of his sick masterpiece.

Each time you click the button, it feels like you have locked a little bit of him into your life. The photos fill your bedroom, heaps of them, thumbtacked onto the walls, strewn around the floor, a museum of decay and gore. The images are not murders; they're art. You look at them with a twisted, sick smile-one that feels like it's becoming your permanent expression. There's something exquisite about it, about the way the bodies lay, the way he moves through the scene, like an angel of death in black.

You've stopped photographing the victims in their final moments. That's his work. His art. You photograph the aftermath, the rotting remains, the decay, the beauty of it all—the perfect, graceful disintegration. Each mangled limb, every blood-streaked face, every violent distortion of life. it's beautiful in its chaos. The beauty of rot. It's the most honest thing you've ever seen.

You smile as you take another photo. How blind you were, you think, to believe you could reveal him. He was no beast. No, no. He was the Devil. The only thing to be worshipped. The way he carves through the world, killing with such grace, with such purpose—it mesmerizes you. How could you not have fallen for him? How could you resist the call of someone who truly understands the art of destruction, the art of chaos?

And yet, you never think about the implications. Never think about the danger, about how close you are to the edge. A part of you knows the truth—you're playing with fire. A serial killer. He might kill you if he finds out you're watching him, photographing him, collecting him. But that thought doesn't scare you. It excites you. The danger is the best part, isn't it?

You know how to hide the evidence. You’re good at this. Really good. You’ve studied, you’ve watched, you’ve learned. Lou Bloom’s tricks are now your tricks. How to manipulate, how to twist things so that they work in your favor. You’ve made it almost impossible for anyone to tie the killings to him. The photos are perfect—framed, timed, never too much, just enough. Each one is carefully staged, in a way that leaves no room for suspicion. The investigation? It won’t even get close to him. The police are laughingstocks. The public mocks them. The world has no clue. They’ll never catch him.

And the best part? You’re the one who gets to keep him. He’s your secret, your possession, your Devil. The only one who truly understands you. The police will never find him. And even if they do, what evidence could they possibly have? Every picture you've ever taken, every picture of his work, becomes twisted into your story, your narrative. He's just a shadow in the background, a blur in the world's eyes. You made him invisible.

The more you read in the beauty of these photos, the more you see it-the rot. It's everywhere now. In your room, inside your mind, inside your veins. You are the rot. You can almost be able to taste it on your tongue as you flip through each picture. Rotting, dying, mutated beauty of all of this. You are addicted to this. You feel nothing else now but the rush of something dark, something real. This is all that is left for you. This is all that matters now.

You're in love with him. Obsessed. Every waking thought is consumed by him, by his art, by the way he moves through this world leaving death in his wake. Obsession grows like a disease inside you. You don't care that you are losing yourself. The world's a mess; it's broken-and in that mess, in that broken place, he's the only real thing.

So you capture it. You capture the beauty of rot, the beauty of decay, with each shot of your camera. His killings, his art, his legacy. it's all yours now. And the best part? No one will ever know. No one will ever understand. You'll keep it all, locked away in your room, in your mind, in your heart.

And as you keep snapping pictures, you come to realize the most frightening thing of all. You are no longer just an observer. You are becoming him. You are becoming the Butcher's echo, his disciple. And you don't even care.

The rot has already spread.

It is a night heavier than it ought to be, as if the world itself held its breath in expectation. Every corner of your mind is drenched with his shadow. This is your obsession, your need, your unrelenting quest for beauty in his darkness. You have gotten used to the violence, the brutality-it has become your life now, your purpose, your twisted little obsession. His 666th killing on Valentine's Day, of all days. How sweet you'd looked, how just for the occasion. You'd dreamed of candy chocs to give him, of some gesture of affection to offer your warped muse, your idol. No, though, that might get you killed, and you weren't ready to go out with the best yet. Not when the story had just started.

You rushed to the scene, expecting thrills, expecting the moment of the kill; instead, there was the quiet of a deed done. The victim, now nothing more than an object to your camera's gaze, crumpled on the cold concrete, stained by blood. It was such a waste, but there was beauty in it all. Death curled around him like an old lover, softening his sharp edges with an aura of familiarity.

But something was different tonight. Change in the air, tension, pull toward something… something strange. You crouched down in readiness with camera, already thinking ahead to that shot, when you came upon something you hadn't counted on. A heart. Red hand-drawn heart, ink as red as blood—how perfect, how devilish.

A note was tucked beneath it. A message.

Your fingers were always a little shaky as you reached out to touch the paper, your heart racing with an odd mix of excitement and dread filling your veins. You carefully unfolded it, trying to keep back the rising tide of curiosity, the frantic hunger for whatever he'd left behind. Then, you saw it.

. Your breath catches, the edges of the paper smudged with something dark—a trail of blood, or was it something else? You don't know anymore. The note, delicately folded, reads as if it's written just for you, "How was your lil wish coming along, Y/n?"

Your mind freezes, your pulse racing. It's a whisper from the shadows, in his handwriting all too familiar. You never thought he'd take notice of you, not that he'd leave a message especially for you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you realize-he knows. He knows you've been watching. He knows you've been obsessed, cataloging every one of his killings, keeping them in your private collection like a warped trophy. But the idea of him knowing you personally fills you with a sense of excitement mixed with terror.

Everything becomes very quiet for an instant. Time stands still and it seems to bend a bit to the other way; noise and all becomes dull and suppressed. There comes that sick sort of intimacy again; it seems like he invites you into his world: that is, one of death and chaos and beauty. His gift lies in a crimson-stained heart lying upon the ground-a statement in kind saying, "I see you. Do you see me?

But before you can even process the rush of emotions tumbling through you, you hear it. A faint scraping sound, distant at first, like the dragging of metal across pavement, but then it grows louder, closer, more real.

Click. Click. Click.

A crowbar, dragging on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt like a slow death march. You turn, your stomach twisting in knots, and there he is.

The Butcher.

He stands in the shadows, a silhouette framed by dim streetlights. His presence is more imposing than you could ever have imagined. The faint glow from the flickering lights catches on his black leather jacket, the metallic glint of the scissors in his shoulders, the pin with the 'X' shining like a warning. His burgundy hair is wild and uncombed, falling in waves around his face, while his black eyes, those bottomless voids, pierce straight through you. You feel it in your chest, that shuddering gasp, your body betraying the mix of fear and desire that floods your veins.

The crowbar drags, leaving a line of marks in the dirt as he steps into the weak light. A cruel grin spreads across his face—half mocking, half something darker, more hungry. He's taking his time, letting the sound of his approach echo in the alley like a countdown to something you can't escape.

His voice is low, dripping with that same dangerous charm and yet carries with it an unnerving note of affection, like he's discovered a lost toy to play with.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's this? My little photographer has been busy. haven't you, Y/n?" The way he says your name makes your heart skip, the intimacy of it feeling more like a threat than a compliment.

You can't say a word. Your mouth's dry, hands shaking as you let the camera slip from your fingers and feel it dangle loosely at your side. The thoughts scatter before you like smashed glass as you try to fit everything together: he shouldn't be here, he can't be here; but the note, the heart, the watching—how you feel he has been watching for all this.

“You’re quite good at this,” he muses, his voice smooth like silk but laced with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “Could almost say you’ve earned the right to be in my gallery.”

