#half feline reader

[aventurineswife]

Salutations, I come to thee to make a request!

I implore you, conjure one of your fine works of art under the concept of Jiaoqiu with a half-feline reader.

A fox and a cat, I wish to read such a work. And if it were to be you writing it, why, the letters upon the page shall radiate with divine light!

I give you my deepest gratitudes. 🙏

A Fox and a Cat, Entwined in Fate

Summary: Jiaoqiu has spent years mending the wounds of war, though he remains unable to heal his own heart. When you—a half-Feline warrior���enter his life, curiosity and quiet understanding bloom between you. Through late-night conversations and unspoken gestures, you begin to unravel each other’s loneliness, finding solace in the company of another night-bound soul.

Tags: Jiaoqiu x Reader, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Half-Feline Reader, Mutual Understanding, Gentle Intimacy, Healing, Emotional Growth, Quiet Moments.

Warnings: Mentions of War and Loneliness, Mild Angst with Comfort, Implied Emotional Wounds.

A/N: what's up with the old english?! 😭🙏

The scent of medicinal herbs clung to the air, blending with the faint aroma of simmering broth. The flickering lanterns cast warm, wavering shadows upon the walls of Jiaoqiu’s study, where the famed healer sat, his fingers carefully arranging delicate porcelain bowls upon the low wooden table. The nine-square grid of his medicine was set before him, a system of balance and restoration—one he had perfected over years of turmoil and reflection.

Across from him, you watched in quiet fascination, your feline tail curling idly around your waist. Your ears twitched at every soft clink of porcelain against wood, attuned to the subtle movements of the blind Foxian before you.

“Your presence is heavy with silence,” Jiaoqiu mused, his voice carrying the same gentle warmth as the steam rising from the bowls. Though his eyes remained closed, a serene expression graced his features. “Is it curiosity or skepticism that stills your tongue, little cat?”

You exhaled a soft huff, amused by his ever-poised manner. “Neither. I was simply watching. Your hands—” you hesitated, “they move as if your eyes still see.”

A ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Perhaps they do, in a different way.” His fingertips brushed lightly against the rim of a bowl, and though his eyes did not open, he tilted his head in your direction. “Sight is not always bound to vision, just as medicine is not always bound to the body.”

You frowned, mulling over his words. Jiaoqiu had been an enigma since the moment you’d met—a healer, a strategist, a man burdened by the weight of his own wisdom. And yet, there was something about him that called to you, like a whisper in the wind, elusive but ever-present.

“You sound as if you’re speaking of me,” you murmured, your tail flicking behind you.

Jiaoqiu chuckled, a quiet sound, like falling leaves. “Do I? Then perhaps it is because you are much like a medicine yourself—restorative, sharp at times, and not always easy to swallow.”

You felt a warmth creep up your neck, but you masked it with a scoff. “And what ailment do I treat, Healer Jiaoqiu?”

His fingers stilled over the grid of bowls, his expression softening. “Loneliness,” he said, so simply that it sent an unexpected pang through your chest.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, save for the distant murmurs of the Yaoqing encampment outside. You lowered your gaze, your claws lightly grazing the fabric of your sleeve. Loneliness. It was an affliction you knew well—one that crept into the quiet moments, sinking its claws into your heart when you least expected it.

Jiaoqiu, despite his composed exterior, bore the same wounds. His hands healed others, but who, truly, had ever healed him?

With a careful motion, you reached out, your fingers grazing the back of his hand. He did not flinch. Instead, his palm turned upward, meeting your touch with a quiet understanding.

“A fox and a cat,” he mused, his voice softer now. “Two creatures of the night, wandering different paths, yet drawn by the same moon.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Is this your poetic way of saying we’re alike?”

His fingers curled lightly around yours, a touch neither forceful nor fleeting. “No,” he murmured, “it is my way of saying… we are not alone.”

And in that moment, beneath the dim glow of lantern light, the fox and the cat—two souls burdened by the weight of war and solitude—found solace in the quiet understanding between them.

[jaeyuniversal]

you broke me first - l.hs

pairing: virgin!lee heeseung x experienced fem!reader

synopsis: you and heeseung are the school’s golden pair — popular, admired, and constantly shipped. the only problem? you can’t stand him. from competing on exams to gym class, you’re always neck and neck, and no one gets under your skin like he does. but while you see a rival, he sees the love of his life. when you overhear a hushed conversation that breaks you, will heeseung be able to win you back?

featuring: all of enha, winter from aespa, yuqi from (g)i-dle, and keeho from p1h

genre: angst... slow burn, some fluff, kissing, skinship, SMUTTTT, college au, first love trope?? sorta? one sided enemies to lovers

warnings: smut so mdni (18+), alcohol consumption, vandalizing property, Sexual Tension, everyone is around the same age (21-23), lowercase intended <3

playlist: you broke me first by tate mcrae & what was i made for — billie eilish

(smut warnings under cut!)

wc: 13.271k

a/n: first fic is here! plsplspls leave feedback as anything helps!! was listening to you broke me first and got inspo for a kinda angsty fic pls bare with me :3 anyways! enjoy the read <3<3

smut content: mention of toys (but no use), fingering, squirting, unprotected sex (not for you), dry humping, switch! hee and reader, riding, mating press, too much kissing, masturbation (m.), breeding kink, slight dacryphilia, oral (m. & f.), deepthroating, belly bulge, creampie, size kinkish, big dick! hee, not much aftercare but it's like fluffy, y/n has a “reputation” that she gets around, VIRGIN HEESEUNG (but no one knows…) i think thats it? lmk if i missed anything ◡̈

not proofread!

lee. fucking. heeseung. you hate him. you can't stand him. he always knows what to say just to piss you off. you might be wondering, "why don't you just try to avoid him?" the issue is... you do. you try with ALL your power but to no avail, he's in the same friend group as you.

your friends, knowing you hate him, decided to combine friend groups to see if you and him could mend things. spoiler alert: it failed miserably.

you felt safe in your small circle with keeho (the man you deemed to be your biological older brother — you aren't related), yuqi (your junior high best friend), and winter (your literal wife).

you guys were well known around the entire city of seoul for being the "it group" — always partying, hooking up, and somehow still acing every class (while nursing massive hangovers).

however, heeseung's friend group consisted of the golden boys in decelis university: park jongseong (known as jay, he hates his given name), sim jaeyun (known as the australian transfer student, jake), park sunghoon (the insanely hot figure skater), kim sunoo (the bubbliest person you've ever met), yang jungwon (the boy with feline features, however you've made a special note to never piss him off cause he has a black belt), and nishimura riki (known as ni-ki because he wanted to be different).

you loved riki. he was like your younger brother — chaotic, blunt, and always three steps ahead of everyone. you’d even joked once that if you had to suffer heeseung’s presence, at least you got riki out of it.

unfortunately, riki had the worst habit of instigating chaos.

“truth or dare?” he asked one friday night, grinning like he already had your life planned out. everyone was crammed into jay’s ridiculously large basement, music low, snacks half eaten, and bodies sprawled on beanbags and plush carpet.

you should’ve said “truth.” you knew you should’ve. but you weren’t a coward.

“dare,” you answered, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

the group erupted in ooooh's in perfect synchronicity.

riki’s grin only widened. “i dare you to sit on heeseung’s lap for five minutes.”

you almost lunged across the room.

“riki,” you hissed, “you are so dead.”

he just wiggled his brows suggestively. “i’m a baby. you wouldn’t hurt me.”

the worst part? he was right.

you looked over at heeseung, who was watching you like a cat watching a cornered mouse — lazy smirk, fingers casually drumming against his knee. “scared, sweetheart?”

“i’ll kill you in your sleep,” you said sweetly as you stalked over and dropped yourself into his lap like he was made of cardboard and air.

he oofed, not because you were heavy, but because he wasn’t expecting you to actually do it.

“wow,” he murmured, lips near your ear. “you smell like citrus and bad decisions.”

you resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

five minutes. you just had to survive five minutes.

but then his hands casually settled on your waist, and you felt it — the spark. the electric, traitorous, goddamn spark that told you this was a very, very bad idea.

because maybe, just maybe, your hatred wasn’t as pure as you thought- no. what are you thinking??? you immediately shook the feeling that was buzzing inside you and blamed it on the alcohol swimming in your blood.

you definitely. hated heeseung. yup, yeah, you really did.

heeseung on the other hand? he was just praying to every god he could think of that you couldn't feel how sweaty his palms were getting.

because he was panicking. full blown, internal screaming, oh-no-she’s-sitting-on-me-and-she’s-warm kind of panicking. he hadn't expected you to actually follow through on your usual threats, much less practically straddle him in front of your mutual friends.

but now? now he was just trying to not pass out from the sheer force of your perfume and presence and the weight of years of unresolved tension that sat heavier than you ever could.

"you're sweating," you said flatly, side eyeing him with that expression that usually meant murder or mockery — or both. "you good?"

"totally," he croaked. "i always nearly die when beautiful people threaten me. it's, like, my thing."

you blinked once. twice.

"did you just call me beautiful?"

"i said what i said," he muttered, then immediately regretted everything.

your brows lifted in slow, dangerous amusement. "you feeling okay, heeseung? you hitting on me while i’m threatening you?”

“wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, almost too quiet for you to hear.

and there it was again. the spark. like a lighter flicked too close to your frayed nerves.

you looked away, choosing to focus on literally anything else, but his grip on your waist tightened just slightly, grounding you, almost daring you to acknowledge it.

“how much longer do i have to sit on this assholes lap?” you questioned under your breath, reminding yourself, reminding him, that this was temporary.

"4 minutes!" jake sang back as his accented voice rang in your ears. fuck, it's only been one minute? you thought to yourself... until he spoke.

“i could ruin us in three,” he whispered, warm breath tickling your ear. he was so close you could practically feel his labored breathing against your back. you craned your neck to the side so you could look him in the eyes, "what did you just say???" heeseung was at a loss for words — his brain only drawing blanks.

did he say what he thought he said in his head out loud? impossible. he's hidden it so well, no one in your guys' shared friend group had even suspected his overbearing attraction towards you.

so heeseung did the only thing he could think of. he gulped.

just as your gaze dropped to his adams apple, sunghoon cleared his throat, reducing the fiery tension between you two to reduce to a simmer. "time's up" he stated. and just like that, the warmth you once shared was gone.

as the game progressed, the most interesting things to occur were jake kissing sunghoon on the cheek, riki vandalizing an old alley way that never saw the sun, and winter lady-and-the-tramping a twizzler with keeho.

you and heeseung never dared to even spare a glance in each other's direction for the rest of the night.

───

you laid awake, staring at the ceiling in jay's basement while trying to get comfy on the leather couch that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. you couldn't sleep. and the reason? none other than your self-proclaimed arch nemesis: lee heeseung.

your friend groups slept on different floors to prevent you and heeseung arguing and waking up the entire house. you slowly got up, attempting and (barely) succeeding to not step on a sleeping figure sprawled on the floor.

as you walk up the stairs from the basement, you hear two people whisper shouting at each other.

you glance at the time displayed on your phone.

a measly 3:16 am stared brightly at you. who's awake at this hour?? as you step closer to the hushed voices, you think you can make out the unmistakeable deepness of riki's voice and heeseung's annoying(ly hot) whispers, tinged with sleep.

"why the fuck would you dare HER of all people to sit on MY lap????" heeseung shouts quietly, clearly frustrated. riki bursts into a fit of giggles. "dude, don't tell me you feel something for her, don't you guys like hate each other?" he says between snide little chuckles.

heeseung freezes. there's no way riki really caught on to what he was supposed to never let slip through the cracks... right?! so he musters up all the dignity he has left and defensively grunts a series of defenses "nowhywouldieverseeherlikethatsheisn'tmytypeandithinkshe'sgross"

riki blankly stares back at heeseung's panicking eyes, "okayyy," he drags the word out, "you don't need to put her down like that, she's like my older sister, dude" riki spits back.

your lips twitch in a small smile, just for a second. just long enough for riki to catch your eyes peeking behind the corner. he nods once, subtle and solid. always in your corner.

but the comfort dies as soon as heeseung opens his mouth.

"i could never love someone like her."

and the world stops.

he says it so casually. almost like it’s a joke. like it's just another throwaway comment tossed between drinks and half-meant insults. but it lands with the weight of something cruelly true — or at least, something you believe he means.

you feel the breath hitch in your throat. just once.

riki's gaze is drawn to your frozen frame. and that's when everything freezes. heeseung whips around to see you standing there. eyes blown and glossy.

riki shifts, but he doesn’t move to try and console you — he knows better. knows this is something that'll bruise. something you need time to process, alone.

you bite back tears. “right,” you say, quietly. “of course.”

heeseung’s expression flickers — confusion, regret, something else — but you’ve already masked the pain. emotion draining from your face like you’ve trained for it. like it’s a sport. like if you stop moving, the hurt will catch up.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he says, a little too late, a little too soft.

you readjust your posture, fixing your shirt.

“you meant it exactly like that,” you reply, and it’s not even bitter. it’s worse. numb.

riki’s there before heeseung can say anything else. standing between you like a wall. like a shield.

“walk away,” he tells you gently, and you do.

because if you stay, you might ask him why not. and you’re not sure your heart could take the answer.

riki turns back to heeseung, flames he's never seen before burning in the younger boys irises that are normally filled with mischief and teasing glints. but all of a sudden none of that is there anymore. it's pure, unfiltered anger. raw emotion.

heeseung wants him to yell at him. say something, anything. but nothing comes. riki just walks upstairs like he doesn't even know who heeseung is anymore.

and maybe he doesn't.

───

the next morning, when heeseung wakes up, it's almost peaceful. until rain begins to tip tap on the roof and everything comes crashing down. his chest is tight and immediately swells with regret. so much he thinks it'll spill out of him just like the rain outside.

he needs to talk to you. make sure you're okay. but he knows he's the last person you want to see right now. still, he has to try

as he descends down the stairs, he doesn't smell the usual feast jay would prepare them: eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice and cereal for jake since he claims, "it doesn't hurt his tummy," (his words).

he actually doesn't see jake. nor sunghoon, sunoo, jungwon, jay, winter, yuqi, or keeho.

after last nights events, he expected not to see riki as he was probably with you.

how did he go from having the girl of his dreams sitting on his lap, to making her hate him even more?

it's simple, really: he fucked up.

he moves through the house like a ghost — rooms too quiet, air too still. no laughter, no music playing off someone’s phone. just him and the rain.

the basement still has the blanket you’d curled up with last night. your mug — half full. he picks it up, and it’s cold. like him.

he tries to call riki. no answer.

he tries to call you.

it goes straight to voicemail.

he types out a text. deletes it. tries again.

“i didn’t mean what i said. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i'm sorry, y/n”

he stares at it. sends it.

and immediately regrets it. because what if you never answer?

as he packs up all his belongings, ready for the uncomfortable drive home, someone enters the house.

heeseung's heart rate picks up. what if it's you? he bolts down the stairs and is ultimately disappointed when he's met with a very disapproving jay.

they stand across from one another, staring into each others eyes.

heeseung's the first to break. he collapses on the bar stool at the counter and drops his head into his hands like it weighs a ton.

jay just sighs and sits down next to his friend.

"is she okay?" heeseung mumbles, his face buried in his hands.

jay’s jaw tightens. "why do you care?" he snaps. "you sure as hell didn’t last night when you said you could never love someone like her."

the words hit hard — harder than jay intended — and heeseung shatters.

the sobs break out of him like a dam giving way, loud and raw. tears stream down his face, and the sound of it makes jay flinch, caught off guard by how real the pain is. how broken heeseung suddenly looks.

still, jay moves without thinking, reaching out and rubbing slow circles on his friend’s back. it doesn’t fix anything, but it softens the edges of the moment.

they sit there in silence, the storm outside echoing the one inside, as heeseung cries himself hoarse.

by the time he’s able to breathe steadily again, nearly an hour has passed. his eyes are red, his voice barely there. he lifts his head and meets jay’s gaze; tired looking into just as tired.

neither of them says much. there’s no need.

finally, jay sighs and stands. “go grab your stuff,” he says quietly. “you’re in no shape to drive. i’ll take you home.”

heeseung doesn’t argue.

because for once, he knows jay’s right.

───

your phone dings.

dni: i didn't mean what i said. i didn't mean to hurt you. i'm sorry, y/n

you stare at your phone. gaze void of emotion. you've cried out everything you could muster.

you don't even know why heeseung's words echo in your head.

were you really that intolerable to be around? surely you weren't. all of heeseung's friends enjoyed hanging out with you and same with your little group.

so why did hearing your supposed enemy say he could never love someone like you hurt so bad?

you suppose you need to distract yourself from thinking that heeseung's words have any sort of impact on you. and that's when your door swings open. riki, yuqi, winter, keeho, sunghoon, jake, sunoo, and jungwon walk into your apartment with food, video games, board games, coloring books, skincare — everything you needed at the moment.

a break.

a break from your spiraling thoughts and endless questions you didn't want answered.

there's a knock at the door, jay comes in after he dropped heeseung off, with a freshly made cake, red velvet. your favorite.

you don’t move at first.

the warmth of your friends floods the apartment — laughter, chatter, the familiar rustle of takeout bags and the buzz of game controllers syncing. but it feels distant, like you’re underwater, watching from behind a thick pane of glass.

yuqi wraps her arms around you from behind, cheek resting on your shoulder. “we got your favorite pork buns,” she says softly.

you nod. you don’t trust your voice.

riki’s the one who notices your phone still clutched in your hand. screen glowing. that message. his message.

he doesn’t say anything, but he takes the phone from you gently, pressing the lock button, letting the screen fade to black. and you’re grateful. because if you kept staring at it, you might’ve started crying again, and you didn’t think you had anything left in you.

“movie?” sunghoon offers, holding up a stack of dvd's none of you ever returned to the library.

“coloring?” sunoo chirps, already spreading out gel pens across your coffee table.