Your breath hitches at that—his gallery. The thought of being included in his twisted world, to be immortalized alongside his art, fills you with a sick satisfaction. You want it. You want to be closer to him. To know him, in the way only a few get to.

You’ve already given yourself over to him in your mind. You’ve already become part of his world—his chaos, his destruction. But now, he's here, standing right in front of you, and the way he looks at you. you’re not just an observer anymore. You’re a part of the performance.

His smile grows, and you can see the glint of madness in his eyes. He takes a step further; his crowbar is dragging behind him, and the scraping he leaves with it cuts across the electric tension in the air.

"Didn't think I'd find you so easily," he muses, going around you like a predator who's sizing up its prey. "But then again, you've been leaving quite the trail. haven't you, Y/n?"

And you know that, in a split second of clarity, that this isn't just some dark coincidence. This man has observed you, even studied you - as you so keenly would do with him. He can see your obsessiveness, this fascination. So now, play he wants.

The excitement in your chest builds and your pulse drums in your ears as you gaze into his face, your body shaking with the fear of something and yet being so hopeful.

You do not want to run. You can't run.

He's here. He is right in front of you

You stand there, speechless, eyes wide in shock and something else—something dark and exhilarating—as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. You feel trapped, pinned against the cold brick of the alley wall, unable to move. He knows. He knows. His black eyes pierce through you like a dagger, and for a moment, all the air seems to leave your lungs. His grin is wicked, stretching across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his words in the air before they even leave his mouth.

"I know about your little. incident," he says, his voice low, dark, teasing. "You thought you could hide it, huh? That rock you used, the way you finished him off. Cute. But you know what?" He presses closer, his breath cold now, a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. "I've been doing the same thing, just. slower, more artful."

The words crash into you, syllable by syllable, as if each word is a needle piercing your skin, but you don't even flinch. You can't. Instead, you find yourself hanging onto every word, every dark admission, every flicker of his twisted affection.

He's been watching. He's always been watching, just like you've been watching him.

And now, his hands are on you.

Oh god.

The raw electricity of it sends a jolt through your veins as he presses you harder against the wall, his strength overpowering, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing. You can hardly breathe, trapped under the weight of his gaze. His fingers dig into your wrist, pulling you into his personal space, forcing you to feel the undeniable connection between the two of you. It's suffocating, thrilling, terrifying all at once.

A laugh, dark and mocking, slips past his lips. He knows you. He knows exactly how obsessed you've become, how desperately you've followed his every move. He sees your fascination, your twisted need to be a part of his world, to belong to him in some way.

"You're so fucking obsessed with me," he says, laughing again, like he finds the whole thing utterly amusing. "You're falling in love with death, aren't you? With the concept of it. And the best part?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing across your ear, his words slicing through the hollow of silence like a whisper of poison. "I'm the one gonna give it to you. I'll make you feel alive, even if you are dead inside."

And then, as if the entire tension breaks and he finally exhales, his voice is laced with something dangerous, a teasing edge that will cause your heart to double its pace,

"Wanna touch me?"

You hesitate just a second before your hands shoot out, trembling and determined, almost against your will. You want to touch him. You need to touch him. And when your fingers brush against his leather jacket, you feel that you have just signed your own death warrant—and yet, you want it.

"I want you to touch you to death," he whispers. "Make me feel like I'm breathing. Make me feel like I'm human."

You swallow, letting the weight of his words drop deep into your chest. You thought you were in control here. You thought you could be the one exposing him. Now. now you realize something warped and vile. You're his. You have always been his.

You wanted death, perhaps you even craved it, but now you see something else. This man, this butcher of souls, this twisted, grotesque force of nature, is beautiful.

The way he moves, the way he thinks—every action, every word, every killing, it's all a twisted artistry. You've seen it now. The beauty in the rot. The beauty in destruction. And you are more than willing to drown in it. You're willing to live for it. Or, maybe. die for it.

"You're already dead," he whispers again, this time with that same sickly sweet tone. "And so am I."

The world fades into nothingness, as you sink further into this madness. In your mind, you hear his voice—soft, seductive, dangerous—as the words become a mantra that you'll never escape.

"Darling, his looks can kill, so now you're dead. Maybe."

You smile, completely unattached, completely in love with the nightmare of it all. Your fate doesn't matter anymore. You're his now. His masterpiece, his creation. You can already feel the rot settling in your veins, the decay becoming a part of you, and you welcome it.

The perfect rot. The beautiful rot.on

#killer chat #kc #killerchat #ronin beaufort #killer chat ronin #ronin x reader #ronin #kc ronin #kc ronin x reader #killer chat x reader #visual novel #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x

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cheegu3 · 7 months ago

Note

Can you please do yandere twice reaction to their s/o saying they want to have their first time with them

warnings; (18+) yandere themes, sex, obsession, teasing, humiliation kink, possessiveness, masturbation, some kinks, insecurity, threesome, swearing, dub-con?

note; g.n reader

Twice - reaction to s/o saying they want to have their first time with them

Jihyo

Being a woman who does not waste time, she wouldn't hesitate to just pull you towards her and kiss you with more passion than you'd ever felt before. You would pull away, a look of shock on your face, and all she did was smile teasingly at the way your mouth was hanging open.

You had gone out with Jihyo on your day off. She had planned for you two to have a day you'd spend together, all alone. First she took you shopping, eager to show you all of the dresses in the fitting room and hearing your opinions.

Then she took you to the cinema, where she let you pick whatever movie you wanted. Slowly, you started to see her in a new light that you hadn't previously done.

Whenever you tried to pay for anything during the day, she'd hurry to press her card against the reader and then flash you a big grin, saying, '' My treat, hun. ''

It made your heart beat faster. Had she always been so nice?

When you arrived home, she started unpacking the food on the table and made it very nice with romantic candles and flowers. You watched her in silence, your gaze softening as you took her in.

She looked so beautiful today, even more than usual. She had a radiant glow on her cheeks, and suddenly you felt very guilty that you had rejected going out with her so many times.

At that moment, you couldn't see her toxic side anymore. You saw someone who was warm, giving, full of life and love. Your eyes traveled down after inspecting her face and you caught yourself blushing when you noticed that her skirt had ridden up a bit.

'' Are you okay? Why aren't you eating? ''

You snapped back to reality and tried your best to look normal. You straightened yourself and smiled shyly, coming up with a lie.

'' I was waiting for you. ''

At this, she hurried to sit down and started eating so you would do the same. But, you couldn't swallow a single bite of food, your mouth felt dry and your thoughts kept being invaded by the wrong things.

'' Are you sure you're okay? ''

She came over to sit on the edge of the table and lightly brushed the hair out of your face. It was the worst thing she could've done, you knew if you spoke you'd come off as a nervous, stuttering mess.

You nodded, swallowing harshly. Slowly you were able to muster up the courage to look at her. A certain boldness came over you.

'' I...want you. ''

Silence fell over the room. Her eyes widened and her smile faded. You thought you had offended her for a moment and were just about to profusely apologize when she pressed her lips against yours so hard that you forgot what you were going to say.

Nayeon

Although she had happily waited patiently for a long time, she froze once you finally said what she'd been wanting you to.

She nodded, '' Soon, baby. ''

You'd be just as confused as she was deep down. It was strange. Wasn't this what she wanted?

Time passed and it was your turn to give her space until she was ready.