“face masks?” winter insists, already tearing them open.

you let them distract you. you let them love you in the only way they know how — loudly, messily, unconditionally.

there’s a moment, in the middle of the chaos, when keeho makes a stupid joke and jungwon snorts soda out of his nose, that you laugh. actually laugh.

and then it hits you like whiplash — how easily heeseung could’ve been here. how almost close you came to letting yourself believe there was something soft behind his smirks and eye rolls. how you’d dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, the tension between you wasn’t just one-sided delusion.

but then he said it. “i could never love someone like her.”

and even with the people you love surrounding you, something in your chest hurts. like a bruise that won’t stop blooming.

later, after everyone’s settled into pillows and half-finished coloring pages, riki sits beside you. he doesn’t speak for a long time.

then, quietly, “you don’t have to pretend around me.”

and that’s when your lip trembles. just slightly.

“i don’t know why it hurts this much,” you whisper. “i knew he hated me. i knew. so why do i feel so broken?"

“he didn’t have to say it like that,” riki replies, voice firm. “he didn’t have to break something just because he couldn’t admit he wanted to hold it.”

you nod, finally letting a single tear trail down your cheek. riki wipes it away before it can fall too far.

he squeezes your hand.

“he messed up,” he says. “that’s on him. not you.”

you hold onto that — his words, their presence, the comfort of being chosen and cared for.

and for the first time since last night, you breathe. not easily. not painlessly. but it’s a start.

───

heeseung didn't know how hard it would be to try and get any information about you.

how you were doing, if you were okay. anything

your mutual friends? after hearing how massive he fucked up, they sided with you.

sure, jay, jake, sunghoon, sunoo, and jungwon would text him and hang out with him occasionally, but they wouldn't utter a word about you. most of the time heeseung saw them, it would be for awkward movie nights or when they would game together when none of them could sleep.

when he was alone, his mind ached, his chest twisted in pain, but mostly... his body ached.

he tried to stop it, he knew it was wrong.

but when you sat on his lap, something in him shifted.

sure he knew you were pretty (breathtakingly stunning), but he never imagined something he thought about constantly would ever become reality.

he thought back to those 5 minutes. the tension. surely it couldn't have just been made up in his head, right?

the way your entire body tensed when his hands rested on your hips. normally he wouldn't have touched you, but you were shifting and he needed to stop his growing problem before you noticed.

and thankfully it worked.

however, he was already hard as a brick.

his breath hitched as he remembered the look in your eyes — uncertain, but not scared. curious, maybe? or was he projecting again?

he swallowed hard, his hands now clenched at his sides like if he let them loose, they’d betray him again.

five minutes. that’s all it was. but it looped in his head like a damn broken record.

you hadn’t said a word. but your thighs had tensed. and when he shifted, trying to regain his composure, you hadn't moved away — not immediately, anyway.

maybe it meant nothing. maybe you hadn’t even noticed the way his breath had gone shallow or the way he was holding back like his life depended on it.

but god, his body remembered.

he shifted in his bed now, alone, frustrated, angry at himself. this wasn’t who he was supposed to be. he wasn’t supposed to want this — to want you — not like this. not in silence, not in secrecy, not in pain.

but the damage was already done.

and the worst part?

he wasn’t sure he even wanted to stop anymore.

as he stared at his chase atlantic posters, he thought to himself. any guy would get hard when a pretty girl sits on his lap, right? surely it isn't just because he's a pathetic virgin who's had to lie to his entire friend group about how he "gets around."

soon enough, his thoughts were interrupted by the rapidly increasing ache between his legs.

his hands trembled slightly as they hovered over the tent in his shorts. his breathing was shallow, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as if he were caught in some fever dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

he hated how much he needed this.

how much he needed you.

with a low, strangled groan, he finally gave in, palming himself over the thin fabric. the relief was immediate, but it wasn’t enough — it never was. not when the ache ran deeper than just skin. not when every nerve in his body was screaming for more.

he slipped his hand beneath his waistband, hissing through clenched teeth as his fingers wrapped around his thick length, already twitching with need. he was so hard it hurt, painfully stiff and dripping at the tip, slicking his palm almost instantly.

your name burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it back.

he couldn’t say it. shouldn’t say it.

but in his head, it echoed over and over again. your laugh. your voice. the way you looked at him — or didn’t. the way you moved. god, he remembered everything. he was haunted by it.

he shut his eyes tight and let his hand move — slow at first, starting at his base and dragging his fingers up each vein decorating the sides. his patience wore out quicker than he'd ever admit, starting to move up his length, then down with just enough pressure to make his thighs twitch. he bit his lip, hard, trying to hold in the sounds. but as the memory of you shifting in his lap played behind his eyelids like a cruel fantasy, a soft whimper escaped.

he was losing it.

desperation clawed at him with every stroke, every flex of his hand. his hips lifted off the mattress as his muscles tensed. he imagined your fingers replacing his, your body hovering over his, your breath against his neck.

“please,” he gasped into the dark — not even sure what he was begging for. forgiveness? permission? you?

he pumped harder now, faster, chasing that high like it would save him. his other hand gripped the sheets, knuckles white. he was right on the edge, falling apart with nothing but the echo of your presence and the throb of need coiled deep in his belly.

“i need — fuck, i need you,” he moaned, broken and breathless. his body was hot, slick with sweat, twitching under his own touch.

he could feel it. the band threatening to snap at any moment.

he swirled his fingers around his tip, hitting that spot that made his vision go white. he was close.

all it took to unravel him was an image of you, mouth replacing his hand. trying to fit as much of him into your mouth while he just laid there and took it.

eventually the thought was too much, his seed spilled over his stomach in thick, messy ropes, his fist slowing only when the aftershocks wracked his frame like a wave of guilt and pleasure colliding all at once.

he laid there for a moment, chest heaving, skin flushed and sticky.

and then it hit him.

he still wasn’t satisfied.

because it wasn’t your touch. it wasn’t your voice, your kiss, your heat. it was just his hand and a fantasy he couldn't let go of.

and no matter how many times he did this, no matter how many times he used the memory of you…

it was never going to be enough.

───

you’ve held it together for as long as you could — smiled through movie nights, laughed at keeho’s stupid impressions, even ate something other than ramen yesterday. but it’s all surface level. the moment you're alone again, the cracks split wide open.

there you are, sitting on your couch, drowning in your thoughts. 

the faint glow of the streetlamp filters through the windows, further highlighting the text message staring back at you

“i didn’t mean it.” 

it replays in your head over and over like a broken record until your vision starts to blur. tears flood your waterline but you make no effort to stop them. 

you don’t sob. you just sit there, hurting so quietly it’s almost peaceful.

until it isn’t. 

your lip trembles slightly, then it all comes pouring out. 

“why? why did you say that? what the fuck. did i do to deserve those words?” 

riki hears your quiet words from the bathroom. he comes rushing out, empathy and sadness twirling in his eyes. 

“hey, hey, hey, talk to me y/n. yell at me if you need to, yeah?” he says. voice barely above a whisper. all you can choke out is a tiny “no, none of this is your fault.” 

riki sits next to you, holding you, trying to piece you back together as if he were the one who broke you.

disrupting the mellow silence lingering in your apartment, there’s a knock at the door.

not wanting the worst case scenario, you answering the door to heeseung, riki gets up and makes his way to where the sound came from. 

to both of your dismay, a tired heeseung stands in the doorway. 

his hair is messy, dark bags under his usually teasing eyes, looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

he freezes when he sees you. your puffy eyes, shaking hands, the way you curl in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear. 

riki steps in front of you, but you give him the signal to back down. you and heeseung can handle this alone. what’s another argument anyways? 

as riki walks away, heeseung starts slowly “yn…” 

you look at him. and no matter how hard you could have tried, nothing could have stopped you from snapping at him.

“why are you here?”  “i had to see you. i had to say–”  “you already said enough, heeseung.” 

god. the way you say his name. all he’s thought about since you last saw each other was you saying his name. and now, he doesn’t wanna hear it ever again. 

he opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it. 

“do you know what it felt like to hear you say i wasn’t lovable? that someone like me could never be enough for you?” 

as if you could read his mind, you shake your head, dismissing whatever he was about to spit out. 

with every last ounce of energy you can gather, you scream. “you don’t get to feel sorry now. you made your choice the other night. i knew we had a mutual hatred, or at least some twisted distaste, but i never even thought about saying something like that to you.”

he doesn’t respond right away. just stands there, frozen. then you hear it. soft sniffles. ragged breathing. sobs.

he breaks.

because this is the first time he gets it. really, truly understands what he did. what he said. what it cost you.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice cracked and barely audible. “truly. what i said last week… i didn’t mean it. even thinking it broke me.”

you stare at him for a long, quiet second. and then you say it — flat, but shaking.

“you broke me first, heeseung.”

his breath catches. your words land like a punch to the gut, because they’re the truth. maybe the first truth spoken between you in a long time.

heeseung, who’s always so calm. so composed. the one who rolls his eyes at everything and makes everything feel like a joke. he’s crumbling in front of you now. not fighting. not defending. just falling apart.

and then it hits you. maybe he’s always been like this.

watching you. listening. never the first to strike, only ever the one to react. maybe he was never the villain in this story.

your breath hitches. maybe, just maybe, you were wrong.

you don’t know why the realization crashes down now. maybe it’s the sound of his sobs. maybe it’s the way the silence has more weight than anything he’s ever said. but something inside you shifts.

and for the first time, you see him — not as the enemy. but as the boy who let you hate him, because he didn’t know how to ask for anything else.

you replay every argument like a tape stuck on rewind. you were always the one who started it.

the snide comments. the sideways glances. the venom you dressed up as jokes.

heeseung never really fought back. he always matched your energy, sure, but he never escalated it. never crossed a line. not until that night.

your chest tightens. you realize you don’t even remember what the first fight was about. some hallway bump? a misunderstood glance? maybe it was never about anything. maybe it was just you, projecting every piece of your brokenness onto the only person who saw through it and stayed.

god, had he always stayed?

you remember in elementary school, how he used to bring you extra snacks when you forgot lunch. how he gave you his hoodie that one time you were shivering during morning assembly, even after you’d spent the entire week roasting him in front of your friends.

you remember the way his gaze always lingered—not in a way that felt invasive, but like he was always checking. watching over you without saying a word.

and now here he is. slumped into his knees. back pressed against the wall, crying over you.

you were so busy building walls with your bitterness that you didn’t notice it was slowly breaking him. 

the quiet way he tried to reach over them.

you sink to the floor across from him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the weight of everything between you.

for a long moment, you don’t speak. neither does he. you just breathe in the silence together — like it’s the only language you both understand.

“i didn’t know how to stop hating you,” you whisper, voice catching. “because if i stopped… i think i would’ve started needing you.”

heeseung lifts his head. eyes red, lashes wet.

“i already did,” he says. “i never stopped.”

your heart fractures in a way that doesn’t feel sharp, just tired. heavy.

“i don’t know what to do with that,” you admit.

“you don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “not tonight.”

you nod. once. then you help him get up. both your legs feel numb, but you walk him towards the door. your hand rests on the handle, taking a second to look up at him. really look at him, and you’re tempted to say something. 

but instead, you give him the quietest thing you can offer: a small, broken sort of smile. not quite forgiveness. not quite goodbye.

then, he steps out into the night. and just like that, the quietness of everything settling in takes over. no more lies. just the truth.

as you’re deep in thought, riki walks in with two mugs of hot chocolate — extra marshmallows, your favorite. 

-ˏˋ⋆ 3 years ago ⋆ˊˎ-  

it’s a chilly summer night. you and riki are sprawled out on the roof of his parents' house, the shingles warm beneath your backs from the day’s lingering sun. crickets hum below. the stars blink overhead, careless and constant.

you shift slightly, seeking warmth, and without a word, riki lifts his arm. you curl into the space beside him, head on his shoulder, fingers tucked into the sleeve of his hoodie. his arm settles around you like it belongs there.

“do you think we’ll ever feel like this again?” you murmur. “peaceful. like nothing’s wrong.”

he hums low in his chest. “you mean without chaos or boys who don’t deserve you?”

you let out a breath, half a laugh. “exactly.”

there’s a pause, the kind that feels thick with unspoken things.

riki’s voice is soft when he finally speaks. “i think… the people who make you feel heavy, like you're constantly questioning yourself, that’s not love, y/n. that’s something else.”

you turn your face slightly to look up at him. he’s gazing at the stars like he’s afraid of admitting he craves the one thing he’s always sworn to never care about. 

“love should never hurt,” he says, quieter this time. “not the kind that stays.”

you don’t say anything right away. you’re too busy memorizing the way the night folds around his words. the way he’s always been a comfort for you, the one to pick you up when you’re falling. 

and in that moment, you believe him. you really do.

you nod once. “then i hope… when it’s my turn, it feels like this. safe.”

riki swallows. “me too.”

-ˏˋ⋆ present time ⋆ˊˎ- 

and now, back in your bedroom, the silence left in heeseung’s absence is deafening.

your gaze flicks toward the window, rain still threading down the glass like tear tracks. your mind lingers on that rooftop — the stars, the safety, the version of you who still believed in soft things.

before all the hook-ups, parties, and one-sided confessions. 

you pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders and whisper. either to riki or yourself, you don’t know.

“you said love should never hurt. i think heeseung missed that memo.”

and god, how you wish you could go back to that night — before the spiral, before the ache.

before the boy who made you feel like an afterthought.

before you let yourself fall over someone you thought you didn’t care about. 

riki leaves after making sure you’re alright, mumbling something about dance practice. 

and again, it’s just you. in the quiet. 

then, almost without thinking, you rip a blank piece of paper out of your journal.

you don’t plan it. it’s just instinct — fingers gripping your pen, waiting for permission your heart hasn’t quite given. but then you start writing.

dear heeseung,

i hated you before i knew how badly i could want you. maybe that’s where it all went wrong. because at some point, i stopped seeing you as the boy who annoyed me and started seeing you as someone i wanted to understand. as someone i wanted to look at me and see me. and for a while, i thought maybe you did. i thought maybe the way you pulled me into your lap, the way you whispered near my ear, the way your hand rested on my waist — i thought maybe it meant something. i thought i was stupid for hating you. turns out i was just stupid for hoping. you said you could never love someone like me. and god, that broke something in me i didn’t know was still whole. because even when i told myself i hated you, there was always that small, traitorous part of me that wondered: what if he doesn’t hate me back? what if it’s more? but it wasn’t. and now i can’t unhear it. you probably didn’t even mean it — not in the way it came out. maybe it was fear, or pressure, or ego. but it doesn’t matter, does it? words don’t get erased just because we didn’t mean them. they echo. and yours… yours are still echoing inside me like a song i can’t shut off. i don’t think i’m mad at you anymore. i think i’m mad at myself. for letting you get close. for not guarding the parts of me i only let out in small doses. for thinking i was different to you. i wish you hadn’t said it. but mostly, i wish it hadn’t mattered so much to me that you did. – y/n

you take out an envelope, neatly fold the paper and stuff it inside, writing a neat ‘heeseung’ on the front of it. 

some truths aren’t meant to be sent. some confessions are only meant for the rain to witness.

and tonight, that’s enough.

───

the second the door shuts behind him, the silence hits like a punch to the ribs.

heeseung stands there for a second too long, staring at the wood grain of your door like it might open again. like maybe you’ll come running after him. like maybe that small, broken smile you gave him wasn’t the end.

but it doesn’t open.

and it was the end.

he starts walking. he doesn’t even remember moving his feet, just that suddenly he’s outside, and the rain greets him like an old friend. cold, sharp, unforgiving. it soaks through his hoodie in seconds, but he doesn’t flinch.

he deserves it. every drop. every chill. every echo of your voice in his head.

“not quite forgiveness. not quite goodbye.”

god, what did he do?

how did he take someone who was literally sitting in his lap, trusting him with the fragile thread of something real — and turn that into this? this mess of silence and space and words he can’t take back?

“i could never love someone like her.”

he had said it so carelessly. so cruelly. trying to deflect the attention off himself in front of your friends, like a coward. like a boy who still thinks protecting his ego is worth more than protecting a heart.

especially your heart.

he wipes his face with the back of his hand, unsure if it’s tears or rain. it’s probably both.

he thinks back to your eyes right before he left. the way you looked at him like he was someone you used to know. like whatever thread was between you had finally snapped.

and the worst part?

he couldn’t even beg you to stay.

because he knows — he knows — he doesn’t deserve it.

he walks home in silence, the city around him buzzing and breathing like it doesn’t care at all about the wreckage inside his chest. his phone buzzes a few times in his pocket, probably jay or jungwon checking if he made it back safely.

but none of it matters.

because there’s only one person he wants to hear from.

and you’ve already said everything you needed to say. in the way you didn’t ask him to stay. in the way you didn’t cry. in the way you simply closed the door.

so when heeseung finally steps into his apartment, soaked to the bone, trembling from more than just the cold, he collapses on his bed, stares at the ceiling, and whispers:

“i didn’t mean it. i swear i didn’t mean it.”

but there’s no one left to listen.

not tonight.

───

heeseung isn’t the center of your world anymore.

not in the way he used to be.

in the weeks that follow, your friends become your anchor. riki never leaves your side. winter brings over matcha lattes and blankets. sunoo paints your nails while jake tells bad jokes. you laugh again. slowly, but surely.

you start writing more letters.

some are angry. some are soft. some are nothing more than wordless scratches of ink on paper.

but one night, you write a letter that feels different.

you don’t even realize what you’re saying until it’s already down:

i wanted you. for a long time. maybe even when i said i hated you. maybe that was the only way i knew how to say it without crumbling. i masked want with rage. affection with sarcasm. love with loathing. you made it easier to run. but i wanted to stay. god, i wanted to stay.

you fold that letter gently. tuck it into your drawer. it doesn’t matter if he reads it. not now.

because healing isn’t about him.

it’s about you.

and you’re getting there.

lately, the weekends have felt lighter. your apartment has become a familiar gathering place again, only now, it’s just the people who stayed. who showed up. who chose you. heeseung hasn’t come around in weeks, and no one really talks about it. not in a cruel way, just in the quiet, understanding way that friendships shift when someone slips out of the picture.

you used to dread saturday nights, used to flinch every time the group chat lit up with plans. used to wonder if he’d show up, if you’d have to spend the night pretending not to notice the weight of his silence, the way your laughter dulled around him. but somewhere along the way, those nights started to feel easier. not because you stopped missing him — but because you started remembering how to miss him without hurting yourself in the process.

your living room is alive with warmth and laughter. the scent of popcorn and mango smoothies drifts through the air. blankets are piled high on the couch, soft pillows strewn across the floor where riki is dramatically throwing himself down after losing yet another round of mario kart to sunghoon, who’s grinning like he just won the olympics.

“cheater,” riki groans, pointing an accusing finger without lifting his head.

“just admit i’m better,” sunghoon replies smugly, stretching his legs across the coffee table like he owns the place.

in the corner, winter and yuqi are dancing barefoot to a chaotic mix of early 2000s pop and indie throwbacks — somehow still synced up to choreography you’d all made up back in sophomore year. their laughter is contagious, unfiltered and bright, and it tugs a smile onto your face before you even realize it.

keeho is halfway through teaching jungwon and sunoo a tiktok dance in the kitchen doorway, voice loud and arms flailing with exaggerated energy. they’re laughing too hard to get the moves right, collapsing into each other every time they mess up. jake, unfazed by the chaos, is blending something suspiciously green in the kitchen, wearing a headband that reads “chef vibes only.”

you’re curled up on the loveseat, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a half-finished smoothie in your hands. and for once, you’re not scanning the room for him. you’re not wondering what he’d say or how he’d look at you or if tonight would be the night he pulled you aside and finally said something real.

you’re just… here. and it’s enough.

someone throws a pillow at your head, probably riki, based on the cackling, and you lunge to retaliate, laughing as the pillow war erupts across the living room. it’s messy, loud, ridiculous. and it’s yours. this little world you’re rebuilding, one laugh, one night, one breath at a time.

there’s still a part of you that misses him. maybe there always will be. but tonight, that part is small. quiet.

outnumbered by joy.

meanwhile, heeseung is alone in his apartment.

the place is dim. quiet. it hasn’t felt like home in a long time. he's been staring at his phone for an hour now, hoping for a text that doesn’t come.

he thinks about the group chat. the silence from everyone. he thinks about the night he ruined everything. and how, somehow, he still wants to fix it.

he knows an apology isn’t enough. not this time.

he needs to show you, all of you, that he’s not the same guy who let his fear speak louder than his heart.

he just doesn’t know how yet.

but he will. he has to.

because he doesn’t just want forgiveness.

he wants to deserve it.

───

somewhere in the chaos, one of your unsent letters goes missing.

riki finds it by accident. tucked under a cushion, edges worn. he doesn't mean to read it, but your handwriting draws him in, and before he knows it, he's holding your heartbreak in his hands.

he doesn't say a word. just slips it into his pocket and walks away.

a day later, heeseung finds the letter folded on the seat of his car.

he doesn’t recognize the paper at first. but the second he sees your handwriting, his heart drops.

his hands shake as he unfolds it. the silence around him is so loud, he can hear his pulse in his ears.

and then he reads it.

every word. every line. every raw, aching truth you never meant for him to see.

i thought maybe the way you pulled me into your lap, the way you whispered near my ear, the way your hand rested on my waist — i thought maybe it meant something. turns out i was just stupid for hoping. you said you could never love someone like me. and god, that broke something in me i didn’t know was still whole.

heeseung sits there, completely still. letter trembling in his grip.

"fuck," he whispers. "fuck."

he shows up to the next group hangout like his life depends on it.

he doesn’t talk to anyone. not really. not until you walk in.

you freeze when you see him. part of you wants to turn around and leave.

but he doesn’t let you.

he stands. crosses the room.

"can we talk?" he asks, voice low, not demanding, but pleading.

you don’t say anything.

"please. just five minutes. if you still hate me after, i’ll leave you alone. forever."

there’s a long pause.

you nod.

he takes you outside, away from the noise, into the quiet night.

"i read it," he says.

you blink. "read what?"

he reaches into his jacket and pulls out the letter. your letter.

your stomach drops.

"i wasn’t supposed to see it, i know. but... i’m glad i did."

"heeseung—"

"no. let me say this. please."

his eyes are desperate. glassy. his words shaky.

"i lied. that night. i said that because i was scared. because i felt too much, too fast, and didn’t know what to do with it. i thought if i pushed you away, i could kill whatever it was before it killed me."

he takes a step closer.

"but you weren’t just someone i hated. not really. you were someone i couldn’t stop thinking about. you were the highlight of every party, every night, every moment. i was an idiot. but i never stopped wanting you."

your throat is tight.

"you broke me," you whisper.

he nods.

"i know. and i’ll spend every second proving to you that i’m sorry. not with words — with time. with actions. with everything you’ll let me give."

there’s silence.

then you take a breath.

"you’ve got a lot to prove, lee heeseung."

he gives the smallest, hopeful smile.

"then let me start now."

and he does.

not with fireworks. not with promises he can’t keep. but with the small things. the consistent things.

the next morning, there’s a text from him. simple. 

“did you sleep okay?”

you stare at it for a while before replying. 

“yeah. you?” 

“not really. kept thinking about you.”

you don’t answer that. but your heart stirs anyway.

a few days later, he’s waiting outside your class with a drink in his hand, the one he used to make fun of you for ordering (“that’s basically sugar and foam, y/n”), but now buys without hesitation. he doesn’t try to walk you home. doesn’t push. just hands you the drink, offers a soft “you looked tired,” and walks away before you can respond.

he lets you come to him.

at the next hangout, he doesn’t hover. doesn’t sulk. he helps jake in the kitchen, jokes with jungwon, lets the others tease him without biting back. when you walk in, his eyes find you — but he doesn’t pull you aside. just offers a quiet, careful smile. like he’s waiting. like he’s learning how to stay.

one night, you’re struggling with your laundry, balancing way too many bags and a basket of unfolded clothes, and he appears without a word, grabbing half the load from your arms. you glare at him, but you don’t tell him to stop.

he walks with you to the laundry room, helps you separate colors, folds your towels when you’re too tired to finish. “i owe you way more than this,” he says softly. you don’t look at him. “yeah,” you murmur. “you do.”

he doesn’t reply. just keeps folding.

you start to notice it more after that. the way he lingers behind after group dinners to help clean. the way he listens, really listens, when you talk, even if it’s just about the books you’re reading or the music you’ve been into lately. the way he starts learning your rhythms again, not to manipulate them, but to respect them.

one night, you find a note slipped into your bag.

“this isn’t about getting you back. it’s about being someone who deserves to stand beside you. i don’t expect anything from you. just… thanks for letting me try.”

you don’t know what to do with that. but you keep the note anyway.

and maybe the biggest moment doesn’t feel big at all. it’s late. you’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, overwhelmed with everything—assignments, memories, feelings you’ve tried to ignore—and he shows up.

he doesn’t say anything. just sits beside you. close, but not too close. his shoulder brushes yours. your hand trembles. and without looking at you, he says, “you don’t have to talk. just let me sit here.”

and you do.

because he’s not trying to fix you. he’s just showing up. and maybe that’s what love looks like now.

quiet. patient. real.

you don’t forgive him all at once.

but some nights, it’s harder to pretend you don’t want to.

like the night it rains, and you forget your umbrella. you’re standing under the campus archway, clutching your books to your chest, half-considering just running for it, when a quiet voice says, “hey.”

you turn. heeseung’s holding out his umbrella, expression unreadable, hair already wet from the walk over.

“you’ll get soaked,” you mumble, surprised. “i don’t mind,” he says. “but you hate the rain.”

you want to tell him to leave. want to remind him that knowing those things doesn’t mean he’s forgiven.

but instead, you step under the umbrella. shoulder to shoulder. hearts too close. you don’t say a word the whole walk home. but you remember how he always matched his pace to yours. he still does.

───

there’s another time. movie night.

everyone’s over again, sprawled across the living room. you end up between yuqi and jungwon on the couch, but at some point, someone moves, and when you shift, you realize you’re next to him. again.

the movie plays. people whisper and pass snacks and argue over the plot twist. but all you feel is the space between your knee and his. the ghost of warmth where your arms nearly brush.

you don’t move away. neither does he.

and at one point, you laugh at a stupid scene. without thinking, you glance at him, wanting to see if he found it funny too. he’s already looking at you. and for a second, everything stills.

you look away first. but your heart doesn't stop racing for a long, long time.

───

the third moment is softest of all.

it’s late. everyone’s left. you’re cleaning up alone, stacking plates in the kitchen.

you don’t hear him come back until he’s beside you, rolling up his sleeves.

“thought i’d help,” he says gently. you nod. don’t speak.

you’re both quiet for a while, working in sync. something about it feels… familiar. domestic. like home.

then, as you’re drying the last cup, you glance over. he’s watching you, and there’s something in his eyes. something tender. careful. full of things he hasn’t said yet.

“i miss you,” he says softly. 

your breath catches.

you set the cup down.

“heeseung–”

“i’m not asking for anything,” he interrupts, voice thick. “just… i miss you. and i wanted you to know.”

you swallow hard. there’s so much you could say. but instead, you whisper, “i know.”

he nods once. and then he leaves. because he meant it — he wasn’t asking for anything. but that’s the moment you know: you don’t hate him anymore. you never did. 

───

it happens a week later.

a rooftop. stars overhead. winter’s birthday, most of your friends are tipsy on alcohol, sugar and too many karaoke songs. you haven’t had a drop of alcohol, wanting to truly feel everything.

heeseung finds you leaning against the railing, eyes on the sky.

“hey,” he says. you nod and let him stand beside you.

the silence isn’t awkward anymore. it’s soft. steady.

“can i ask you something?” he says, barely audible.

you hum.

“do you still feel it?” he asks. “whatever it was… whatever we had.”

you don’t answer for a long time.

and then, quietly… “i never really stopped.”

he turns. slowly.

your eyes meet. and in them is every apology he’s ever whispered with his actions. every moment he gave you space. every time he showed up when he didn’t have to.

you reach for him first.

your hand brushes his. his fingers curl around yours like a prayer.

and then, finally, he kisses you.

soft. aching. full of every unspoken word, every almost, every could’ve been. this isn’t the kind of kiss that demands anything. it’s a promise. a beginning.

you pull back first, just enough to whisper, “i don’t wanna do this while you’re intoxicated, i don’t want you to regret it.” 

he stares at you before mumbling into your lips.

“y/n, i haven’t had a drink, but it feels like i’m drunk when i kiss you.” 

your heart stops and everything fades into the background. “don’t break me again.” you plead, face inches away from his. 

he presses his forehead to yours.

“never again,” he breathes.

and this time, you believe him.

as he reconnects your lips, his hands tremble slightly where they find purchase on your waist. the night air is cool, but your skin is burning—flushed, alive, and aching in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in so long.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes flick between yours and your lips, like he’s still not sure this is real.

“we don’t have to,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “just say the word.”

but you don’t want him to stop. not tonight. not after everything.

so you slide your fingers into the collar of his jacket, tug him closer until your lips brush his again.

“take me home, heeseung.”

and he does.

his apartment is quiet when you get inside, the chaos of the earlier party gone, the night still humming with something electric. you barely have time to kick your shoes off before his mouth finds yours again. hungrier now, more desperate. like all the restraint he’s shown is unraveling, thread by thread.

his hands are everywhere — your hips, your waist, your jaw. like he’s relearning you. memorizing the weight of you against him.

you tug his jacket off, fingers fumbling with the zipper, and he lets out a low, breathless laugh against your neck.

“still impatient,” he teases.

“still hot when you shut up,” you shoot back, and he groans.

you barely make it to the couch.

he sits first, pulling you into his lap like it’s instinct, like he’s needed this for months. your knees straddle him, bodies pressed chest to chest, your hands tangled in his hair as he kisses you like he’s starving for it.

he tilts his head, deepens the kiss, and it’s filthy. slow. wet. your hips roll against his without thinking, and the noise he makes, low and guttural, goes straight to your core.

“fuck,” he groans. forehead against your collarbone. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you arch into him, tug his shirt over his head, and he follows suit, fingers slipping under the hem of yours, eyes flicking up for permission. you nod, and he peels it off slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something precious.

his hands trail over your skin like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to deserve you.

and then his mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, trailing down until you’re gasping his name, your back arching as he presses kisses across your collarbones.

“you’re so beautiful,” he whispers, like it hurts.

as you reach for his belt wanting to make him feel good, he puts his hand over yours. “there’s something i need to tell you.. before we take anything further.” he says like he doesn’t even want you to know. 

“what is it, hee?” 

god. that nickname. 

it’s what all his close friends call him, however when you say it. he wants to lay the world at your feet. 

“i’m.. uh– a vir-virgin…” he mumbles. you would have missed it had you not been paying close attention. 

you laugh. 

heeseung leans back into the couch, hoping, praying, wishing it to swallow him whole. 

as you observe heeseung, you realize he must be serious. “you’re a virgin? but you– you always used to talk about your hook-ups and how every week it was like you had someone new hanging off your arm??? what do you mean you’re a virgin?” 

he whimpers. he fucking whimpers. “i’m not proud of it, okay? i always came really close to hooking up with girls but i um. i couldn’t you know.. get it… up.” 

you sit there quietly, giving him time to compose himself and continue. 

“everytime i tried to lose my virginity, i couldn’t get hard unless i thought she was you,” he speaks, not gaining enough courage to look you in the eyes. 

you stare at heeseung for a moment, trying to process what he just said. the weight of it settles between you like a delicate secret, and suddenly the playful teasing tone you’d had before feels completely inappropriate.

you can see it in his doe eyes — how embarrassed he is, how much he wants to crawl out of his own skin. the corners of his lips are tugged in a tight line, as if holding in every emotion that threatens to spill out. but you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face. it’s soft, gentle, but laced with a teasing warmth.

“you’re a virgin?” you ask, letting the words linger a little longer than they should, pretending to be surprised as if he hadn’t just told you, twice.

heeseung’s face reddens, and you see him shrink further into the couch. you could almost feel his desire to hide, to escape. but you don’t let him. instead, you move closer, shifting between his legs, and place your hand on his thigh. a gentle, reassuring pressure.

“god, heeseung,” you tease softly, your lips curling into a smile that isn’t cruel, but playful. “how could you keep that from me? you’ve been all… big talk and ‘i get all the girls,’ and here you are, this nervous little thing, blushing at the thought of being with me?”

his eyes flicker with uncertainty, but you lean in just enough to press your lips to his ear. you feel him tense under the touch, and the subtle shiver runs through his body, telling you everything you need to know. he’s not as confident as he makes it seem.

“you should’ve told me sooner, you know,” you whisper, your voice low, just enough to make his breath hitch. “i would’ve been patient. we could’ve taken it slow.”

heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping the fabric of the couch like he’s holding onto some semblance of control. you smile knowingly, watching the struggle on his face. but it’s not discomfort — it’s desire. you can feel it in the way his eyes refuse to leave yours, in the way his body reacts to the gentleness in your touch.

“i… i don’t want you to think less of me,” he mutters, barely audible, but you catch it anyway. “it’s just… with you, it’s always felt different.”

you gently trace your fingers up his chest, watching as his breath quickens. you’re giving him space to breathe, to process, and then you lean in, brushing your lips against his in a soft, teasing kiss.

“stop worrying about that,” you say quietly, your lips just barely touching his. “i don’t think less of you. if anything, you’re hotter right now than ever before.”

the vulnerability in his eyes shifts. he’s still nervous, but the weight is lifting. and for the first time in a while, you see him start to believe that he doesn’t need to hide anything from you.

then, you shift your focus, teasing him once more with a playful grin. “but you know, heeseung… i could help you with that. we could take this slow, maybe help you get comfortable with what it feels like to be with me. you trust me, don’t you?”

he nods, slowly, not trusting his voice. he’s ready. maybe more than he thought.

and you take that as your cue. you kiss him again, deeper this time, letting the heat between you grow. his body responds to you almost immediately. hands shifting from nervous to eager, pulling you closer as his mouth moves hungrily against yours.

“let me take care of you,” you murmur, your hands trailing down to his belt. this time, you don’t hesitate. you undo it slowly, giving him time to react, but he doesn’t stop you. instead, he leans back into the couch, chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

heeseung’s eyes search yours one more time, a silent question in them. you nod gently, giving him permission to be vulnerable, to trust you fully.

and when your hands pull his pants down, you can feel the heat of him, see the evidence of his desire. you take your time, enjoying the way he reacts to each touch, savoring the way he trembles under your hands.

you start by rubbing over his bulge when your eyes widen. 

he just stares back at you, not blinking, but incredibly nervous. “is– is something wrong?” he stutters out. 