After a week or so, during which your relationship was quite awkward, she finally figured out why. You were watching a movie with her when a steamy scene came up. Shyly, you two only half-watched it but afterward, you said under your breath while laughing, '' That was hot.''

She almost let out a gasp when she realized - she was nervous! Nayeon turned away from you and bit her lip. She wanted it to be perfect and was terrified of leaving you disappointed.

She almost felt like a loser when she went to all her friends for advice and browsed the internet to find answers and solutions.

'' y/n? ''

You rose from the chair you'd been sitting on and followed the soft voice calling for you. Rounding the corner, you were met with the sight of your girlfriend sitting by the vanity.

She was doing her makeup, and you both smiled when your eyes caught in the mirror. You went up to stand behind her, prompting her to take a deep breath and close her eyes before she looked at you.

'' I'm ready, '' she turned to look over her shoulder so you were face to face.

You frowned. '' What do you mean? ''

Her hand immediately moved to your waist, curling around it and then pulling you closer. She didn't say a word, she didn't need to, her eyes dark with lust wandering all over your figure told you everything.

Jeongyeon

'' I want you ''

You cringed at your sudden boldness and looked away, but when you felt ready to face her again, her reaction was something you hadn't expected.

'' To what? '' she blinked, utter confusion plastered on her face.

The words - to fuck you, echoed in your head but you weren't sure you could ever say that out loud.

You felt extremely embarrassed and snuck away to avoid having to explain it to her. A few minutes later, she popped into your shared bedroom.

You internally groaned when she came to you, sitting as close as possible on the double bed, and you could tell she was going to ask you what you meant.

But as always, she caught you off guard again when her lips curved into a smug smile.

'' Sorry, I knew your embarrassment would be adorable. ''

You hit her arm and gasped, '' You knew! ''

She shrugged and looked away, the smile not leaving her face as she was having the time of her life teasing you right now.

'' Oh! '' you squealed and fell back against the bed so you could roll over and hide your face in the pillows.

She laughed.

The bed moved as she shifted around to lay next to you. Stubbornly, you refused to look at her, so she did the thing she knew would get your attention.

A cold hand hovered over the small of your back; fingertips grazing it as if it was barely there, but it was still enough to make you curl your body, chills running down your spine.

It took everything in you not to turn over and throw yourself at her, all that showed signs of this was a shaky exhale that made her snicker.

'' Are you done yet? Having your little temper tantrum? '' her mocking somehow made jolts shoot inside your body again.

She sighed when you didn't respond and she leaned in closer, her warm whisper tickling your ear, '' I'm waiting for you. ''

Momo

You were making out like you regularly did, when you pulled back and Momo could tell that something in your eyes was different that night.

You took her hand and led it down your body which almost made her tremble with excitement.

'' Are you sure? '' she mumbled several times, still drunk from your kisses.

You nodded, and as she got closer and closer to reaching in between your legs, her smirk grew wider. Right before doing so, she stopped and pulled away. You could only watch in astonishment when she looked to see if you were following her to the bedroom.

You looked dumbstruck, making her giggle. You felt your whole body beg of desperation so naturally you followed her, almost with some eagerness to your step.

Instead of getting on the bed, like you expected, Momo sat down in the chair in the corner of the room. You adjusted quickly and came over to her, but she pushed you away by the shoulder.

'' What- ''

'' Get on the bed, and take off your clothes, '' she demanded, her tone shifting to sternness.

You obeyed, still feeling a bit confused, and even more so when you were done and she wasn't moving from her chair.

'' Babe? '' you sounded small, and almost cursed yourself right then and there for playing into her hand.

This must've been what she wanted all along when she was so overly possessive and passionate in the beginning, to control you and then humiliate you once she had you.

Your face soured and you got up, eyes shooting daggers at her. Just before you had turned your back on her, she spoke up, amusement lilting her voice.

'' I want you to do what you usually do when you think I'm asleep. ''

Her words were cryptic but they sent a wave of shock over you, because you knew exactly what she meant. You turned back to her and saw that she was watching you.

You crawled back on the bed again and did what she asked while she looked very pleased. She had meant all those nights you had touched yourself while you thought she was sleeping - now she wanted you to show her what she had missed out on.

Sana

You whispered it into her ear while you were out drinking with other people. Expecting her to blush and lose her composure, you did it while everyone was standing up and giving a toast.

The corners of her mouth tugged upwards in a small smile, and she only turned her head towards you while her eyes remained on the birthday girl; as if to say, I don't have time for this now.

If it weren't for the smile on her lips, you would've felt offended, but you knew she was toying with you a little.

'' Tonight, my love, '' Sana tenderly said, leaving you gushing at her for the rest of the evening.

She proudly claimed you by holding your hand in front of everyone and didn't care that the two of you got looks when you went away in a taxi together.

Back at the apartment, she made you wait in the lobby while she ran upstairs. It took so long that you began to doze off for a bit, and that's how she found you in the lobby too.

A look of adornment struck across her features. She brought a hand up and shook you gently until you woke up.

'' Hey. You fell asleep. ''

You yawned and took a few seconds to rub the sleepiness off and when it did, everything hit you again. With some hesitance, you looked at Sana to see if she also remembered or if she'd been drunk.

She took your hand and then led you up to her apartment where candles and flowers awaited you, paired with the delicious scent of freshly cooked dinner.

You gasped when you saw it was your favorite food and smiled in secret, looking at her full of love when she showed you around.

Once the tour was over and you had gotten your bouquet of flowers, you sat down together at the table. The tension rose the longer the dinner dragged on, you both knowing what was waiting afterward.

Mina

She flinched when your hand snaked around her waist while you were making out with her. When you pulled away to apologize and ask what was wrong, you were met with a cold, emotionless face.

Then she slipped away from your arms completely and stayed in her room for the rest of the day. That night in bed was awkward, you laid next to her and didn't get any reaction or response, therefore, you cried yourself to sleep.

The guilt was killing you the next day and you couldn't let it go on any further. Gently you tapped her shoulder as she was making food in the kitchen.

She had dark circles under her eyes; her usual flawless appearance looked a bit disheveled. Your stomach flipped. Did she not sleep because of you?

'' Are you okay? You ignored me yesterday...did I- did I do something wrong? ''

A few seconds of silence passed, making you feel like dying. The long pause made you dread her answer even more, feeling like the obvious reply would be ' yes '.

But she surprised you by shaking her head, a half-smile appearing on her lips for a moment. Then you saw something else on her face, something she tried to hide by looking away.

'' I was...nervous, '' she admitted with a sigh.

Nervous? You had never seen your girlfriend be nervous or lose control like that. She was always quite hard on herself and had impossible standards.

You gave her a knowing look and instantly felt yourself relax. That must've been why she reacted the way she did, she felt embarrassed that you saw her like that.

A small part wanted to take the opportunity to tease her, she looked so adorable with her eyes flickering on everything but you; her usual confident gaze wavering.

Instead, you took her hand into yours and made her look at you.

'' It's okay, '' you softly whispered.

She still looked doubtful, but when you brought your hand up to her cheek, she melted visibly, unable to control herself again which made both of you laugh.

'' Come on, '' she ran ahead again just like she had yesterday, only this time she had a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Dahyun

The thought had come into your mind before and even more so recently. It was like something had shifted in the air. You went from having no interest in your girlfriend to finding that she had a glow around her - suddenly she was the most beautiful person you had ever seen.

When her kisses started trailing down your neck one night, the words left your lips before you could stop them. '' Please. ''

Her movements froze for a second, a breathy scoff slipping past her lips before she continued. You tried to fight against the tingles you felt inside, and even more so when you turned your head and saw that she was watching you intently, loving every reaction.

You pulled away, already feeling your body stiffening in awkwardness. Dahyun, however, knew exactly why you had pulled away. With a playful smile, she turned you back to her, kissed you passionately, and then surprised you by lifting you up on the kitchen counter.

You almost moaned and then bit your lip to stifle it quickly. The smile hadn't left her face, and it was turning more smug by the minute.

She let a hand rest on your thigh. '' Say that again. ''

You swore internally. She was making you choose between your dignity, to beg for her again, or to keep quiet, full of frustration. Your eyes flitted nervously from her to the ground as you tried to make up your mind.

You were fighting with yourself silently, while she watched on with the level of amusement a child would have if they went to the movies. Her lips were quirked upwards, never going down even for just a second, and her eyes were scared to leave you, sure she'd miss something if they did.

'' Well, '' she said drawly, '' have you made up your mind? ''

You held back on answering, but you both knew what you'd say in the end.

Chaeyoung

You asked her outright one day in the dark while the two of you were laying in bed, ready to go to sleep.

Her silence after your question about why you hadn't had sex yet, left her speechless and she took some time to gather her thoughts and respond to you. You thought that she was ignoring you or that she had fallen asleep, so defeatedly you rolled over on your side.

But then her soft voice spoke. She sounded very unsure of what to say despite taking so long to answer; like she could never have enough time to find the right words, and you found it adorable.

She was usually so cool and confident, seeing her like this was different.

'' I- well, I wasn't sure if you wanted that...I wanted to wait, to make sure that you did, '' she said, her voice having a faint hint of shakiness to it.

'' I thought that you weren't attracted to me, '' you earnestly confessed.

That broke her heart. The sheets ruffled as she turned towards you so she could see you. She hesitated and then gently started stroking your hair.

'' I'm sorry. I had no idea you felt that way, '' then she added like a scolding mom, '' you should've told me. ''

'' I'm sorry, '' you mumbled in the dark.

'' I would hate to make you feel like that, ever. ''

You didn't know what to say, several times your mouth opened but nothing came out. It was like you just couldn't say what you wanted to, so instead you spoke in another way.

Chaeyoung almost flinched when she felt your cold hand on her arm. She was thankful for the dark hiding her sudden shyness when you climbed on top of her and leaned down to kiss her.

'' I love you, '' you said in between kisses.

She kissed you back with a hint of desperation.

'' I love you more, '' she laughed and in one swift movement she flipped you over so you were under her instead.

The air was knocked out of you, and now it was your turn to be shy. You knew what kind of night was ahead of you after all.

Tzuyu

You had come close several times, in more ways than one. But it seemed that whenever the two of you were deeply lost in each other, and your hands wandered all over, something would interrupt it - there was never a perfect time to do it.

Months had passed so it almost became a bit of a joke in your relationship. Any time you started making out, your eyes always watched the door. Either your mom barged in, or your friends, Tzuyu's friends, or people from her company and you jumped away from her while she tried to respond to whoever came in. You were always too flustered to respond, Tzuyu liked teasing you about your rosy cheeks afterward.

One night, she took you completely by surprise. Just as she was stumbling towards the door while her lips occasionally, hungrily attached to yours again; the door opened and instead of stopping like usual, she pulled her friend in and then locked the door.

Her friend Nayeon, just stared at you both, eyes widening the more her gaze traveled over the state of you and she put two and two together.

'' Oh, I'm so sorry! '' she squeaked, '' I was just gonna pick something up. ''

You squirmed when your girlfriend leaned in and whispered in your ear, '' Do you want her to join us? ''

You stared at her, shock written all over your face. Your mouth fell open and she took the opportunity to shove her tongue in, right in front of Nayeon.

When she pulled away, you could feel how much you were blushing just by the heat on your cheeks. Automatically, your eyes fell on Nayeon again.

Unexpectedly, something arose in you when you did so. You had expected to feel extremely humiliated and to turn down Tzuyu's offer, but before you could stop yourself you mumbled dazily in her direction, '' Yes, please. ''

#yandere kpop #kpop yandere #yandere twice #twice smut #twice imagines

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leo-gold-hotchner · 11 months ago

Text

Dating app

Long time no writing!!!!

Aaron Hotchner X G.N. Reader

The BAU team was quietly doing paperwork. From time to time, Reid or Morgan went to the kitchen to refill their coffee cup, and Prentiss yawned and stretched. While supporting your chin, you flicked your fingers as drily watched photos of 'potential date partners'. Of course, at first, you were reluctant to sign up for a dating app, especially what you live for; you had the right to be cautious about meeting a stranger from an app. But you didn't want loneliness to become your life partner. Your finger halted in the air, and you forced yourself not to scream or jump out from your chair in surprise.

You stared at the photo on the app. Then you looked back at your boss' office. Hotch was in his dark office, looking down at his desk with only the lamp on.

You looked at the photo and the name.

It was Hotch.

You quickly observed other photos. Then you realised something was off. All 5 photos were taken from a distance. Not too far, but still, there were no selfies or face-close distance photos. Even if it was Hotch, if he signed up for the dating app, he would've at least tried to take a selfie, wouldn't he? Maybe an imposter?

You tapped your desk and then looked around. Thankfully, your friends were occupied with their own stuff, and they weren't interested in what you were doing.

Should I?

You looked back at the Hotch's office again. Would Hotch really sign up for a dating app? One way to find out. Hotch would probably leave his office to grab you if it was really him. After all, your photos and name were on the profile anyway.

'Hello, handsome.'

You messaged him. You didn't know how long he or an imposter would take to reply. Besides, you were regretting writing 'handsome'.

Your body winced as you nearly jumped out from your chair as soon as you saw 'read' appear on the chat.

'Hi, there.'

You tilted your head curiously.

As if Hotch didn't know you. You looked at the office, and you blinked. Hotch was looking at his phone now. What the hell?

'What do you like to do during free time?'

If you were drinking, you would've been spitting at the message. You looked back at the office, and Hotch was indeed typing something on his phone.

Was it really Hotch?

-----------------------------

You texted the dating app Hotch for some time, and you weren't sure if it was really Hotch or not. You just wanted to grab him and ask him. The dating app Hotch didn't seem to know about you, and Hotch behaved as if nothing happened at the office and during cases. Your friends could sense something was happening, and you were agitated. They asked, and you just told them you were fine. If Rossi or Morgan find out, they will ask Hotch directly, showing him the texts you've been having with the dating app Hotch. If it were really Aaron, it would embarrass him, and you wanted to spare that for Aaron.

Shoot, when did I start to think of him as Aaron?

You banged your head on your desk. The dating app Hotch insisted on calling him Aaron. You shook your head against the desk and could feel your friends' eyes staring at you. But you didn't care. You needed to know if the dating app Hotch was real Hotch or not.

"A trouble in paradise?"

You rolled your eyes at Morgan's comment. You turned off your phone screen before Morgan could come and look into it.

"I wish," you scoffed. You sat up straight and crossed your arms behind your head. "Just a puzzle."