“wrong? no, heeseung. you’re huge.” 

he blushes and hides his face in his hands. his veiny hands. you’ll definitely need to put those to use later. 

you softly drag his hands away from his face and tell him to never hide from you. you think he’s beautiful like this. 

after he calms down, you look back into his eyes that resemble a deer, and he nods. signaling you to continue. 

you finally trail your eyes down to his raging hard on, you can almost see it pulse. 

his breath quickens the longer you take to begin touching him.

you start by teasing his swollen tip, arousal evident in the stain on his gray boxers. he sighs heavily, tipping his head back.

as you rub your hand down to his base, you get a feel for how thick he truly is. 

he’s hard. aching. even at the slightest touch, his eyebrows furrow and he holds back soft groans. 

you rip your hand off his clothed bulge. “if you want me to continue, you need to let me hear you, baby.” 

that was his breaking point, he quickly nods his head yes looking at you with pleading eyes, “c—can you please touch me? it hurts.” 

not wanting to tease him any longer, you rip his boxers off his thighs and his throbbing length slaps against his lower abdomen reaching just above his belly button. precum smears on his abs and you get the urge to lick it off.

so you do.

you gently move his dick away from his toned stomach, swiping your wet muscle along his abs, sucking to leave light marks. 

the noises he makes are downright pornographic, and you think you’ll never be able to hear them enough.

moving your attention back to the hardness in your grasp, you begin to lick up his shaft, tracing each vein with the tip of your tongue. his head is still tipped back, frustrating you a bit because you want his attention on you. 

so… in one swift motion, you take him down your throat until his tip hits the back. his head shoots up and he moans. loud. 

heeseung is in heaven. the feeling of your throat constricting around his cock, he never wants you to pull off of him. he gently pulls your hair into a ponytail, hands shaking when you start moving.

his apartment is filled with filthy noises: wet, loud, and obscene. 

he can hear and feel your gag reflexes kicking in but you don’t budge. you continue to move up and down, not wanting to stop until he cums. 

his tipping point was you somehow taking him even further down your throat, nose brushing his pelvis. he thought you were going to take a break for air but you didn't. 

you stay.

swallowing around him.

the pressure in your jaw is almost unbearable but when you feel his thighs shaking, you know he’s close. and you need to ruin him. 

hollowing your cheeks, you swirl your tongue around his engorged tip, hands coming up to play with his heavy balls. he can’t hold back anymore. the sensation of you taking his whole cock down your tiny throat and the stimulation of his balls in your hands. he groans. 

desperate. low. deep

and spills down your throat. warm, wet, and sticky ropes, pour out of his tip. taking up all the space you had left, some spilling out from the corners of your mouth.

you swallow all that you can, then pull off from his dick. 

heavy breathing is the only thing that can be heard. heeseung threw an arm over his eyes, chest heaving, trying to regain control of his senses.

meanwhile, you haven’t stopped clenching your thighs together. 

you didn’t even notice you were staring until he clears his throat. he just looks so gorgeous all fucked out.

“wow. did you– swallow.. it?” he asks through pants. 

you answer him like it was the most natural thing in the world, “yeah, because it was you” 

he moans, again. and that’s when you notice he’s still hard, still aching. 

as you move to straddle his lap, he grabs your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist. “not here, i want our first time to be special” he says softly, with a kiss to your temple. 

he carries you to his bedroom on wobbly legs and gently lays you down on his bed, hovering on top of you. he plants wet kisses all over your face, trailing down to your neck, collarbones, until he reaches your covered chest.

looking at you with big, lust filled eyes, he waits for your green light. you nod and he fumbles with your bra clasp, eventually tearing the fabric away. 

“you’re stunning,” he says completely awestruck by your half-naked form. 

as he continues staring, he licks his lips, slowly lowering his head wrapping his soft lips around one of your perky buds. 

you instinctively arch into his touch, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as his other hand gently kneads your other boob. soft gasps and whines slip from your lips as you try to grind up in search of any friction where you need it most. 

he senses your desperate pleas and starts moving his body to slot between your legs, face in front of your clothed core. you wiggle your hips trying to convince him to speed up and touch you where you need it the most. 

“can i…?” he practically begs, “yeah” you sigh as you relax into his plush sheets. he drags your sweats down your soft legs planting kisses along the inside of your thighs, all the way down to your calves. he makes his way to your panty clad pussy, pressing a soft kiss to your bundle of nerves aching for him. 

you don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on before.

he looks so good between your thighs, you want this image ingrained into your brain forever. 

he brings his thumb up to press on the wet spot that’s formed on your panties, groaning, “fuck, you’re so wet.” 

“all for you.” 

he replays those words in his head and his patience snaps. tearing your underwear in half, he wastes no time. tongue lapping and the wetness between your legs, like he’s been deprived of any liquid all his life.

you’ve never met someone this desperate to eat you out. or anyone for that matter.

he mumbles against your core, “guide me, please, wan’ you t’feel good, mmh.”

your hands take place in his silky soft roots, gently tugging on the strands. 

through whimpers, you tell him to focus on your clit, and surprisingly (for a virgin), he finds it fairly quickly. 

he briefly sucks on the nub, flicking it with his tongue to soothe it. “fuck, hee” you moan out into the space of his bedroom. 

he groans against your pussy, carefully bringing up his fingers so he can push his tongue into your awaiting hole. the moment he starts fucking you with his tongue, you arch your back and grind into his face, needing more. 

he heard his friends talking about “prep” and “stretching girls out,” so he wonders if you need to be stretched out to take him. you said he was huge, did you mean it? he has no idea, he’s a pathetic virgin who has only shoved his dick into his right hand. not even a pocket pussy or fleshlight. 

to your dismay, he pulls away for a brief second asking if he should use his fingers. “please, i need you to stretch me out, i can’t– take you without prep,” you rush out feeling your high not far away.

“shit, okay baby,” he mutters back before bringing his middle finger up to spread your juices around. 

your hips jerk up when he focuses on your clit, surprised by the stimulation. 

slowly, he pushes his finger in, getting used to the warm sensation of your walls. 

you clench around his thick digit, feeling fuller than when you finger yourself. as he pumps it in and out, you tell him to add another one and he does. 

moaning in relief, you arch into his touch as his tongue finds its way back to your sensitive clit. 

between him lapping like a dog and the feeling of two of his fingers pumping in and out of your tight hole, you feel a familiar band in your stomach building up.

your moans increase and heeseung feels dizzy, taking in all that you give.

he curves his fingers all while sucking on your bundle of nerves, causing you to tip over the edge and that band in your stomach to snap. 

you come crashing down, chanting his name like a mantra as heeseung helps you ride out your high. 

as you lift your head and meet his gaze, he looks more fucked out than you do. hooded eyes, tongue lolled out of his mouth, gaze consumed with lust. you pull him by the collar of his shirt until your lips collide in a mess of tongues and teeth. 

your makeout session unfortunately doesn’t last long as heeseung starts whining into your lips. 

that’s when you realize his cock found your bent knee, not so subtly grinding against it, trying to relieve some of the ache. 

“feeling needy, are we?” you tease, earning a playful roll of the eyes from heeseung. 

pulling back, you drink in his bare torso– he’s always been muscular as he was very popular with the ladies (until he got into bed with them). 

dragging your hand up his chiseled abs, his stomach tenses and his dick twitches. 

you found his second biggest weakness, besides you. his abs. 

deciding to end the teasing there, since you’re also becoming increasingly impatient, you flip him over so you land on top of him with a quiet, “oof.” 

as you settle your bare core on his rock solid cock, you start grinding, placing your hands on his chest for support. 

he can’t hold back the guttural groans spilling from his mouth. not believing you’re really on top of him right now. this isn’t just one of his wet dreams. 

he thought this couldn’t get any better, but when he struggles to get out a weak ask for a condom, you just respond with “no, i’m– on the pill. need to feel you. all of you.” 

and to that, he moans, not believing his ears. 

it’s his first time. and he’s about to have sex with YOU. raw. he thinks he’s dreaming. there’s no way you’re real.

you gently angle his dick towards your awaiting hole, sinking down until his fat tip is inside you.

instantly, you both sigh in relief, starting to feel the pressure ease up. 

if you feel a stretch at his tip entering you, you don’t know how you’re supposed to fit all of him inside you. he’s the biggest you’ve seen and he doesn’t even know it.

your attention is drawn back to the man consuming your brain when he whines. “m-more, please.” he’s becoming needier the longer you stay at just his tip but you don’t know how to tell him you’ve never taken a size like him before.

“hee-heeseung i need a sec, you’re– fuck. so thick,” you say between moans. 

his grip on your hips tightens, a silent way of telling you to take your time. 

when you finally deem yourself ready, you sink lower, wanting to speed it up, bracing the stretch to come. 

you feel him pulsing inside you and that’s all you need to sink all the way down, him bottoming out inside you. 

it’s his first time feeling anything other than his hand wrapped around him, and he whimpers, loud. it’s overstimulating in the best way possible and before he knows it you move up to his tip and bounce back down. his dick twitches and you feel it. every vein, every pulse, every movement, even his heavy breathing. 

heeseung, not in control of his movements, bucks his hips up, making another non-existent inch fit inside your stretched out core. 

you moan soft and loud, eyes rolling back, as the pain turned into pleasure. bouncing faster on his girthy cock, you uncontrollably clench around him, causing heeseung’s grip to tighten. you know it’ll bruise tomorrow, but at the moment, he feels too good for you to care. 

the room smells of sex, and the only sounds that can be heard are skin clapping and your shared noises. 

heeseung must notice your legs becoming tired because before you know it, you’re flat on your back with heeseung on top of you, cock never slipping out from your pussy. 

his large hands grab each of your thighs, pressing them to your chest.

his pace is slow at first, testing the waters, getting a feel for a rhythm. 

as his hands stay pressed to your thighs, he slowly drags out and pushes all of his dick inside you. 

you feel him deeper in this position, a bulge forming in your lower belly. 

when he notices, his eyes stay glued there.

you wonder what he’s looking at but the moment you look down, you’re met with his hand pressing slightly on the bulge causing the loudest moan to leave your lips. 

he signals you to hold your thighs as one of his hands holds himself up and the other focuses on how he can feel his dick inside your guts with every thrust. 

his pace suddenly quickens when you clench hard around him, making his hips stutter briefly. 

endless praises leave his pretty lips, telling you how good you feel, how hot you look laid underneath him, taking whatever he gives you. 

feeling a familiar, yet new sensation building rapidly, you try to warn him that you’re close but somehow, he already knows. “i know baby, let go whenever you want.” he mutters back, feeling just as close to his high.

“fuck– where do you want it?” he rushes out, not wanting to cum inside you if that isn’t what you want. 

but apparently, all the gods are smiling down on him as you release your thighs from the grip you had on them and wrap your legs around his waist. “inside,” you moan. 

and at that, he cums. hard. ropes of his hot, gooey, cum spill inside you. tipping you over the edge.

with a loud groan, clear liquid comes rushing out from you, spraying all over his sheets and lower abdomen. soaking his dick. 

heeseung moans. again. raw and unfiltered at the fact that you just squirted all over him (he’s seen enough porn and heard too many stories from your shared friend group to know what squirting is). 

as you come down from your high, heeseung is somehow still cumming. it spills out of you, creating an even stickier mess on his bed. but he doesn’t care. 

not when you’re beneath him, chest rising rapidly, trying to catch your breath. 

heeseung’s cock is still lodged inside you, holding half of his cum inside you, not wanting it to go to waste. 

as he collapses on top of you, he places a soft kiss on your forehead, holding your trembling body close to his.

you were the first to speak, “i didn’t even know i could do that,” talking about how you squirted all over him. “guess we both had firsts today,” he softly chuckles. 

his breath is warm against your skin, his arm tightening just a little around your waist as if anchoring himself in the moment. you don’t respond right away, too caught up in the quiet thrum of your heartbeat, the lingering warmth between you, the way his fingers begin tracing gentle, absent-minded shapes against your spine.

“i didn’t expect it to be like this,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the hush of the room.

“like what?” he asks, voice low, like he’s afraid to shatter the calm.

you shift slightly to face him, resting your head more comfortably on his chest. “soft. safe.”

Hheeseung lets out a breath that sounds like relief and something deeper, something reverent. “yeah,” he whispers. “me neither.”

for a while, neither of you say anything. he pulls the blanket higher over both of you, his other hand brushing your hair back with such tenderness that it makes your eyes sting. he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like he means it.

“you okay?” he asks, voice still rough from earlier, but softer now, like the edge of him has been smoothed by your touch.

you nod, then glance up at him. “are you?”

heeseung meets your gaze, and something in his expression shifts. vulnerability bleeding through the cracks he used to hide behind. “i am now.”

your heart squeezes.

he licks his lips, nervous. “i’ve been so stupid with you. all this time, i kept pushing and pulling, thinking maybe if i kept it messy, it’d be easier to walk away if i had to.” he pauses, his voice thinning. “but tonight just… made me realize i don’t want to walk away.”

your breath catches. “heeseung…”

“i don’t want this to be a one time thing,” he says, eyes searching yours. “not the sex, not the closeness. i want you. the fights, the tension, the way you drive me crazy and still somehow make me want to be better just by being around you. i’m so in love with you, it hurts.”

your lips part in surprise, and he laughs quietly, self-deprecating and shy. “too much?”

instead of answering, you lean up and kiss him, slow, deep, and full of all the things you couldn’t say until now. when you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, smiling as his thumb brushes over your cheek.

“i’m in love with you too, idiot.”

he grins, wide and a little teary-eyed, and pulls you closer like he’s never letting go.

and you know he won’t have to.

pls reblog & leave feedback <3 hope you enjoyed the read ◡̈

[ @jaeyuniversal ] prod. 250417

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition)

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus (+ maybe the other MLs!) and an oblivious player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, maybe some suggestive language?? will add more tags as the story progresses A/N: This is gonna be a multi-chapter fic! I’m still not sure whether to do the boys in rotation, or just focus on one ML per series. Don’t take my word for it atp tho – I’m not even sure if I can actually finish a series lol.  Also, I’ve had the creative liberty of changing stuff from the actual gameplay here and there. (Except for the self-awareness. That’s most definitely real.) Hope you enjoy~!

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue (for the spin-off: click here!)

It’s a quarter past eight and you’re still on your desk working overtime on a Friday night. 

You let out a big sigh, leaning back on your office chair after an unhealthy duration of bad posture from hours of slouching down in front of your computer. There’s nothing ergonomic about the way this job is killing you, and the ache in your lower back can attest to that. 

An irate orange tabby plops himself in front of you, blocking your view of the glaring screen and you figure that it’s time for a break. 

“Me-oow.”

“I know, I know,” You answer tiredly, standing up to dodge a stray paw clawing your way and you hear cracks in three different places that are honestly unbecoming of a woman your age. You haven’t even reached thirty yet, for god’s sake. “I’m a bad mother. But mom also had to skip dinner to make it to the seven PM meeting, so cut me some slack, okay?” 

A high-pitched “meooowr!” is the only response you get; it seems like there’s no excusing late dinner time this time around. 

As much as you’d like to hem and haw and complain, the main reason why you’re still keeping this job is because you can work remotely. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re stuck most days at home working hours past your regular nine to five, having to be on-call around the clock at all times, and that you’ve consumed more sodium than a nitrite victim with the way you live off cup ramen, then, really, it beats working in an office where you’d physically have to clock in and out from exactly nine to five. 

Your right eye twitches. No, I have not fallen in love with the system that exploits me, thank you very much. 

“Here is your Fancy Feast, your highness,” you tell the hungry feline who’s already ignoring the hand that feeds for the bowl full of white fish paté. He eats healthier than you, sure, but you work like this for him to eat like this. The life of a single mom is an uphill battle, but extremely rewarding. 

You raise your hand to pat your son’s head lovingly, aborting the gesture halfway when you hear a warning growl. Alright, tough crowd. 

After nuking a half-eaten takeout box in the microwave and grabbing a cold Bundaberg from the fridge, you hunker down on the “chaise lounge” (see: an old wingback and a rattan ottoman you’ve refurbished as a makeshift seat a few weeks back when you had guests over) for a late meal. 

You barely register the taste of lukewarm rice on your tongue, mouth moving mechanically while your mind runs on autopilot about everything and nothing at the same time. 

Maybe it’s time to check Jobstreet again

Is there like a laundromat near the area that’s open twenty four seven

Eugh, I hate cold peas

What do we feel about Chromakopia? 

I will… die alone

I really need to stock on some fresh produce this weekend—

Ping! 

A notification from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts—and like a well-trained dog pavlov’d into responding, you visibly perk up at the sight of your lock screen lighting up and the familiar banner you’ve already memorized by heart. 

Your Galaxy Explorer rewards are here. Did you put my hotel’s address as the shipping address? 

Ah, just like clockwork. 

You press on it with a quiet, bubbling anticipation, chewing on the plastic spork as you wait impatiently for the silly mobile game that’s been your short respite at intervals—for more than you’d care to admit—to boot up. 

Offhandedly, you wish that the devs would add more variations to the game’s push notifications; more random, personalized stuff like maybe a reminder to drink water, or a fun update about their day. What you’d give–pay–for a: "Less on the overtime, kitten. I miss you,” dialogue from a certain character, but you digress. 

Oh, well. Probably better this way, lest you dig yourself deeper into delusion. 

The game greets you with the usual picturesque view of a silver-haired man sitting cross-legged on a chair, looking all the bit at ease in his signature crimson and white button up. The warm ambience of the Destiny Café at night draws you in, already pulling your attention away from the never-ending stream of thoughts in your brain. 

“Before seeing you, I thought today would be another dull day,“ Sylus comments airily. The way he drawls out the words in that deep timbre of his voice never fails to make your heart flutter – just a teeeensy bit.

“Ever the charmer,” you sigh happily in return, situating yourself more comfortably on the sofa, almost horizontal from how far you’re leaning back on the cushion. “You’re looking awfully normal tonight. What, no pineapple glasses for your favorite girl?” 

Having bypassed the initial cringe of talking to yourself after literal months of gameplay, it almost comes off natural, the banter. You’ve already accepted the fact that you’re crazy about a fictional, pixelated man—what’s pretending to have actual conversations with him gonna do? It’s not as if he actually hears you yap your nonsense; there are worse things in the world than a parasocial attachment to an otome game character. 

Your little jab at the sometimes random addition to his choice of attire earns you a laugh from the man himself—or at least it looks as though it does, making you blink momentarily in surprise. Happy coincidence, I guess.

You shake your head, cracking a smile, then proceed to do the routine of completing the daily agenda and then some. 

It’s tedious business, sure. You’ve dedicated hours upon hours on this game and you’re honestly starting to feel pretty bored with some of the gameplay elements, but you *do* like the ritualistic nature of ticking off the tasks one by one. It’s almost ironic— the way you dutifully do one thing after the other in this game, just to avoid the pile of work that’s waiting for you in real life. 

It’s not as if anything, or anyone’s relying on you to do your daily log-ins, so you suppose it’s due to that lack of pressure as well. 

Pulling yourself away from the five-star Xavier memory card you’ve grinded to level seventy, you stare despondently at the sad little 2 on your remaining energy. The embarrassing amount of materials you lack to ascend the card seem to mock you, even as you exit the Memories window. Another goal for another day, perhaps.

All tasks on the daily agenda are complete, except for one that you’ve always saved for last.

You’re met with a standing Sylus on the game’s home screen, arms crossed and wearing an expression you’d almost describe as impatient, if you didn’t know any better. The sight makes you grin. 

Cheekily, you poke his crotch.

You’re looking forward to getting a playful remark, or if you’re lucky, a blush along with an embarrassed retort about your shamelessness. 

 What you get, however, is a resounding scoff. Your eyes snap back to his face – from, ahem, your prolonged staring at the area below his waist – and you do see the familiar tinge of pink on his cheeks, but what he says in response catches you off-guard.

“You spend that much resource for a card that isn’t mine?” Sylus tsks, both his voice and expression coming across as… affronted? “Kitten, I’m actually hurt.” 

Huh?

You haven’t heard that line from him before. Was there a recent update you weren’t aware of? The man in question then appears to look amused, from the way you’ve been rendered speechless by the unexpected dialogue. 

All at once, you gasp when you realize what the new response means. 

“That’s so smart,” you say giddily. You see Sylus cock his head to the side, synchronously quirking an eyebrow—expectant. “They actually added a feature that lets them know which memory I’ve upgraded last, and make you react to it. Oh, that’s so cool!” 

If you weren’t too busy being excited over what you think is a new update from the game,  you’d see the chagrined look on Sylus’ face. But when you glance back at him, all trace of the emotion is gone before you could notice anything different. 

“Don’t worry, Crow Man. You’re still my favorite,” you assure him, making his mouth tick upwards in a semblance of a smile. He looks pleased all of the sudden, his demeanor shifting into something more relaxed.

Then a pout forms on your face. You crinkle your nose in frustration as you complain, “It’s just really hard to level your cards up at this point. It takes ages and a shit ton of energy just to level you up past seventy five.” Sighing, you add, kind of bitterly, “And I’m too broke to be spending money on growth packs.” 

Checking the time on your phone, you see that you’ve already spent more than an hour on your self-imposed break time and you know that you ought to get back to work soon. With a groan, you pull yourself to sit upright, savoring the last few minutes of free time before you slave off for the rest of the night. 

You’re about to clean up what’s left of dinner when you notice the oddly thoughtful look on Sylus’ face. 

There’s a deep furrow in his brows as he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. He closes his eyes shut for a few seconds. He's never done that gesture before... Ugh, he looks really hot–

Suddenly, you see a flicker—then a weird, sort of graphic distortion happening in the background. Uh, what??

A beat; then a glitch on the screen. “Ah, shit.” 

The game crashes.

You exhale loudly as the game’s interface goes back to the loading screen, tapping your thumb impatiently as the bar slowly loads to 15%... 50%..... 81%....... 

“Maybe make sure to patch up first before releasing an update next time, jeez—huh?” 

For a quick second, nothing seems to be amiss. But then the first thing you see on the home screen is Sylus’ figure standing before you, wearing an expression one could only describe as a cat that ate the proverbial canary. 

He speaks— and it’s another intro you haven’t heard him say, ever. 

“You should’ve told me sooner, sweetie,” he almost coos the words out, making your eyes bug out in shock. 

“Now, why don’t you go check your–” he pauses, and his mouth moves as if he’s rolling the word out, testing it. “Inventory?” 

Sylus slides his gaze towards the upper left corner of the screen, a coy smirk still ever-present on his face. 

There, you see something you haven’t noticed earlier: two notification badges. One on your mailbox, and another on the Hunter’s Info tab. Bewildered, you press on the mail icon first, despite the insistence for you to start with the latter. 

You see a new message: [For You]

A small gift, to bridge our worlds closer. – S 

Nothing is attached to it. You read it twice, perplexed.  

“You’re quite the contradictorian, aren’t you?” Sylus tuts as soon as you return back to the home screen, his gaze boring into you even when he tilts his head sideways in mock exasperation. “Mmm, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” 

Helplessly, you open your inventory next. 

Your jaw drops. 

“What. The fuck,” You whisper to yourself, voice wavering in disbelief at what you’re seeing, and the sheer amount of what you’re seeing. “This—this can’t be real.” 

You see that all the materials you own, from the bottle of wishes to the ascension crystal boxes, have been multiplied a hundred times over.

And on top of that–

Ninety nine thousand red dias????

You cannot believe how this—this recent… update (or is it a bug? Infold sure isn’t this generous) didn't make the news. Even as someone as uninvolved as you are with the community and the game’s latest releases, something like this for sure would’ve made headlines on Twitter (X), at least. But you haven’t heard anything. Nada. 

Holy shit. 

You feel a little light-headed, both from incredulity and excitement. Needing a moment to calm yourself down, you exit the Inventory tab in a daze.

You stare at Sylus. He stares back at you with what looks to be mirth in his eyes. 

Skeptically, you mutter, “did–did I get hacked or something?” 

Anticipating another unexpected dialogue to prompt up, you wait for a full minute without saying anything else. And for a moment, the man in front of you looks indecisive, contemplative. 

There’s something very odd, very… human in the way he’s looking at you. He looks as if– as if he’s—

His face falls back into a neutral expression. Not unlike how his idle animation usually looks. 

..

…

….. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to initiate a conversation any time soon, so you hesitantly poke him on the nose. 

“Even in the worst-case scenario, there’s no need to panic.”

You’ve heard that one before.

So he’s back to normal now. You temper the small disappointment that blooms in your gut. 

Shaking your head slowly, you try to make sense of all the stuff that just happened, but a sharp bite on your ankle pulls you out of your reverie. 

“Ow–!” The sight of your cat flopping near your feet reminds you of the time. More importantly, the backlogs waiting for you at your desk. 

“Wait, shit– I gotta get back to work.” This… unbelievable stroke of good luck (?) is gonna have to take a backseat for now.

You grab the carton box and the half-empty bottle of sparkling peach as you stand up. Making quick work of throwing the container in the trash and gulping down the rest of your drink, you rush into your room and back in front of your PC. 

Cracking your knuckles, you gingerly set your phone against the monitor. Setting the timer to one hour in Quality Time, knowing fully-well that you’re going to have to keep extending it until the wee hours of the morning—or until your battery dies, whichever comes first—you give Sylus one last look, letting out a long exhale before locking in.

“Just keep me company for the night, alright? I’ll figure out what’s going on once my shift’s over.” 

-

It could just be your overactive imagination, but you swear you hear a quiet chuckle from the man polishing his gun in your peripheral.

[kitten4sannie]

ᴄᴀꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴜᴄʜ

ᴄᴏʀʀᴜᴘᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ ➠ ꜱᴀɴ

pairing: frat boy! san x fem! reader feat. yungi

genre: frat au, smut

summary: san and his boys are more than grateful when you help them with their newest ‘feature film.’

w.c: 3k

warnings: they’re making porn okay, nasty mean dom! san, subby aloof! reader, san knowingly takes advantage of reader’s romantic feelings for him…. (bro’s the king of douchebags), manipulation/corruption, reader is treated like a fuck doll <3, brief implied mxm bc i love fruity frat boys uwu, praise/false praise, name calling/degradation, major voyeurism/exhibitionism kink, mind break ig?, dp in one hole, oral (giving), brief hair pulling, throat-fucking, tit fucking, facial, rough sex, bulge kink, breeding kink, dacryphilia, gang bang !!, it’s all unprotected btw, multiple orgasms, creampies <33

a/n: this is so fucking insane you guys….like idk why frat aus have me in such a chokehold but here we are🧍🏻‍♀️also this is totally random (and essential) info but san’s signature frat party look would be a ‘don’t hate me it turns me on’ shirt and a backwards red cap hwjhw anyways happy reading~ and please lemme know if you liked it uwu

p.s: we’re at 6.5k followers HELLO???? that’s insane 🫣 thank you so very much!!!

song rec: i like the way you kiss me - artemas (✨ male manipulation: the song ✨)

ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ꜰꜰꜰ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ

“Smile for the camera, pretty girl,” San, the frat boy you’ve been in love with for ages, encouraged you from behind the lens of the camcorder he was holding, his smooth baritone voice like saccharine, artificial, yet sweet enough to keep you coming back for another taste. It was when you offered him a small, shy smile through the camera lense, despite the shamelessness of your current position, that he knew he had struck gold. 

San was filming one of the first of many future encounters you would be having on the expansive black leather couch inside their crowded frat den. You were stuffed to the absolute brim by two of his closest colleagues, Yunho and Mingi, who always refused to participate unless they were working together as a duo. 

“Stop looking at me like that, dude,” Mingi huffed up at Yunho from below the both of you, his shoulders and back routinely getting stuck to the couch with sweat. 

“Like what?” Yunho scoffed back, leaning further down onto your body to get closer to Mingi, essentially folding you in half, his hands closing around your ankles.

“Like you wanna kiss me. You’re gonna make me soft.” Mingi grimaced, pushing Yunho’s hands out of the way to hold onto your ankles instead, driving himself into you like a well oiled machine. He was throbbing nonstop, but there was absolutely no proof that it was because of his friend’s heavy cock rubbing along his inside the cunt they were sharing. 

Yunho’s breath hit your shoulder when he laughed. “Skill issue,” Yunho simply replied, delighted that Mingi bucked up into you even harder, encouraging him to do the same. 

Clearly, there was something vaguely homoerotic going on there, but it wasn’t San’s business, and he definitely had better things to focus on — you, his newest pupil. He watched you with dollar signs in his bright brown eyes and the taste of cheap vodka on his tongue, unable to keep himself from licking repeatedly at his chapped lips, especially now that the innocent classmate he had recently taken a liking to had no problem taking two cocks at once inside her puffy, used cunt, while he, his bros, and his trusty camcorder had a front row seat to her mutually beneficial destruction.  

“Look at you, so flexible…Are you sure you haven’t done this before, Y/N?” San teased, lowering the camera down until his sharp feline eyes were visible.

“N-no, I swear!” you squeaked out, the growing embarrassment you felt only spurring all of this newfound pleasure you were drunk on. “Just wanna, nnngh–be good for you…”

“Oh, that’s right. Silly me. You’re being a very good girl right now, baby, Don’t worry.” San couldn’t help but smile at the way you seemed to melt in front of him. It was just too easy. He glanced down at the camera, zooming in and capturing the moment his friends filled you up with their hot loads, the bliss evident on your fucked-out face. “That’s it, baby. Are you happy you stuck around here with us instead of going back to your dorm to do homework? Taking cock is much more fun, isn’t it, beautiful?” 

“So much more fun,” you sighed out, your pupils blown out just from looking at his devastatingly handsome face. It was then that you pouted. You were only here because you were in love with San, and yet, it wasn’t even his dick inside you. It wasn’t fair. “But, I’d have even more fun with you, Sannie~” 

“Is that so…?” San offered a brief shit-eating smirk to one of his boys nearby, reaching down to grab at himself through his sweatpants like he was weighing it. “It’s right here, baby. Why don’t you show us what that pretty mouth can do?” 

Both Mingi and Yunho slowed down their thrusts, but didn’t completely pull out, choosing to leisurely fuck their cum back into you, as they fought to catch their breath.

“What a loser, cumming first like that,” Mingi insulted Yunho, licking at the saliva left on his lips. 

“Your mom doesn’t have a problem with it,” Yunho chided back, reaching down past your body to smack his hand into the side of Mingi’s ass. 

“Goddamn it, you guys, I’m gonna have to edit that gay shit out.” San brought a hand up to scratch at his head in frustration. “You know what, both of you, get out of my shot and sword fight somewhere else. I’m not doing this right now,” San grumbled, shooing the two panting men away from the couch they had just made a mess on. 

“Bro acts like we don’t know about his late night tutoring sessions with Wooyoung,” Yunho whispered to Mingi, trying to stifle his laughter. 

Mingi almost choked on his breath. “Don’t forget Yeosang. San doesn’t even take physics anymore, either. Yet, he still visits that nerd every Friday like clockwork.” 

“Dude, aren’t they roommates?” Yunho cupped his hand around the side of his mouth, still using a hushed tone, “Do you think they run a train on–”

“Hey! Don’t make me haze the two of you again just for fun…” San warned from the center of the room, glaring daggers at the two men who went quiet almost immediately. His annoyance abruptly melted away once you gingerly reached up to pull his sweatpants down until the frat emblem that was stitched into the thigh pocket was no longer visible. It was when San smacked his heavy length down onto your face, that you let out a pornstar worthy moan. Cha-ching. “Oh, you like that? Hm? Want my cock?”   

“Mm-hmm…” San’s cock slapped down onto your face a second time. You quickly squeezed your thighs together to keep yourself from cumming right then and there, biting back a moan all the while. You wondered if it was obvious how truly desperate you were for the man standing above. Fuck it. You were already here, so you might as well get what you came for. “Please, give it to me, Sannie, f-fuck my mouth.” 

San could not believe his luck. His loyal fanbase would absolutely have a field day with this as soon as he uploaded it. He could already see the cash flowing in, and it made him rock hard. He sighed happily to himself, running his fingers through your hair, carefully tucking a few strands behind your ear. “It’s really true what they say…the shy ones are always the most slutty.”  

“I’m not a slut, I just–” you cut yourself off, not wanting to confess to San right before you were about to suck him off in front of his fraternity and whichever degenerate that would be watching it back later on. You pouted again, looking up at him with wide, sparkly eyes. “I want to be useful to you, like a doll~”  

“Did you hear that, everyone? Y/N here is a real life fuck doll. Let’s treat her as such,” San reminded his friends and housemates who couldn’t help but hover around the couch, a few of them sharing knowing smiles with one another. 

Your heart began to thump away inside your chest, unable to believe that your long-time crush was giving you so much of his attention and affection. It was like a dream come true. As soon as your lips parted to take in a shaky breath, San tightened his grip around your hair, yanking you forward and stuffing your mouth full of cock. “Mmnnf…!” 

Clutching the camera with one hand and the makeshift ponytail he created near the back of your head, San began thrusting sloppily into your open mouth, groaning at the slick sensation of your throat routinely closing around his moving cockhead. “Come on, doll, let me in, yeah? So I can fuck your throat raw.” 

San wasn’t lying. With each wet, rough thrust, he got closer and closer to doing what he promised you. “Mmmn…nnn…” You couldn’t tell if the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes were the result of San’s dizzying performance or the burning arousal you felt stirring inside your core simply from being watched by a room full of men you didn’t know. 

“Aww, crying already, princess? I’ll give you something to really cry about when I’m breeding that slutty cunt of yours,” San chuckled darkly, his strong hips snapping relentlessly, his pace only beginning to falter once he saw your drool mixed with his pre-cum escaping past your chin and dripping down in between your tits, leaving your soiled skin with a shiny complexion. You looked like a true whore. It was going to make the frat leader bust any second. The borderline obsessive look you had inside your teary eyes didn’t help either. “Fuck, oh my god– Somebody take the goddamn camera!” 

The youngest of the group fumbled to grab the camera, using his jacket sleeve to rub off the fingerprints he left behind on the lens, before lifting it up, capturing the exact moment San pulled out of your mouth with a loud ‘pop’ and slid his cock along in between your glistening tits. 

San turned to face the camera for a second, dimples flashing, squishing your tits in between his thick fingers as he fucked them. “See, you guys? This is how you use a doll to her maximum potential,” he explained as though he were a professor on their campus. “Just look at her face. She fuckin’ loves it.” 

Instead of trying to focus on the camera, you gazed directly up at him, your cheeks warm to the touch, still love-struck, even when San’s load landed all over your face. You simply licked away what had landed on your lips, sucking the rest off the frat leader’s fingers once he so lovingly fed it to you. 

San nodded his head in approval, patting yours in an effort to reward you for your hard work. “That’s a good girl…” He tilted his head to the side. “I wanna see what else our pretty doll can do. Sound good?” 

“Really good,” you chimed, licking at your swollen lips, savoring San’s salty essence. 

Wedding bells were ringing in the distance. You would do anything for San, and if that meant letting him treat you like an onahole and fuck you in any position he saw fit for the next hour, then you would happily oblige. By the time your knees gave out from cumming for the nth time, San had you in a full nelson in the middle of the couch, positioned behind you with his arms locked around your upper half, making sure your used body was on complete display. 

“Sannie…gonna…cum…again,” you breathed out in between a few airy moans, your head feeling so heavy that you just let it hang for a second. 

San repositioned himself so that he could clutch your chin, tilting it upwards. His free hand snaked around your waist, laying his palm flat on your tummy, suddenly driving his cock up into you so hard, you couldn’t even speak if you wanted to. “Hey, be a good slut and let them see what you look like when you’re cumming your brains out.” 

You obediently gazed up at the blurry camera past your wet lashes, that is, until your eyes rolled back into your skull, only able to let out a choked gasp as you barreled over the edge of ecstasy. You didn’t have a chance to recover from the overwhelming pleasure, especially not when San pressed his hand down firmly onto the bulge his cock was routinely making inside your stomach. “P-please..! Sannie..!” 

You want another load? Fuck, baby.” Groaning, San took a second to lick one of the tears that was rolling along your cheek before it dropped, his hips slamming against yours so quick, you were already developing bruises, ones that would accompany the bright red love bites scattered across your slick skin. He pressed his lips directly to your ear, nibbling on your earlobe. “You know, seeing you in class and on campus, putting on that innocent virgin act, I never would’ve pegged you for a cock-hungry little slut, but everyone enjoys a good surprise every now and then…don’t they?”