Reid silently came to your side in his chair at the mention of a puzzle.

"Not that kind of puzzle," you chuckled.

"Relationship, huh?" Prentiss grinned with her pen in her mouth.

"Maybe?" You replied with a mysterious smile. "Too early to tell, I think."

"But you'll tell us when it's the time?" Morgan asked. "Penelope will love to hear about your story."

----------------------------

'Aaron, it's been two weeks we've been texting.'

'Don't you think we should meet and have lunch or something?'

'My bad. I should've asked first. Let's have lunch. I'll tell you after checking my schedule.'

'Nice. I'll be waiting to hear from you!'

You looked at the screen.

Finally, the time to check if the guy is really A… Hotch or an imposter has come.

-------------------------------

You were there first. The dating app Hotch told you where he booked the restaurant, which was in his name. You were playing with a black straw in the water glass while a block of ice was in your mouth, rolling over your tongue.

"L/N?" A dumbfounded voice called you in surprise.

You looked up, and it was Hotch. It was really Hotch. The real Aaron Hotchner, the boss of yours, the leader of the BAU of the FBI. He was staring at you with his mouth ajar. Your mouth was also hung open. You didn't realise the water from the ice was flowing over, which looked like drooling. As soon as you realised the cold feeling on your chin, you quickly cleaned it with the tissue.

"You are real Hotch." You pointed a finger at him.

Hotch made a funny face, then laughed.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

It was your time to make a funny face. Then you took your phone out and showed him the texts you've been having on the dating app.

"You've been texting me…?"

Hotch snatched your phone and read the text for a minute. Then you saw the realisation in his eyes.

"So it was you they set me up with."

"Who?"

"My son and sister-in-law." Hotch returned the phone to you and sat in front of you. "If they set me up with you, they must have liked the text you were sending."

You opened your mouth and closed it several times.

"Sorry about this," Hotch smiled bashfully.

You weren't about to say you asked for a date to check if he was real or not.

"But you knew it was me with the photo but still asked for a date?"

"You not gonna reject now, would you?" You asked.

"Of course not," Hotch smiled softly. "How we got here doesn't matter. We're here for a date lunch, aren't we?"

You could feel blood flushing your cheeks.

"We aren't here as colleagues. Relax," Hotch smiled.

"Then can I call you Aaron?" You asked bashfully.

"You were doing it on the app."

"But it wasn't real you."

Hotch blinked at you and laughed. He looked like a different person. He was so relaxed and smiling more.

"Of course you can. If you still want to continue this, I'm open to it."

"Really?"

It felt like he had read your mind, but it didn't matter. You wanted to get to know Aaron.

"Because I'm not gonna say no, Aaron," you grinned like an idiot.

"F/N, I'm looking forward to it." Aaron mirrored your grin.

++++

"Dad!"

"Aaron!"

Aaron rubbed the back of his head as he was called by his son and sister-in-law.

"Dad, you need to go here!" Jack shoved a phone in front of his dad's face.

Aaron read the screen. It was an address of a restaurant.

"A restaurant?"

"We made a reservation in your name. Go there by 1pm on Thursday, please," Jessica informed Aaron while checking her wallet.

Aaron stared at Jack's unbelievable aunt. Only Jessica can make a request sound like an order.

"Who are you setting me with?"

Jack just grinned at his father.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds fanfic #agent hotchner #criminal minds #emily prentiss #derek morgan #spencer reid #gender neutral reader

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soluversworld · 1 month ago

Text

Steam, off - REDACTED X G.N Reader (SMUT)

Genre: smut

Summary: — After a small argument where Redacted refuses to get mad at you, frustration builds between you both. Despite your attempts to stay distant, their gentle persistence and need for closeness slowly wear you down.

THEN YOU SMASH!!

( Reader is a g.n!)

EXTRA: This was a request, from discord, They're a good friend!!

Content/Trigger warnings

Explicit Sexual Content (NSFW)

Dom/Sub Dynamics (Teasing, control, and edging)

Praise Kink

Strong Emotional Intimacy

Light Roughness (Biting, marking, possessive touch)

Overstimulation

Did not proof read/Rushed.

Your lips press into a thin line. Again.

Again, [REDACTED] just takes it. Doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight back—just ducks their head, lets their shoulders sag, and mutters, "M’ sorry."

And fuck, that makes your teeth grind.

“Stop that,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

They blink, startled. “Stop… what?”

You gesture—at them, at their whole goddamn everything. “This. The—The whole apologizing thing. I’m mad at you, [YOU]. You can be mad back. You can fight me instead of just taking it like—like—”

“Like I deserve it?”

Your breath snags.

Soft. Quiet. Like they already know what you’re gonna say. Like they agree.

And that—that makes you want to throw something.

“No! No!” You grab their wrist—not to hurt, just to hold. To make them listen. “You don’t deserve it, and that’s the fucking problem! I can’t even be mad at you properly because you never—You never fight back! You never defend yourself! You just let me be angry, let me lash out, let me blame you, and then you say ‘m’ sorry’ like—like it’s all your fault!"

Their brows furrow, lips parting—like they want to argue. But they don’t.

And that’s when it really hits you.

They’re not ignoring you.

They just… don’t think they should fight back.

Your grip on their wrist loosens, fingers sliding down until they hook around theirs. “You can get mad at me,” you murmur. “You can tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m being unfair. I want to fight with you if it means we fix things. But I can’t—” You swallow hard. "I can't keep being the only one who raises my voice while you just—just take it and blame yourself."

A pause.

[REDACTED] stares at you—eyes wide, raw, something fragile flickering beneath the surface. Their mouth opens—then closes—then, finally, they speak.

“…I don’t wanna fight you,” they murmur. “I just—” They exhale sharply, shaking their head. “I don’t want to fight with you.."

And fuck—fuck—that’s what breaks you.

"You're already hurting me, dumbass," you whisper, voice cracking, fingers curling tighter around theirs. "Not because of a fight—because I feel like I’m hitting a fucking ghost whenever I argue with you." You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "I want the real you. All of you. Even the parts that get mad at me. Even the parts that fight back."

Something shifts in their expression. Something wounded.

"…The real me, huh?" Their voice is rough, like they’re chewing on the words. "And what if the real me ain't… what y’want?"

You don’t hesitate.

"I want you," you say, pressing their hand to your chest, right over your racing heart. "Only you. The real you." Your voice drops to a whisper, raw and desperate. "I love you, [REDACTED]."

Their breath hitches. Their fingers tremble against yours. And for the first time, you see it—the crack in their armor, the fear behind their eyes.

Well, You're still mad/j

You huff, sinking deeper into the couch, arms crossed tight as Attack on Giant blares from the screen. You’re not even watching—just pretending to, staring blankly at the fights while your thoughts rage louder than the explosions.

You hate this. You hate how you’re still mad, how he just lets you be, how he looks so fucking sad sitting across from you like a kicked puppy.

[REDACTED] isn’t saying anything. Just… sitting there. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together like he’s holding himself still. Not pushing, not begging—just waiting.

Like he always fucking does.

Like he always has.

It’s suffocating.

Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. You don’t even know anymore. The silence isn’t cold, not really—but it stretches long enough to wrap around your ribs, squeeze tight, ache.

And yet, he doesn’t complain.

Doesn’t demand.

Doesn’t even shift closer.

He just watches you, quiet and patient, like he’d wait forever if that’s what it took for you to stop being mad.

Like he’d wait another decade if it meant you’d finally reach for him again.

And fuck, that realization makes your throat burn.

Because it’s sad. It’s fucking sad at this point.

You grip the blanket tighter around yourself, teeth clenched. You don’t want to be mad anymore. You don’t want to give him the silent treatment. You don’t want him to just sit there, drowning in his own regret, waiting for a love he already fucking has.

You don’t want him to think you’re really pushing him away.

So you shift. Just barely. Uncurl your legs.

It’s subtle, but he notices instantly.

His shoulders tense—not in fear, but in hope.

Still, he doesn’t push.

He just waits.

You take a breath, exhaling slow, forcing yourself to relax.

And then—without looking at him—you grab his hand.

He freezes.

And when you finally glance at him—just a quick, fleeting look—you swear he’s shaking.

You’re stacking the dishes when two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against a firm, familiar chest. His warmth seeps into your skin, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he sighs—a low, content sound that makes your stomach flip.

"You really…" he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl, "...are a softie."

Your hands still. The dish towel crinkles in your grip.

You huff. "Hmph."

You act annoyed. You act like you hate it. Like this whole affection thing is just too much, too clingy, too Redacted.

But your hands betray you.

Because instead of pushing him off, you reach up—fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

And god, he melts.

His breath hitches, grip tightening as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You feel him smile against your skin, feel the way he relaxes, like this—you—is all he’s ever needed.

"...'S not fair," he mutters, muffled against you.

You arch a brow. "What’s not fair?"

"You act all mean," he murmurs, voice slow and sleepy, "'n' then you do this..."

You roll your eyes, still scratching lightly at his scalp. "I dunno what you’re talking about."

You cross your arms, leaning against the counter, glaring at him. "You’re not getting near me."

He stops mid-step, blinking at you like a confused puppy.

A pause. Then, hesitantly—softly—"…Still mad at me, huh?"

You huff, looking away. It’s stupid, honestly. The argument wasn’t even that big, just one of those things that built up over time—him never defending himself, never even trying to fight back, just letting you steamroll him with nothing in return but sad eyes and quiet apologies. It makes you feel awful. Like you’re the bad guy every single time.

"At least ask for something," you mutter, not looking at him. "I made you sad. You always just take it. If you can’t get mad at me, at least say that it hurts instead of going silent."

You feel him move before you see him.

Warmth presses against the side of your neck—a slow, lingering kiss right below your jaw. His breath is warm, his lips impossibly soft, and your heart does a fucking backflip.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your whole body stiffens.

"You always do this," you grumble, cheeks heating up.

A small chuckle against your skin. "What?"

He laughs, low and fond, arms winding around your waist again. "S’ not cheatin’, Y/n. Just know what works on ya."

You scoff, feeling your resolve start to crumble. Your body still buzzes from the way his lips lingered against your skin, from the warmth pressing up against your back.

Then, in that same casual, lazy drawl, he asks—

"Wanna make up?"

…Oh.

Your heart stops.

You blink, heat creeping up your neck. "…Eh?"

He leans down, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. "Y’heard me."

And fuck, your whole body burns. The way he says it—so blunt, so confident, so fucking casual—has your brain short-circuiting. Your fingers curl into fists, gripping at nothing, trying so hard to play it cool despite the way your pulse is pounding.

You swallow thickly. Cross your arms tighter. Try to keep your face neutral.

"…Sure," you say.

Expression blank.

Voice flat.

Trying desperately to ignore the way your ears are on fire.

He grins. He knows. He sees through you.

And before you can blink, you’re on the bed.

Pinned.

His lips crush against yours, his hands sliding up your sides, warm, slow, possessive. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing at yours, dragging you into something slow and dizzying and hot.

The kiss is rough, almost desperate—like he’s trying to prove something, trying to make you feel what they won’t say out loud. Their hands grip your waist as they push you back, guiding you until your legs hit the bed.

Then they shove you down.

Not forcefully, not like they’re trying to overpower you—just firm, controlled, the way they always are. Like they’re claiming you, like they’re saying you’re mine without needing to use the words.

Their weight follows, pressing you into the mattress, their breath warm against your lips as they hover just above you. They’re looking at you—God, they’re watching you—like they’re searching for something in your eyes, something they’re too much of a coward to ask for outright.

“You still mad at me, You?” they murmur, voice low, teasing—but there’s a flicker of something real underneath it.

You scoff, tilting your head away, acting like you don’t feel the way your body reacts to them. Damn them. “Maybe.”

They chuckle—soft, breathy—then press their lips to the curve of your jaw, trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin of your throat until you gasp.

“Y’sure?” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their hands say otherwise. They’re firm where they grip your hips, grounding you, holding you close—like they’re afraid you’ll slip through their fingers.

You’re still trying to be stubborn, still fighting the way your heart pounds when their lips graze your collarbone. “If you think I’m just gonna forgive you—”

“I know.”

The words are quiet, barely more than a whisper. And when they finally look at you, their eyes are dark—heated—but there’s something else there too. Something softer, something unspoken.

Then they kiss you.

And it’s deep this time—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, that melts into you like a promise. Their hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin, holding you like you’re precious.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

You grab at them—pulling them closer, wrapping your arms around their neck, threading your fingers through their hair. You’re kissing them back just as desperately, pouring every ounce of your frustration, your longing, your love into it.

You don’t even know when they settle fully between your legs, don’t even register the way their hips press against yours until they groan against your lips, grinding into you.

“Fuck,” they rasp, burying their face against your neck. “Y’don’t—You have no idea what y’do to me, You…”

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The argument still lingers in the air between you, unspoken and unresolved, but this—this—is how you make up. Not with words.

Their breath is warm, teasing against your skin before they dip lower—trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, lower still until their lips hover just above your chest.

Then—fuck.

They bite.

A sharp little nip against your nipple before their tongue soothes over the sting, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt straight down your spine. You gasp, arching into them, but they don’t stop—not yet. They flick their tongue over the sensitive bud, watching your reactions, listening to every little sound you make, before latching on properly, sucking just hard enough to make your head spin.

“Sensitive, huh?” Their voice is thick with amusement, teasing but hungry. One of their hands drags down your stomach, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your clothes, slipping just beneath—so close, so fucking close, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

You squirm beneath them, frustration bubbling up, but they only smirk against your skin. Their other hand comes up to your neglected nipple, rolling it between their fingers, pinching just enough to make you whimper.

“Mm. Y’really gonna stay mad at me?” Their voice is low, husky, vibrating through you as they switch sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, sucking and teasing, leaving you breathless.

Your hands fly to their hair, gripping tight—like you can force them to stop teasing. “Shut up,” you manage, but it’s weak, a little desperate, and they love it.

They chuckle, the sound rumbling against your skin.

“Guess I’ll have t’fuck the anger outta you, then.”

And with that, their hand finally slips lower.

Their fingers trace slow, feather-light circles over your clothed heat, barely pressing down, just teasing. It’s infuriating—your body is aching, burning, needing more, but they won’t give it to you. Not yet.

“Still mad at me, huh?” Their voice is mocking, low and amused, but there’s something else beneath it—something dark, something possessive. Their fingers dip lower, almost slipping under the fabric, but then they pull back, just enough to leave you frustrated.