“Yes–yes, yes, yes,” you chanted back, too cockdrunk to even fully process what San was saying, just focused on how full you felt, and how you needed more. 

“Good, because I got a surprise for you too.” Grunting loudly, San lowered his hips and slammed them up into you one last time, holding your trembling body still, painting your pulsing walls white. “Now, say ‘thank you, Sannie.’”

“Thank you, Sannie.” You leaned your head back to nuzzle the side of his cheek, placing your hands over his, feeling him rubbing your lower stomach in small circles, his cock still fully sheathed inside you. 

“Anytime, sugar.” San gave your hair a few strokes as a reward, before pulling out and climbing off of the couch. He took the camera back from the new guy and snapped his fingers at a few of the bricked up housemates standing nearby, pointing in your direction. “Now, show me what you’re really made of.” San gave you a charming, dimpled smile. “Make me proud, okay?” 

As an eager group of half-naked strangers surrounded you on all sides of the couch, some of them reaching out to grope your warm body, you returned San’s smile, your heart skipping a beat or two. “I’ll give it my best just for you~” 

Throughout the night, San, alongside his fraternity, conditioned you with care, meticulously molding you into their prime playtoy, one they enthusiastically passed around, easily making your tape one of the longest in their exclusive film collection. It wasn’t difficult, by any means. You were, of course, the perfect specimen: passive, pliant, and poisoned by the oxytocin that turned your brain into mush. You were a star.

Even when you were being used by more men than you could count, you couldn’t keep your attention off of Sannie, his handsome face only growing blurry when someone would make you gag on their cock, as you didn’t have the most experience with men of their size. You wanted San to yourself again, desperately wishing you could reach out for him, instead of another stranger’s twitching erection — but you endured it all, falling further into the rabbit hole of pleasure for the sake of your whirlwind infatuation. 

Everyone in the frat house deeply appreciated your dedication to their amateur film, especially San, who, by the end of it, secured the perfect spot to capture the finality of your desecration. Two of his older friends had just finished inside you, their spent cocks slipping out of your gaping hole and revealing the sticky mess they left behind.

Crouched down in front of the couch, San reached out past the camcorder to spread your puffy lips apart, each and every load you took over the past few hours now slowly spilling out onto his veined hand. “Look at this pretty cunt, you guys…so full of cum, it won’t stop coming out…” He panned up to your face with the camera, giving you a wicked smile from behind it. “You’ll be pregnant in no time, won’t you, doll? With whose baby, I wonder…”

After all that, you somehow managed to act shy, covering your flushed face, giving San heart eyes past your cum-stained, trembling fingers. “Hopefully yours…” 

“Oh, princess.” San gently rubbed his fingers over your sore cunt and clit, his friends’ loads still dribbling out of you all the while. “I don’t think you realize how cute you’re being right now~ Almost like you didn’t just slut yourself out for everyone to see, huh? Mm, do you feel cute, Y/N?” San asked in a babying tone, as he slowly stood up and towered over you. 

“You make me feel cute…” You nuzzled your cheek into the palm of San’s warm hand once he offered it to you, hoping you secured a spot inside his heart after all the hard work you put in. “I would keep going for you if I could still feel my legs.” 

“Aww, there’s always next time, isn’t there?” he suggested slyly, rubbing away some leftover cum from your cheek before caressing the side of your face. “Do you have anything to say to our loyal fanbase, baby?” 

“I love cock, especially yours, Sannie,” you slurred lovingly up at San, through the camera lens, licking your lips, mouth watering at the thought of being invited again to film another movie. “So give me a call, okay?” 

“Oh, I will, believe me.” A smug laugh erupted from San’s puffed-out chest, as he aimed the camera at his pretty boy face for a second to announce, “Gentlemen, we’ve officially turned another good girl into a filthy fuckhole. If you’d like to watch the transformation happen in real time, feel free to stop by our frat. For a good price, we’ll even let some of you bastards have a go.” And with that, he shut the camcorder off and pushed it into the youngest member’s chest, who looked at him with wide eyes. “Fuck it, we might even give you a turn.” 

The freshman choked on his spit. “R-really?” 

“I’m feeling nice today.” San sighed, running his fingers through his sweaty bangs to fix them. When the young man just stood there drooling, the frat leader grimaced. “Upload this to all our sites ASAP, and don’t forget about our twitter page this time,” he demanded, rolling his eyes when he saw the cum stains the embarrassed student left behind on his pants. “And, for fuck’s sake, will you take care of that?” 

As another member brought a can of beer over to San, the frat leader took it and cracked it open. “Can you believe that guy? He’s been here for, what, a month now? And he’s still creaming his pants like a virgin? Unbelievable.”

As you gingerly put your clothes back on, you watched San move around the frat to dab up his friends and clink their beer cans together in celebration of another successful shoot. You couldn’t help but let out a long, lovesick sigh. He would be yours one day. Until then, you would take what you could get, and of course, become a star. 

fff taglist: @yutasbutterfly02 @wisejudgedragonhairdo @dawn-iscozy @bbdeongi @multistanbaby @crazyf0rm @kittenfrostt @magicshop1913 @enbysforhongjoong @londonbridges01 @mingisdimple @motherseonghwa23 @wwooyology @everyonewooeverywhere @leo-seonghwa @yourfatherlucifer @hwallazia @vampzity

© kitten4sannie, 2024.

[sunniques]

— 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 !

➺ PAIRING: choi seungcheol x female reader

➺ GENRE: stepdad au, smut

➺ SUMMARY: as a spoiled brat, you’ve always been one to get what you want—even things that don’t belong to you.

➺ CW/TW: stepcest, infedilty, age gap, dub con, possessiveness, somnophilia, daddy kink, breeding kink, begging, pussy job, riding, squirting, unprotected sex, multiple creampies, overstimulation

➺ WC: 3k

NOTE: don’t like, don’t read.

The room is completely dark when you enter it. You can barely make out the familiar layout in the darkness, but that doesn’t stop you. With sly expertise, you navigate your way through the darkness until you find the large window at the opposite end of the room. You glance over at the bed for a moment before carefully opening the curtains and letting the moonlight into the room.

The moon is shining so brightly that it illuminates most of the room. Perfect. You look over your shoulder with a satisfied smirk. Your stepdad’s sleeping form looks ethereal in the moonlight. He’s shirtless, leaving his muscular form laid out for your greedy eyes to take in. The sheets are covering most of his lower half, but you can see his legs peeking through just a bit. You turn fully, licking your lips as you hope he’s decided to sleep naked. It wasn’t necessary, but it would help.

Like a preying feline, you inch toward the bed quietly until you’re standing at the edge. Seungcheol remains peacefully asleep, unaware that he’s been caught in your web of depraved desires. You bite your lip as excitement courses through your veins. Slowly and quietly, you slip out of your sleep shorts and your loose top. Only left in your tiny thong, you crawl on the large bed and carefully inch toward your sleeping stepfather.

You take a quick glance at his sleeping face before tossing the sheets off his body. To your luck, Seungcheol is completely naked. It’s hard to contain your excitement and lust when you see his dick. Your eyes glaze over and your mouth waters at the sight. His cock is thick and long, curving upward into his abdomen. It’s so big and pretty that you can’t hold back anymore. You crawl closer him and descend on his cock like a starved woman.

You lick a long stripe from the base of his cock all the way up to the bulbous tip. His musky taste has your pussy clenching around nothing. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you repeat the motions over and over until his cock starts to twitch and harden. Soon enough, his tip starts to leak with precum that you greedily lap up. You relish in the soft noises Seungcheol lets out as you circle your tongue around the leaking slit.

With a sly grin you pull back. Carefully, you slide off your underwear and toss it aside. You have a predatory smile on your face as you swing one leg over your stepdad’s strong body. A quiet moan tears from your throat when you sit down on his pulsing cock. You’re so wet that all your arousal drips onto his hardening cock. Biting your lip, you start to slide your slick cunt up and down his length. The delicious friction makes it impossible for you to contain your quiet moans.

Seungcheol’s hot cock feels too good against your pussy. Every ridge and vein dragging against your clit and slick lips is making you feel drunk with arousal. You watch with satisfaction as your stepdad’s thick eyebrows furrow. Low grunts tumble past his soft looking lips, and he looks so hot that you can’t believe you’ve waited so long to do this. If only your mom had gotten a promotion sooner. Now with her going on business trips more often, you would be able to have fun with her husband to your heart and pussy’s content.

You can feel just how much Seungcheol likes your lewd actions, and eventually you can’t handle any more foreplay. Lifting your hips up, you reach down and grab his cock. He’s so big that you can’t fully wrap your hand around him, and it just makes you all the more eager to have him inside you.

Somehow Seungcheol doesn’t wake up even when you tease his leaking tip against your creamy folds. You hiss quietly when the bulbous head goes past your folds. It’s painful at first, but you love every second of it. When you slide down on rest of his cock, you think you might cum from the stretch alone. You throw your head back, eyes rolling into your skull as you gasp out in pleasure.

No one has ever been so deep inside you. His cock is kissing your cervix, and it has your pussy clenching down on him so tightly that you think it might be a little hard to move. “Fuck.”

You lift your hips, and slowly ease yourself down again. Lustful whimpers and moans escape you as you slowly repeat your motions, feeling almost dizzy at the way his big cock is stretching you out. His dick feels so fucking good; hot and throbbing and aching to burst inside you.

“So fucking big.” You hiss, planting your hands on his torso. Tracing the ridge of his hard abs as you fuck yourself on his cock feels like absolute heaven, but you’re done indulging in your fantasy alone.

Throwing whatever scrap of inhibition you have left, you raise your lower body before roughly slamming your ass back down. The harsh movement makes you cry out in pleasure. You start to move eagerly, not holding back any of your movements. His cock hits deep inside you, stretching out your tight little hole with every bounce.

You can’t take your eyes off of Seungcheol’s face. Low groans slip out of his lips, and you can see his eyes twitching beneath his eyelids. You lick your lips and grin. He’s slowly starting to stir which makes you speed up your eager movements.

Seungcheol is slowly pulled out of his sleep by the feeling of immense pleasure. He feels the weight of someone on top of him and something hot and tight wrapped around his cock. Lewd squelching and lovely moans fill his ears as he slowly peels his eyes open. His vision is slightly blurry, but he can still make out the sight of a body that definitely doesn’t belong to his wife on top of him.

“What—?” His voice is groggy and comes out in a half-groan.

Seungcheol blinks slowly, suddenly very aware that his young stepdaughter is bouncing on his cock. The sight is so filthy and hot that his cock twitches and throbs inside you. It’s so wrong, but he’s too shocked to do anything. That, and he’s powerless to the way your tight cunt feels around him.

“Princess,” his voice is gruff, almost scolding in tone. “What are you doing?”

You moan and clench around him because even in this situation he still calls you by the pet name you love so much. Leaning back on your arms, you slow your bounces into gentle grinds to give Seungcheol a filthy show of your pussy being stretched open. You smirk when you see his eyes lock where you two are connected.

“Sorry, daddy.” You moan, not sounding sorry at all. “I couldn’t help myself—fuck. Your cock is just so big.”

Your bratty words really shouldn’t turn him on, but they do. It doesn’t help that you look so good while you use his cock like your own personal fucktoy. The way your pretty tits bounce is mesmerizing and the fucked out expression you’re wearing is enough to push him closer to his orgasm. Your moans are the filthiest he’s ever heard—so loud and impetuous. He feels sick for enjoying it all. The entire situation is so wrong, and yet he makes no move to get you off of him.

“Y/N.” He growls your name like you’ve imagined so many times.

You lean forward and grab his large hands. Slowly, you guide them up your body until they’re on your tits. His eyes are dark as he gazes up at you, and you give him an impish smile as you make him squeeze.

“Yes, daddy?” You purr, slowing your movements to provide the most minimal friction.

A thrill runs down your spine when he lets out a grunt of disapproval. You can tell he’s still fighting himself on giving into his desires, so you clench down on him again as you increase your pace. Just like you thought, the lustful action ignites something in him. His hands squeeze your tits on their own this time, pinching and tugging on your hard nipples before they trail down your body.

Seungcheol sits up, any qualms about what was happening pushed out of his mind. He couldn’t think about his wife or the fact that he had enabled your behavior by always indulging your bratty desires. All he could think about was your sweet little cunt.

“God, baby.” He groans as his hands go to rest on your ass. “You’re such a needy girl. Couldn’t even ask me properly for my cock. You just had to come in here and take it like a greedy little brat.”

His big hands deliver a harsh slap to your ass which make you cry out and jolt forward. Seungcheol captures one of your tits in his mouth, tongue gliding over your taut nipple with an eagerness he’d been holding back until now.

“Daddy!” You mewl out, pussy clenching hard around his throbbing cock.

Seungcheol hisses around your nipple and kneads your ass. He slowly starts to fuck up into you as he sucks and nips at your sensitive bud. His senses are completely invaded by you—your taste, your scent, your touch. He can feel you get wetter as he wildly flicks his tongue around your nipple, rolling and sucking on it as if it’s an addicting candy.

Your arms wrap around your stepdad’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer to your chest as you slide up and down his thick cock. You toss your head back with a loud moan when his hands squeeze your ass as he starts to guide you up and down his dick. His leaking tip hits a spot that makes you see stars, and it pushes you closer to your orgasm.

“Fuck!” You squeal. “I love riding your big cock, daddy!”

“Yeah?” He groans against your tit. Seungcheol’s wet mouth pops off your nipple, a string of saliva attached to his lips. His eyes are dark with arousal and need. “Love me stretching out your tight little pussy?”

“Yes, daddy, yes! Can’t get enough of your dick!”

Your juices are dripping down his heavy balls and make the sound of his skin slapping against yours entirely carnal. Every clap of his heavy balls on your ass jolts you and forces you to brace yourself on his strong chest. One of Seungcheol’s hand trails up your spine and cups the back of your head to pull you to his lips. His mouth devours yours in a lust-fuelled kiss.

Seungcheol swallows your squeal as him other hand moves between your legs. His thumb finds your puffy clot, rubbing practiced circles on the aching bud. You moan into each other’s mouths as your juices coat his unrelenting cock. All it takes is one particularly hard thrust for you to cum all over Seungcheol’s cock.

“Da-Daddy!” You cry out in ecstasy as your cream stains his throbbing cock.

Seungcheol moans along with you. His eyes roll to the back of his head at the feeling of your hot cunt tightening impossibly around him. It almost feels like you’re suffocating his cock, and he loves every second of it. He licks his lips as he fucks up into you, stimulating you through your orgasm. The sight of you cumming is something he’ll never forget. A carnal desire consumes him, and in that moment he realizes he never wants to stop seeing it.

“Cum inside me, daddy.” You whimper in his ear.

You feel Seungcheol’s cock twitch and throb inside you. Immediately, you can tell the idea turns him on as much as it does you. As always, you’re determined to get what you want. “Want it so bad, daddy. Please.”

Seungcheol starts to fuck up into you roughly, groaning when he hears your needy pleas. It’s rare for you to say the word please, and to hear you moan it out so wantonly because you want his cum is driving him insane. As usual, he’s going to give you what you want. That doesn’t mean he won’t take full advantage of your desperation, though.

“Bratty little girl wants her pussy stuffed?” He coos against your collarbone. “You want daddy to fuck you full of cum?”

God, you’ve never wanted anything more. And at this point, you aren’t above begging for it.

“Yes!” You pant, thighs trembling as you move your hips to meet his rough thrusts. “Cum in my pussy, daddy! Fill me up like the nasty slut I am!”

Your words and your fucked out face are enough to push Seungcheol over the edge. He spills his hot cum into you with a loud moan of your name. Lewd squelching mix in with your cries of pleasure, the musky smell of sex permeating the air as your stepfather fucks his cum deep inside your battered cunt.

“Fuck, just look at you.” Seungcheol groans as he keeps slamming his cock against your cervix. “Milking daddy’s cock like the greedy little brat that you are.”

But he doesn’t stop there.

Seungcheol is insatiable, and now that he’s gotten a taste of your tight little pussy, he’s going to indulge himself to his cock’s desire.

One of his strong arms wraps around you. Suddenly you’re flipped on your back. You let out a choked moan as his hands spread you apart and his cock spears into you again. His hips start to snap relentlessly. Seungcheol has never looked hotter than he does now, literally fucking you into the bed he shares with your mother.

His thrusts are deliberate and rough, but he doesn’t stop or slow down. You’re crying out from the overstimulation, and it somehow makes him more ravenous. Seungcheol loves watching you tremble on his cock. You’re already so addicted to him fucking you that you don’t think to ask him to stop. In fact, you plead for more like the demanding little freak that you are.

Is it wrong that his chest swells with affection when you do?

Your arms wrap around his muscular back, yanking him down for a messy kiss. Seungcheol’s aching cock throbs against your velvety walls when you mewl out a needy daddy against his lips. He coos sweetly, lowering his body until his balls touch the filthiness between your thighs. Your stepdad’s big cock is slamming into you to the hilt, and you can practically feel him in your guts.

“Feels so fucking good, daddy.” You whine as he rams his cock into your sweet spot.

Your entire body tenses, and your cunt sucks him deeper, hungry for more despite there being no room left. Squelching noises bounce off the walls as he splits you open. Seungcheol fucks you harder and deeper as if he’s determined to rearrange your insides. He grabs your hips and pulls you to meet his rough thrusts before reaching down to collect your cream that’s formed a ring around his base.

Seungcheol gives you a filthy smirk as he laps up the fluids he’s collected from his fingers. He groans at the taste, knowing he won’t let you leave this bed until he’s made you cum on his tongue. “You taste so fucking sweet when you’re full of me, princess.”

The sight is so nasty and erotic that the coil building in your stomach snaps. Your stepdad leans back, watching with aroused fascination as you squirt all over his cock and cover his lower abdomen in your release. Your whole body convulses as quiet mewls pour from your mouth. His thrusts have slowed into thorough grinds as sticky strings connect your most intimate parts.

“Fuck—Y/N!” Seungcheol groans as he pumps you with another hot load.

“Give me all your cum, daddy!” You cry out, hips moving on their own when you feel his seed spill into your welcoming cunt.

You allow him to move you as he pleases, dragging out your orgasm as it bleeds into another—you can barely breathe as he rubs your sore clit. Seungcheol fucks his cum into you, forcing you to take the previous loads and his fat cock. Your sweet cries of pleasure are music to his ears. He knows then that he can’t possibly let anyone hear the lovely little noises you make.

“This pretty little pussy belongs to me now.” Your stepfather’s possessive grunt has you clenching around his dick. “Gonna fuck you like this every day. Gonna fill this tight cunt with my cum until your belly is swollen with my baby.”

His cum keeps spurting along your sore walls, trying to find space as if there’s any left. You moan wantonly when you feel it seep out of you. Seungcheol moans along with you, loving the sight of his seed leaking down your ass and drip onto his heavy balls.

Seungcheol pulls back with a fucked out smile, sweat brimming at his hairline. His chest fills with pride at your dazed expression. Slowly, he keeps fucking his cum into you, desperate to knock you up how he promised. Wet noises seep into your foggy mind, playing dully in the background to your cum-filled thoughts. He’s successfully fucked you stupid, and you’ve never felt so good.

Your cunt is filled to the brim, his seed coating your hole from the inside out. Seungcheol doesn’t hide his lascivious smirk. The sight just might be his favorite thing—next to that dumb expression you have on your face of course. It only makes him want to do it all over again. Each grind sends little shocks throughout your body. Seungcheol groans gutturally when you lazily start to meet his thrusts.

“My bratty little princess.” Seungcheol coos adoringly as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek. “You’re sleeping with daddy tonight.”

The triumphant little smirk you give him is enough indication to let Seungcheol know that once again he’s fallen into his pretty little freak’s selfish trap.

[rika-mmendmethings]

Baby Boss-Man (or Boss Baby?) l Sylus

Summary: One misfire of another one of Philip's odd inventions and Sylus is aged back to a five-year-old bundle of chaos version of himself. But as you try to survive his oversized cuteness, you can't help but catch baby fever. When the antidote arrives, you're sure that you'll be rid of those thoughts. The only difference is that Sylus intends to make them real.

Warning(s): Tooth-rotting fluff, baby fever, temporary age regression, written with female reader in mind, might die from the cute aggression you get from five-year-old Sylus, short and sweet, suggestive at the end, cheesy, kissing, pet names like kitten used.

Word count: 2.6k

Now playing: Honeypie by JAWNY

Notes: Based on this request. I'm a bit late but as promised here it is. I felt like I was writing Feline Hexes all over again because the fluff surely measured up to that one. Had me rolling in the feels. Okay enough yapping, hope y'all enjoy it especially you bestie @sylusgirlie7 ♥

You had accompanied Sylus to the Odd Workshop since you needed to have your hunter weapon modified anyway. Flashing a polite smile at Philip in greeting, you handed over your gun for him to begin his work. You took a seat nearby, exchanging idle conversation with Philip while keeping an eye on Sylus from your periphery as he wandered around the workshop, poking at things with curious fingers.

Once Philip completed the modification, you tested your weapon and hummed in satisfaction — the result was flawless. Just as you were about to thank him, a loud buzz shattered the eerie quiet that usually hung in the air.

You whipped your head around, eyes scanning for Sylus, but he was nowhere in sight. Alarmed, you called out, “Sylus?”

“Yeah?” came a small, chirpy voice.

Your gaze dropped to a heap of familiar-looking clothes on the floor. You gasped when a tuft of white hair peeked out from beneath them. Wide, crimson, doe-like eyes stared up at you — and in a shocking moment of realization, you understood: it was Sylus. Your boyfriend. But now, in the body of a five-year-old.

“Help!” he squeaked, little arms flailing beneath the pile of oversized clothing. “I’m stuck!”

You quickly bent down and freed him, lifting his tiny form out of the tangled garments — leaving behind his shoes, belt, and pants, which were now comically too large for him. The shirt hung from his frame like a cloak, sleeves completely swallowing his arms. Despite the confusion, a smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

Gently, you wrapped the lower half of his shirt around his legs and rolled up the sleeves, messily tying it together to make it wearable. You cradled him in your arms, cocooned in his own shirt.

Philip approached, his face sheepish as his eyes flicked between the smoldering wreckage of a device on the floor and the now miniaturized Sylus in your arms. You could practically see steam rising from Sylus’s tiny ears in outrage.

Scratching the back of his neck, Philip offered a half-hearted explanation, “That was... um, my latest invention. I created a fluid designed to revert a plant to its seed form — or a butterfly back to a caterpillar. I didn’t realize the jet injector would actually work on humans too…heh.”

Philip’s words only seemed to further ignite Sylus’s temper. You noticed the telltale shimmer of his Evol — the familiar red energy crackling around his tiny form, pulsing with irritation. You gently patted his head, offering what little comfort you could, then set him carefully on his feet, telling him to go somewhere so as to not risk the chances of Philip being evaporated. Sylus reluctantly agreed and trotted away after promising to not touch anything else. 

You turned back to Philip, exhaling a slow breath. “The longer he stays like this, the angrier he gets,” you said. “Do you have anything that can reverse the effect?”

Philip tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the remnants of his failed invention. “Nothing at the moment,” he admitted. “But I have been developing a counter-agent — something to reverse the regression effect. I’ve got a few prototypes I can begin testing right away. If I manage to create a viable solution, I’ll have Luke and Kieran deliver it to you.”

“How long do you think that’ll take?” you asked, brow furrowed.

“Give me five, maybe six hours,” he replied. “I’ll work as quickly as I can.”

You nodded in understanding. Five to six hours with a miniaturized Sylus… manageable. Hopefully.

After exchanging a few more words with Philip — mostly warnings and a half-hearted apology from his side — you turned to look for your pint-sized lover. What greeted you nearly made you choke on a laugh.

You had turned your back for five minutes.

He’s drawn an elaborate chalk mural on the wall featuring Philip as a monster and you as a superhero wielding a gun of justice.

Philip stares at it.

"...He’s not wrong," you say, your cheeks hurting from smiling so hard at his antics. Philip just sighs, returning inside to work on the prototype before bidding you goodbye.

You made your way over to your tiny lover, who immediately turned around with an eager gleam in his crimson eyes. He patted the wall’s surface with one small hand, proudly trying to divert your attention to what he clearly deemed a masterpiece. You couldn’t help but smile as you pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of his soft white hair, lifting him easily into your arms before praising him for his creation, watching as his ears turn slightly pinkish. 

The walk back to his mansion was surprisingly short, not because of the distance, but because of the constant stream of animated chatter coming from Sylus. You hum and respond once in a while, eyes locked on his round face. You’d often wondered what Sylus had been like as a child since he didn’t really have any childhood photos or any sweet memories of those sorts. You once even assumed that he’d had probably been an overall aloof child considering his normal nature. 

But clearly you were mistaken because little Sylus was far from indifferent. He was shorter, chubbier and a total chatterbox with full energy. He kept pressing his tiny palms against your cheeks, forcing your attention to remain on him rather than on the passing scenery. Something about it stirred a deep, unfamiliar sense of affection within you — maternal, perhaps, or simply overwhelming tenderness.

“Whatcha thinking?” He asked, peering up at you from beneath long ivory lashes. 

“I’m thinking…” you began as you stepped into the mansion and carefully kicked off your shoes, mindful not to jostle him, “I could have five little yous running around and still never get tired.”

Sylus giggled, and the sound was so sweet — so utterly uncharacteristic of the man you knew — that it made your heart swell. You cooed at him in response, smiling as his ears turned pink once again. It struck you then — he must have always gotten shy when praised by someone he loved.

You set him down gently and made your way to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water for him. As you filled it, you called out, “Luke? Kieran?”

The twins appeared a second later, popping their heads out from behind a wall in perfect sync before strolling over to you. They leaned casually on the dining table, voices overlapping as they spoke in unison.

“Yes, Missus?”

You handed Sylus the water and turned back to them. “If you get a call from Philip this evening, go to the Odd Workshop and collect whatever he gives you.”

The two exchanged glances and nodded but still asked, “What for, Missus?”

“Sylus turned into the five-year-old version of himself as a result of playing with one of Philip’s peculiar inventions. Philip will be creating a counter-agent to reverse that effect by evening. So, you’ll be picking it up from his place.”

The twins looked at you like you grew two heads before sharing a subtle glance with each other. Their gazes followed you as you walked over to little Sylus and offered him the glass of water. You heard them gasp from behind you as they saw their miniaturized boss-man.

“No gin fizz?” Little Sylus asked, his lips forming a small pout. You patted his head twice, making him finish the glass of water before responding, “You’re five, Sylus.”

“Only by body.” He protested half-heartedly, allowing you to walk away toward the kitchen counter. He noticed the twins staring at him, their jaws dropped in disbelief. He shot them a menacing glare that, unfortunately, didn’t carry much weight due to his adorably cute face.

“Do you think boss-man would like uppies?” Luke whispered to Kieran after a moment of silence.

“Try it, and I’ll break your hands.” Sylus threatened, though the menace was undermined by the childish lilt in his voice. The twins zoomed out of the room in response, but it didn’t take long before they returned, each holding one of the plushies you’d collected over time. They also sported silly hats with fans attached to them, which they had somehow managed to get onto Mephisto as well. Waving the plushies in front of little Sylus’ face, Kieran added, “If not uppies, then surely boss-man would like toys?”

Luke furrowed his brow, falling deep into thought. “Is it ‘boss-man’ or ‘baby boss-man’ now?”

“I think the latter. But is ‘baby boss-man’ okay, or should we change it to ‘boss baby,’ like in the movie?” Kieran voiced his own opinion, and the two of them pondered in silence, while Mephisto let out curious caws in the background.

You could see the slight twitch of annoyance in your lover’s brows as you cut up some fruit for him. His expression made it clear he wasn’t exactly amused by their antics. A few moments later, the twins’ yelps filled the room, followed by the sound of Sylus’s evol lifting them off the ground before spinning them in circles. You didn’t need to look back to confirm — his mischievous smirk was practically radiating from the air.

After a few more minutes, you spoke over your shoulder, “Sylus, that’s enough. Put the twins down.”

He slumped his shoulders, his lips pressed in a pout, but despite his reluctance, he complied.

The twins clutched their heads, their faces pale, leaning against each other to steady themselves. They now knew little Sylus’ favorite game, and with that newfound knowledge, they’d be sure to avoid becoming part of it ever again. Meanwhile, Mephisto emitted unintelligible chatters that almost sounded mocking, as if he were laughing at the twins, prompting them to chase after the crow in frustration.

You pick up the fruit bowl you prepared earlier and make your way over to your miniaturized boyfriend. Gently lifting him into your arms, you carry him to his study and settle into the plush sofa, carefully positioning him on your lap. His gaze immediately lands on the fruit bowl, and you already know — he’s not eating a bite unless you feed him yourself.

Without a word, you pick up an apple slice and bring it to his expectant mouth. He takes it without hesitation, and a fond smile spreads across your lips as you watch him chew with slow, deliberate movements, his tiny baby teeth working adorably. Your eyes wander to his miniature hands, chubby fingers, and the soft curve of his cheeks — each feature impossibly cute and heart-melting. A strange warmth blossoms in your chest.

Once he dutifully finishes the fruit, you shower his face with gentle kisses, unable to resist his charm. You take a playful bite of his squishy cheek, and he squirms away with a bashful laugh, flustered but delighted.

You stretch out your legs, adjusting him slightly on your lap just as Mephisto comes swooping into the study. The mechanical crow flaps in with a small box tied to his claws and drops it onto the table. Your eyes flick to the label — it’s a parcel from Philip. The antidote.

Opening the box, you find a syringe filled with a strange-looking fluid. Meanwhile, Sylus is preoccupied with Mephisto, tugging at the poor bird with all the curiosity and strength of a toddler. You gently free the distressed crow from his tiny grasp and let him fly away with a disgruntled caw.

You prepare the syringe, mentally rehearsing how to administer it without making Sylus cry. But to your astonishment, he simply extends his arm, blinking at you calmly like he was born for this moment. You barely suppress the laughter bubbling in your throat as you inject the cure into his arm. Once done, you toss the used materials into the waste bin nearby.

Little Sylus settles back against you, his small head nestled against your chest and his arms resting at his sides. He lets out a soft yawn, eyelids fluttering.

“You must be tired of taking care of me all day, right?” he asks sleepily.

You stroke a hand gently down his back as he drifts closer to sleep, murmuring mostly to yourself, “Tired? Not even a little. Though I’ll admit… I did catch baby fever — and it’s all your fault.” You smile softly and poke his cheek. “You’d look incredibly hot holding our babies, not gonna lie.”

Your eyes begin to grow heavy too, and you decide to let sleep take you — wrapped around this tiny, precious version of him.

But peace is fleeting.

You're rudely jolted awake by a sharp ache in your limbs from the sudden weight pressing into you — and the restless shifting of said weight. You blink your eyes open, groggy and confused, only to find yourself completely unprepared for the sight before you.

Sylus, in all his fully restored, adult glory, is now straddling your lap. And to your utter disbelief — he’s completely naked. The weight of his shirt over your feet confirms that. You keep your eyes fixed on his face, not daring to look anywhere down. 

“Why are you not decent?” You ask, your voice sharp but wavering slightly under the weight of the scene before you.

Sylus doesn’t answer — not directly. Instead, he tilts his head back, a downright  dangerous smirk playing on his lips as he murmurs, “Baby fever, huh?”

Your breath catches, and you struggle to mask the shock on your face. You’d been certain he was asleep last night — small, drowsy, and curled up against your chest — when you muttered those words. Clearly, you were wrong.

Feigning thoughtfulness, he furrows his silver brows, tapping a slender finger thoughtfully against his chin. “Let me see... Was it just my imagination,” he drawls slowly, “or did you actually say something along the lines of how incredibly hot I’d look holding our babies?”

You quickly avert your gaze, face flushing from the neck up, but Sylus isn’t finished. Gently but firmly, he turns your face back toward him with a soft grip on your chin.

“Babies, hmm? Plural, kitten?” His voice is velvet-smooth, full of teasing delight. “My, my… I never realized my sweet girlfriend harbored such passionate little dreams, tucked away in the quiet corners of her heart.”

Mortified, you bring your hands up to cover your face, hoping to hide the vivid shade of red blooming across your cheeks. Your attempts at explanation tumble out as little more than embarrassed babbling — completely incoherent.

Sylus lets out a quiet chuckle as he captures your wrists, gently drawing your hands away from your face and guiding your eyes back to his. His gaze is molten, ruby irises shimmering with a heat that words can’t quite describe — intense, unspoken, and entirely consuming

He presses himself further into your body and you try to not think too much about what is poking your thighs and instead focus on his next words. He clicks his tongue, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You know… I really am curious how you'd handle five little versions of me. Perhaps it’s time we put that theory to the test, don’t you think?”

Before you can form a coherent response, you barely register the soft click of the study door locking — courtesy of his evol — followed by the warmth of his hand slipping beneath your shirt.

In the next breath, you're on your back, pressed into the cushions of the sofa, his body hovering over yours with practiced ease. That infuriating, devastatingly attractive smirk curves his lips — one laced with unmistakable intent.

And in his eyes, gleaming with heat and purpose, you see it: he’s done teasing. He’s ready to prove just how serious he is.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[k-hotchoisan]

play rough

<san x fem!reader x seonghwa>

Where your pretty little cat hybrids keep more than your hands busy, especially when Seonghwa can’t keep his paws off you during his rut.

no fur coats, but a hell lot of purring 🐾

a/n: an exchange im doing with the loml @bro-atz 🩷 hope you’ll love it as much as I did hehehe. this is also a love letter to bro, who shares the same brain as i do, who now cannot remove me from their life even they wanted to 😛🩷

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, two horny kitty hybrids, Seonghwa is in heat, orgasms, overstimulation, unprotected sex, mild exhibitionism because San catches you and hwa fucking, cunnilingus, kitchen sex, anal, it's filthy (atp i think you're not surprised???), breeding

word count: 3K

taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie  @pre1ttyies @hwallazia @songmingisthighs @yeosangiess @mylovelymito @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @itza-meee @ywtf @jeon-ify @itza-meee @miss-fallon @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @owlbeforesunrise @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @haleyjoy @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @vampiregirl215 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @liyahbug05-blog @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn @vic0921 @woojirang  @yeo-arriba @jjoongstar

Seonghwa draws circles on your thigh, blinking slowly at the tv programme that he’s evidently not focusing on. It’s a lazy afternoon and it’s your day off. Both felines are more than happy to have you around, burying you with themselves at either side of your body. 

Both kitties can switch back and forth between their cat transformations, and they do, out of convenience for certain situations, and especially when they want you to carry them to bed. San lies down on your lap, his feline breed of a bigger size because of his human stature, evidently taking up more space on your lap. He’s definitely fallen asleep, judging by his slow breathing patterns. Seonghwa, on the other hand, seemed distracted. He’s huddled up against your shoulder, hand still on your thighs. 

You don’t pay him much attention, wanting to concentrate on carrying San. 

Seonghwa jumps when you shift to leave, a displeased expression on his face as his fingers grab your shirt, his ears downcast. “Where are you going?” He asks with a pout. 

“Let me carry San back into the bedroom since he wants to sleep”, you say, carefully picking the fluffier cat up. San stirs slightly, but when he realises it’s you, his body relaxes a little. Seonghwa reluctantly lets go when your hand slips under his chin giving him small strokes, feeling him purr before he finally lets you go. 