You whine—actually whine—and the sound makes them smirk.

“Aw, poor thing.” Their lips graze your ear, warm and teasing. “Want somethin’?”

You try to grind against their hand, desperate for anything, but they pin you down, using their weight to keep you still. Their fingers barely press against you, just enough to make you twitch, make you gasp, make you ache for more.

“Y’gotta tell me, baby.” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their breath is ragged against your skin. They’re enjoying this just as much as you are—dragging it out, making you want it, making you need it.

You grit your teeth, refusing to beg. Refusing.

But when they pull away entirely, hands leaving you completely, you snap.

“Fuck—just touch me already!”

Their smirk widens, and fuck, they love hearing you like this—frustrated, desperate, barely holding on.

“That’s more like it.”

And then—finally, finally—their fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding against your heat, pressing deep, stretching you open, giving you exactly what you need.

Their fingers curl just right, pressing deep, slow, deliberate—just enough to make you feel it, but never enough to satisfy. It’s torture, this agonizing pace, this teasing, feather-light touch that only fuels the fire burning inside you. Your breath is ragged, your body trembling, every muscle tensed as you claw at the sheets beneath you.

"Redacted—!" Your voice is caught between a moan and a plea, frustration boiling over as they refuse to give you what you really want.

They chuckle—low, deep, full of amusement as they press an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, their lips trailing slow, lazy heat down your skin. "Mmm... somethin' wrong, Angel?" Their fingers withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, shallow and teasing. "Y'sound a lil' worked up."

You whimper—a sound you wouldn’t have let anyone else hear, but with them? They pull it from you so easily. Your hands fly to their wrist, gripping tight, trying to force them to move faster, deeper, more, but they don’t budge.

"Please," you breathe, half-growling, half-desperate. "Stop—teasing."

They click their tongue, shaking their head as if you’re being so unreasonable. "Steam’s gotta be let off first, Angel," they murmur, their voice a smooth, teasing drawl. "Ain't that right?"

You let out a frustrated whine, hips jerking as you try to meet their touch, but they tut softly, keeping you pinned, keeping control.

"Y'know I’ll never deny you, Angel…" Their lips brush against your ear, voice dark and sweet, and then—finally, finally—they snap.

Their fingers plunge deep, their pace turning from lazy and teasing to devastating, working you open without a shred of mercy. The pleasure slams into you, white-hot and overwhelming, and you cry out, head falling back as the heat coils tight in your core.

Their free hand grips your chin, tilting your face toward them, forcing you to meet their gaze—eyes dark, intense, locked onto yours like they own you.

"That’s it," they murmur, voice thick with hunger. "Let me hear you, Angel."

Their grip tightens—steady, unrelenting—keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall. Your body trembles beneath them, muscles twitching, every nerve alight with unbearable heat. It’s too much—too good—but they won’t let you go.

You choke out their name between ragged breaths, your hands clutching at their arms, their shoulders, anything to ground yourself, to plead for mercy. But all they do is smirk, dragging their fingers slowly out, only to press them back in at an achingly controlled pace.

"Aww, listen to you," they murmur, voice dripping with dark amusement. "So needy, Angel…" They lean in, lips brushing your ear as their free hand smooths over your stomach, your chest—trailing slow, teasing circles over your heated skin. "You sound so pretty when you beg, y’know that?"

A frustrated whimper escapes you, a shiver wracking your body as you fight against their hold, desperate to move, to chase what they keep just out of reach.

"P-please," you gasp, back arching, toes curling. "Please, I—I need—"

They hush you, their fingers plunging deeper, curling just right, sending an electric shock of pleasure straight to your core.

"Shhh, Angel… I know." Their voice is soft, almost mocking in its sweetness. "But y’gotta hold on for me, yeah? Y’can do that, right?"

You shake your head, gasping, voice breaking. "No! I—I can’t—"

They chuckle, their grip tightening, keeping you still as your body shudders beneath them.

"Sure y’can," they murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips, voice thick with affection. "Y’just don’t know it yet."

Before you could get another word out, they pushed in.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at their back, nails digging into heated skin as your body arched against them. Your head tipped back, a broken, helpless sound spilling from your lips, pleasure crashing through you in waves.

"Fuck—"

They groaned against your neck, their breath hot and ragged, their own body trembling as they sank into you, inch by inch. Your arms wrapped around them on instinct, pulling them impossibly closer, your chest pressed flush against theirs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

"Shit… Angel—" Their voice was low, strained, barely holding on, but the way they said your name—like they were praying—sent a shiver down your spine. They needed this just as much as you did.

You barely had time to breathe before they bit down—hard—right against the curve of your neck.

A high-pitched cry escaped you, your body jerking in response, heat coiling in your gut, winding tighter—too much, too fast. The sting of their teeth melted into a dull, throbbing pleasure, and when their tongue soothed over the mark, you whimpered, shivering as they left behind a deep, dark hickey.

Their hands slid down your sides, slow, possessive, fingers pressing into your skin as they pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, desperate, barely restrained.

"Gonna keep you right here," they murmured, voice thick with need. Their hips rolled forward, their hold tightening. "Gonna make sure you feel me—"

Another thrust. Deeper. More intense.

Your vision blurred, your breath catching, body twitching as pleasure surged through you like fire.

"Fuck— please—" You couldn’t even finish the sentence, couldn’t even think—just clutching at them, holding on as they fucked you through the dizzying, overwhelming sensation, keeping you right on the brink of explosion.

And then—

They kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

And you fucking broke.

Your whole body shattered beneath them.

A choked, shuddering gasp tore from your throat as the pleasure hit—blinding, overwhelming, knocking every last thought from your head. Your legs clenched around their waist, hands grasping at their shoulders, their hair—anything you could hold onto as wave after wave of white-hot bliss crashed through you.

They swallowed your cries, their lips moving against yours in a messy, desperate kiss, like they were trying to devour every sound you made, feel every tremor in your body as you unraveled beneath them. Their name spilled from your lips like a prayer, half-whimpered, half-moan, and fuck—

They loved it.

"That's it," they groaned, voice rough, breath hitching against your mouth. Their grip on your hips tightened, strong fingers digging into your skin as they thrust into you, chasing their own release, dragging you through the aftershocks. "God, Angel—feel so fucking good—"

Your mind was spinning, body still trembling in their arms, overstimulated and aching in the best way. But you still wanted more.

"More," you gasped, voice barely above a breath, hands tightening in their hair, pulling them closer. "Please—"

They swore under their breath, something low and guttural, before burying their face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping forward with a deep, needy groan.

"Fuck—fuck—"

And then—

They came, shuddering against you, their whole body tensing as they spilled inside, breath hitching, hips stuttering in the aftermath. A low, wrecked sound left their lips, barely held back, and you swore it was the sexiest thing you'd ever heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathing. Holding each other. Feeling the warmth between you, the way their body pressed against yours, how they fit against you so perfectly.

Then—

A slow, satisfied exhale, their lips ghosting over your temple before they nuzzled into your hair.

"S’good," they murmured, voice thick, lazy. "Too good, Angel… y’ damn near killed me."

You huffed out a breathless laugh, still reeling, but you felt the way their arms tightened around you—how they refused to let you go, even as exhaustion started to set in.

Their hips didn’t still for long.

Even as you were still trying to catch your breath, still reeling from the way they had just ruined you, they were already moving again—slow, teasing rolls of their hips against yours, letting you feel just how much they still wanted you.

"Tsk, look at you, Angel," they murmured against your ear, voice thick with amusement and something darker beneath it. Their lips brushed your jaw, your cheek, your neck—each kiss deliberate, possessive—before they nipped at the sensitive skin, making you gasp. "Still twitchin’ for me. So sensitive…"

Your breath hitched as they ground against you again—slow and lazy but purposeful, their length dragging through the mess between your thighs, rubbing against every oversensitive spot that had you whimpering into their shoulder.

"R-Redacted…" you gasped, fingers clutching at their back, nails digging in, desperate to ground yourself against the pleasure. "Too much… I—I just—"

They shushed you, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, their voice a low, affectionate drawl. "I know, Angel. S’alright… I got you."

But they didn’t stop.

Their hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips, holding you firm as they rocked into you, slow and deep—not enough to overwhelm, not yet, but enough to make you feel them, to keep you on edge.

"Gotta make up for makin’ you mad, don’t I?" they murmured, teeth grazing your ear, sending a full-body shudder down your spine. "Gotta show my Angel how much I love ‘em…"

Their fingers found your jaw, tilting your face toward them, their lips hovering just over yours—so close, so teasing.

"You still mad at me, Angel?"

You wanted to glare at them. Really, you did. But the way they were touching you, the way they were looking at you, their breath warm against your lips—fuck, you couldn’t think straight.

You swallowed hard, trying to muster even the smallest amount of defiance. "M-Maybe…"

A slow, knowing smirk curled at their lips.

"Maybe?" they echoed, tilting their head. "Guess I’ll have to keep goin’ ‘til you forgive me, then…"

And then—

They thrust.

Deep. Slow. Purposeful.

And you—

You cried out.

They shushed you through the cry, murmuring low and soothing against your lips, but their movements didn’t falter. If anything, their grip on your hips tightened, keeping you right where they wanted you as they rolled into you again—deep, slow, letting you feel every inch of them as they stretched you open all over again.

"There we go," they murmured, dragging their lips down your throat, feeling the way your pulse raced beneath their mouth. "Takin’ me so good, Angel. Y’always do…"

Your breath hitched, legs twitching where they were wrapped around their waist, toes curling with every slow, devastating movement. "R-Redacted—"

"Shh, I know…" Their voice was all honey and heat, melting into you. "I know, Angel. I got you…"

But they didn’t stop teasing.

Their hips moved at a pace that was infuriatingly slow, drawing out every sensation, forcing you to feel it—like they wanted to savor you, like they wanted to pull every last sound from your lips before they finally let you have what you wanted.

And you were—

You were so frustrated. So worked up and sensitive that it was too much and not enough all at once. You needed more, you needed faster, you needed—

"Damn it, Redacted, please—!"

They chuckled, low and warm against your skin, their lips curling against your shoulder. "Please what, Angel? Gotta be specific…"

Your face burned. They knew exactly what you wanted, they just wanted to hear you say it—to make you beg for it.

"P-Please, just—" You clenched around them, nails digging into their back, eyes squeezing shut as another slow thrust sent fire up your spine. "Just stop teasing and—"

"And what, Angel?" Their voice was syrupy sweet, mocking in the softest, most affectionate way. "Say it for me…"

Your pride was screaming at you to fight back, to bite back something smart, to refuse to give them the satisfaction—

But then they rolled their hips, slow and deep, and any resistance you had left shattered.

"J-Just fuck me already—!"

They groaned, deep and pleased, like that was exactly what they were waiting for.

"That’s my Angel…"

And then—

Then they snapped their hips forward.

Hard. Fast. Deep.

Their breath hitched, and then they growled—low, deep, vibrating through their chest and into you.

"More, huh?" Their fingers tightened on your hips, their weight pressing you into the mattress as they pinned you down completely. "Y'got no idea what you're askin' for, Angel…"

But they gave it to you.

They slammed into you, hard enough to send shockwaves through your body, hard enough to knock every breath from your lungs. The rhythm was relentless now—fast, deep, dragging you to the edge so quickly your head spun. Your body jolted with every thrust, fingers curling into the sheets, clawing at their back, at their shoulders, at anything you could hold onto—

"F-Fuck—!" You barely had breath to speak, barely had thoughts left beyond the heat, the overwhelming pleasure, the way they were stretching you, filling you, ruining you—

They buried their face against your neck, breath hot and ragged, groaning with every desperate snap of their hips. "S'good, Angel. So perfect—"

Their lips ghosted against your pulse, hot and open-mouthed, before sinking their teeth into your skin—hard.

You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, blinding, consuming, your body arching into them as you came with a cry, trembling beneath them as your vision whited out.

And they didn’t stop.

"C’mon, Angel—give me another," they rasped, voice thick with praise, with possession, with love. "Bet you can, can't you? Bet you can take one more for me—"

You shuddered, body trembling beneath them as waves of pleasure crashed through you, but they weren’t done—not yet.

"Again, Angel," they murmured against your skin, voice thick, almost pleading now. "Let me feel you—let me hear you."

You bit your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to keep your sounds from spilling out—

But then they thrust one last time, deep, grinding against you as they spilled inside, hot and thick, sending you spiraling into another sharp, helpless climax.

And that was it. That was the moment you broke.

A choked sob escaped your lips, your whole body tightening around them as pleasure wrecked you, as their name tore from your throat in a breathless, trembling moan—

"Fuck— that’s it, that’s it," they groaned, arms locking around you, holding you close as they rode out the last pulses of pleasure, as they filled you to the brim.

It was overwhelming—too much, too deep, too intimate.

And still, they didn’t pull away.

Instead, they held you, breath hot against your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin. Their hands traced soothing circles over your hips, grounding you, keeping you close, like they couldn’t let go.

"You okay, Angel?" their voice was softer now, gentle, laced with something raw, something vulnerable.

You barely had the strength to nod, still shaking in their arms, still feeling them inside you, still coming down from that high.

They pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, their fingers tightening around yours as they whispered, "S’good. So good. Mine."

And fuck.

Your heart ached.

They let out a soft chuckle, still breathless, still soaked in heat and the remnants of pleasure. Their arms curled around you, pulling you against their chest, their heartbeat pounding against your ear.

"Man," they murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something softer, sweeter. "That’s one way to let off steam."

You scoffed weakly, burying your face against their skin, trying to fight the warmth spreading through your chest.

"Shut up," you mumbled.

They just smirked, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Never."

The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the gentle hum of their fingers tracing up and down your back, soothing, steady—like they never wanted to let you go.

"Y’know," they muttered after a moment, "if I pissed you off on purpose, d’you think—"

You pinched their side before they could finish.

They yelped—then laughed, burying their face in your hair, still cradling you like you were something precious. Like they couldn’t believe they got to have you like this.

"Love you," they whispered against your temple, breath warm, tender.

And even though you were still pretending to be mad, still trying to act like you weren’t melting at their touch—

You whispered it back.

#14 days with you #14dwy ren #14dwy x reader #ren 14 days with you #14dwy #14 days with you ren #14dwy redacted x reader #14dwy ren x reader #14dwy redacted #14 days with you redacted #14 days with you x reader #14 days with you ren x reader

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