“Gosh, Sannie. I know you’ve been working out but holy shit-“ you stammer in your movements, trying to balance his weight on your arms. San is half-awake, flailing slightly in an attempt to keep his balance in your arms. It’s utterly adorable but you would never hear the end of his whining if you were to drop him again. You decide to stay still and let the feline adjust comfortably before you walked over to your shared bedroom to drop him off. San nuzzles against your neck, soft purrs reaching your ears as his cat body presses against you, and you can’t help but run your fingers through his soft fur. San in his cat form was a lot easier to carry than when he transforms into a hybrid, that’s for sure, but he really is a big cat compared to Seonghwa. 

You watch as San lulls himself to sleep, his tail-swishing gradually slowing down as his body relaxes, before you press a soft kiss onto his small forehead, leaving him to wander in his daydreams. 

Once San has completely dozed off, you gingerly slide off the bed, heading to the common space in the apartment, deciding to whip yourself something light to snack on.

You pass the sofa, your peripherals catching the taller male lying on the sofa. You steal a quick glance—Seonghwa also seemed to be deep in his slumber—his tail relaxed against the fabric of the couch, his arms outstretched, hugging the pillow, his hair splayed messily. Oh gosh, he’s so fucking adorable.

You let yourself internally fawn over how soft he looks before you turned your heel to the kitchen. What you don’t notice is the way Seonghwa’s eyebrows are furrowed, the way his legs are squeezing hard against the pillow, and the way the smell of you is flooding his senses when you bypass him. His breathing grows slightly heavier. 

You softly hum to yourself, even though you are at a considerable distance from the couch, you still wanted to be cautious about waking Seonghwa up. Recently it seems like he’s slightly on edge. For the most part, Seonghwa’s energy jumps between a spectrum—calm or just bursting at the seams with endless amounts of energy, almost comparable to San. But Seonghwa has been more restless as of late, his attention span everywhere, his sensitivity seemingly climbing up in levels. 

You pull open the fridge door, your eyes scanning the contents for any signs of leftovers you could have a quick munch on. Your hands reach out to a bunched-up pile of aluminum foil—the leftover kimbap you made the day before. You shut the door quickly once you have the snack in your hands, spending no time unwrapping the foil. 

Your attention is now on the content on your phone, reading off social media while you comfortably munch on the rice rolls, your body facing the counter, too engrossed to get a chair to sit. 

Midway through your snack time, your body jolts when you feel a pair of very warm hands wrap around your waist, his body weight pressing against yours. 

“You’re up, Hwa. Are you hungry?” You ask, stroking his arms, not realising that he’s letting them slip dangerously close to your chest. 

Seonghwa shakes his head, then presses his cheeks against your temple, nuzzling you. 

His arms tighten around you, his hands slipping under your shirt more boldly, his slender fingers cupping your tits, giving them a squeeze that elicited a soft groan from you.

The kimbap is left forgotten on the counter.

You sigh, the feeling of Seonghwa’s teeth nibbling against the soft skin on your neck while he kneads your tits seeping into your senses. 

You swallow hard, trying to keep your sanity rooted, even though Seonghwa’s hands are slipping downwards south, his fingers tugging and fidgeting with the elastic of your shorts. 

“What’s up, kitty?”, you manage to ask in between deep breaths. His thumbs hook onto the waistband, teasingly tugging your shorts lower. 

Then you feel something thick pressing against the curve of your spine when he leans in impossibly close. 

Heat is flushing into your cheeks but you remain composed, turning your head to face Seonghwa. 

“Can’t seem to sleep with the smell of you just suffocating me like that”, he mutters, tone low that you shiver, and he has one hand palming over his thick erection underneath his shorts. “And especially your cunt.”

You don’t answer him right away, your mind sifting through the possibilities behind Seonghwa’s recent behaviour. His tail curls around your thighs, riding the fabric of your shorts, the fluffy tip caressing your skin. 

“Your heat came early”, you realise when the pieces finally click together. However, a little too late by then, considering that Seonghwa has you trapped under him, his erection pressing painfully against your lower back while his hands are leaving no areas of your skin untouched. It’s creating a haze in your mind, and before you could even formulate a response to offer the older hybrid to buy meds, his fingers are close to your scalp, and he tugs your hair with enough force that you’re forced to face upwards, staring right into Seonghwa’s glazed out eyes. He stares down at you, eyes dripping with overflowing lust before he collides his lips against yours, stealing every bit of oxygen left, his tongue exploring every part of your mouth, all of your moans going right to his cock. 

When he pulls back, he leans you over the kitchen counter, pressing his weight against yours, his lips right at the shell of your ear.

“Fucking hell. I can smell how much your pussy just wants to be fucked.”

“Wait! Hwa-“

“You’re such a bad owner”, he continues, in between groans that only make you squeeze your thighs when he grinds himself against you. “You’re doing it on purpose, right? Walking around with no fucking panties on. Just begging me to fuck you.” 

“It’s not that, Seonghwa-“, you squirm a little, your mind dangerously going blank when you feel Seonghwa pushing the opening of your shorts to reveal your soaking cunt, just taunting. 

“We might wake San up!”

His pants are the next to slide off, his cockhead just rubbing against the folds of your pussy. 

“Then let him. You know he likes watching your pretty little hole get stretched open no matter who’s fucking you right?”

He lines his wet cockhead to your hole. 

Then he pushes himself in, and the groan he releases when he does sounds like honey in your ears as he stretches you open to accommodate his thick cock. Your hand flies to his arms which are wrapped around your waist. 

“H-Hwa! Oh fuck-“ you gasp, feeling his cock slowly fill your pussy, girth thickening towards the base. 

“I’ve been such a good kitty right?” Seonghwa mutters into your ear, listening to the way you’re falling apart on his cock. “I held back so well. You should reward me, Angel. Then again, this pretty pussy of yours is enough. I’ll take good care of it for you.”

He pulls back and starts thrusting his hips against yours, the sounds growing wetter and louder. Seonghwa moans right in your ear, and his grip around you tightens further when he feels you clench around him. 

Cream and precum start to gather and further soak your cunt, some trickling down your inner thighs. 

“So fucking good. You’re so fucking tight for me, Angel”, Seonghwa purrs, his eyes rolling back in pleasure every time your cunt just sucks his cock in, wet and thick with cream. 

Seonghwa straightens his back, making it easier for him to just fuck you from the back all the same. 

The knot in your stomach tightens, and your breath hitches every time Seonghwa’s cock hits your sensitive spots. 

He presses his body weight against yours once more, his ruts growing more intense, and he has his hands around your neck. 

“You’re gonna cum for me, Angel? Fuck. Gonna make sure breed you so fucking good.”

And that was enough to set the both of you off—stars splattering across your eyelids, your legs shaking uncontrollably while Seonghwa forces his cock still in you, thick white filling your pussy up, leaking past your hole. 

You attempt to muffle your moans with your hands. Still, it’s rendered useless anyway, most because you watch San walk out of the bedroom in his hybrid form, ears pointed downwards, rubbing sleep from his eyes, expression unreadable when his eyes land on his friend with his cock stuffed in his owner’s pussy, and especially his owner looking up at him, her eyes in tears while cum drips down her thighs. 

His eyebrows are furrowed and he pouts. 

You stare at the hybrid before you, his ears perked up, his eyes glazed out and so needy.

San starts kissing up your neck from behind, his tail flicking back and forth, tickling your skin as he does. 

When you and Seonghwa had been caught by San, San pouted, upset that no one woke him up to let him join the fun. 

And now you were dragged into the bedroom, with Seonghwa sitting before you and San behind you. Seonghwa has his cat ears pointed forwards, his cock still thick and hard, messy with cream, and his fingers trail up your neck to your chin before he closes the distance between the both of you. 

The thing about San is that he knows how to play around with Seonghwa when it comes to fucking you, and during Seonghwa’s rut, it’s no different. 

When Seonghwa pulls away from you, lips wet with spit, precum seeping from his cockhead, mind greedy and desperate, San cups your tits, letting Seonghwa watch him pinch your nipples, letting your cunt spit more slick, staining your inner thighs even more while you squeal in pleasure. 

Seonghwa joins San, pressing and sucking his kisses against your skin, relishing in the way you groan every time he forms a pretty mark on your neck to your chest, then from your sternum to your pelvis, and he continues to lower himself right until his lips are on your pussy. He looks up at you through his lashes, watching the way your glazed-out expression when San makes you suck on his fingers. Seonghwa’s lips press against your creamy folds, letting his tongue slide into them, licking and fucking your pretty little hole, his cock leaking so much thick precum when he listens to your cries growing louder. San’s wet finger that he made you suck circles your asshole. He pushes one finger in, reminding you to relax or he can’t fit his cock in and Seonghwa continues to flick his tongue against your clit, tasting everything your pussy has to give. The hybrid behind you stretches your ass with another wet finger, and it’s making you tear up, but you feel his other hand slide across your thighs to soothe you. 

Your mind is hazy, and it’s not about to get any better when you feel your orgasm build as Seonghwa’s fucking your cunt with his tongue. 

San lines his cockhead to your asshole when he thinks you’re stretched open enough, and pushes in, kissing up your chin, reminding you to relax for him when he hears you sob. 

“You shouldn’t be mad at our sweetheart, hyung”, San defends you, watching the way your thighs are shaking from the impending orgasm. “She’s always been taking such good care of us, letting us fuck her whenever we want.” 

Another lick and your hands push Seonghwa against your cunt, cumming so fucking good on his tongue with a broken cry, your hole clenching San’s cock, his voice cursing in your ears. 

“Hwa! Fuck!”, you cry out, hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer to your cunt while he fucks you with his tongue through your orgasm, his purrs getting muffled, vibrating against your clit, making you shake even more. 

When Seonghwa pulls back, his cock is dripping with cum, his breathing as heavy as his cock.

You squeal slightly when San slowly pulls out of your ass before making you straddle Seonghwa’s lap. 

San leans into your ear to give you a suggestion. 

“You should be a good girl and ride him. You know he loves it when you do.”

Seonghwa looks like he’s on the verge of crying, his fists are clenched, his mind anticipating when he watches you hungrily lift your hips, grazing your pussy with his messy and thick cock before you push yourself on him, your legs shaking from how Seonghwa split your pussy from below. 

He hisses, a slew of curses leaving his lips while his cock twitches in you. His pretty ears are twitching too. 

“So good,” Seonghwa mutters in between tears. “Fuck. Still so fucking tight even when I fucked you just now-“

San lets his hands rest on your hip, guiding you to fuck yourself on Seonghwa’s cock. Seonghwa’s tail swishes rather violently, his head rolled back and pressed into the pillows, his whines and grunts filling up the room. Watching him squirm and unravel could get you and San addicted—especially with the stark contrast of when he takes the lead at first, only to completely fall apart in your hands when he’s under you. 

“Kitty is so fucking cute when you’re ruining him like this, especially when he’s in heat”, San hums. You nod, kissing San on his temple before your face contorts into pleasure when you sink onto Seonghwa’s cock again. 

“You’re such a good boy, Hwa. Such a good and pretty boy for me”, you sigh, leaning forward, letting your hands wander across his body, your fingertips teasingly grazing against his perky and swollen nipples. You press your thumb against his lips, and Seonghwa sucks on your fingers, looking at you with watery eyes. You wet your other thumb with your lips, and roll his nipples, listening to Seonghwa cry out helplessly underneath you while you still bounce off his lengthy cock. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck”, Seonghwa whimpers, his ears twitching uncontrollably. “Ngh- gonna cum. Fuck! Cumming-Oh fuck it’s so much”, he groans, eyes screwed shut, fingers leaving marks on your thighs, holding you still, letting his endless warm and thick spurts fill you up over and over again while you sing him praises.  

“Don’t forget about me, kitty”, San reminds you, his hands pulling you back as you lift yourself off Seonghwa’s cock with an eye-rolling shiver, so much fucking cum drizzling out from your hole, which San slips his cock in, and plugs your pussy hole shut, ignoring the way you’re crying that you’re too full.

It’s fine. San is gonna fuck the cum out of you anyway. 

San’s thick cock stuffs you full, and you hear him groan in your ear when he bottoms out in you. His hands caress your thighs before he lifts you and sits you on his cock again, listening to your cries. 

“Hyung, you really stretched her out so well”, San teases, his tail excitedly hitting the mattress whenever he feels you squeeze him. 

Seonghwa fucks his hand, watching the way you’re being fucked by San from below. Seonghwa doesn’t like sharing, but for some reason, he thinks San’s enjoyment of watching you be fucked stupid by him starts making sense in his head seeing you so ruined perfectly like that. 

Fluids pool at the base of San’s cock at every thrust, and it’s a pornographic sight of his cock thrusting in and out of your abused hole. 

In your ears, you’re just hearing San groaning, “fuck kitty. feels so fuckin amazing like this. Oh my fuck.”

Your brain is mush, coherent sentences aren’t even forming—only feeling San’s dick hitting spots in your pussy that’s making you see stars. 

Seonghwa shifts above you, his hand on your scalp, forcing you to look up at him and his pretty cock, watching him fucking his hand against your face. By instinct, you stick your tongue out as much as you can, even though you’re being fucked stupid by San. 

“That’s a good girl”, Seonghwa hums. “I’ll make you so fucking pretty.” 

With a strained groan, he bucks his hips against his palm, another load decorating your face. 

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so much, kitty. I know hyung likes messing you up with his cum. Still, I’m the one with his cock in you y’know”, San complains as he pushes his cock even deeper, pulling you out of any remaining coherent thoughts, your legs pushing open when your third orgasm hits from the overstimulation. You break, spraying all over Seonghwa when you lift your hips off San, forcefully pushing his cock out, his cum diluted by the clear liquid. 

No doubt, you’re completely spent. Your eyelids are heavy from exhaustion, but San and Seonghwa take turns pressing kisses onto your lips, whispering sweet nothings alongside purring against your neck. 

You’re in an absolute sticky mess, in tears, so fucked out thanks to your two pretty kitties.

And you’d let them do it all over again. 

[ev3nesce]

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time. 

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off. 

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other. 

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own. 

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent. 

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk. 

“Who gave them to you?” 

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?” 

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.” 

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease. 

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears. 

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you. 

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate. 

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm. 

…Could you use him as a scapegoat? 

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?” 

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?” 

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted. 

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips. 

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile. 

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.” 

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape. 

Except it wasn’t clear. 

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes—?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles. 

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs. 

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing. 

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.” 

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way. 

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close? 

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument. 

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work. 

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse. 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.” 

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing. 

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography. 

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it. 

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.” 

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience. 

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?”

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry. 

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit.  He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back. 

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits. 

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?” 

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss. 

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?” 

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut. 

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back. 

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut. 

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar. 

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief. 

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze. 

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

[vortexbloom]

Can I request some dialogue heavy scenarios where the HSR men, Jing Yuan, Blade, Dan Heng, Boothill, Sunday, Jiaoqiu, and Moze are in a relationship with a Neko reader and how they react when the reader jumps up like an actual scared cat when they're spooked.

Sure :)

I decided to make a Aventurine one too btw.

How they‘d react, if they‘d see their Neko Lover jump up like an actual cat when they’re spooked (Seperate OneShots)

Pairing: Jing Yuan / Blade / Dan Heng / Boothill / Sunday / Jiaoqiu / Moze / Aventurine x Neko Reader

Fandom: HSR (Honkai Star Rail)

Warnings: Some parts may be similar

─୨ৎ────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────୨ৎ─

Masterlist - Honkai Star Rail

Masterlist - Genshin Impact

Moodboards - Genshin Impact

Masterlist - Marvel

Boycott List

─୨ৎ────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────୨ৎ─

English isn’t my first/native language, so there might be misspellings etc.

I do NOT own any Characters !

Have fun reading this :D

⋆˚࿔ 𝒥𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒴𝓊𝒶𝓃 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The warm glow of lanterns bathed Jing Yuan’s study in a soft light, casting elongated shadows across the neatly arranged scrolls. It was a quiet evening, the kind he treasured, especially when you were here, curled up beside him, tail lazily flicking as you read through one of his many books.

Jing Yuan leaned back in his chair, golden eyes half lidded with drowsy contentment. He had been watching you for some time now, admiring the way your ears twitched slightly when you were deep in thought. It was a small, endearing habit, one of the many he had come to cherish.

The peace, however, did not last.

A sudden crash echoed through the room as the wind managed to drop a tray, the clattering sound cutting through the silence like a blade.

Your reaction was instant.

Ears flattening, tail bristling, you let out a startled yelp before leaping straight into the air, your body moving with feline agility as you landed on the desk with a soft thud, wide eyed and claws lightly extended. A scroll rolled off the surface, and Jing Yuan barely had the presence of mind to catch his teacup before it tipped over.

Silence.

Then, a deep chuckle.

Jing Yuan pressed a hand to his lips, his broad shoulders shaking as he struggled to contain his amusement. His golden eyes gleamed with mirth as he regarded you, still perched atop the desk.

"My dear," he drawled, voice laced with humor. "I never realized you had such…remarkable reflexes."

You shot him a glare, ears twitching in embarrassment. "That wasn’t funny," you huffed, crossing your arms.

That only made his smirk grow.

"On the contrary, I found it quite delightful." He reached out, fingers brushing over your ears with a gentle touch, smoothing them down as if to soothe your ruffled pride. His gaze softened, though the amusement never quite left his expression. "Though I do apologize if I annoyed too much."

You huffed again but didn’t pull away when his hand slid down to scratch at the base of your ears. The tension in your shoulders slowly melted, replaced by a quiet purr that you refused to acknowledge.

Jing Yuan’s grin widened. "Ah, so I am forgiven?"

You flicked your tail in response, before muttering, "Only if you don’t tease me about this forever."

The General chuckled, leaning forward until his forehead nearly touched yours. "I make no promises."

You just rolled your eyes.

With a swift motion, he tugged you forward, pulling you effortlessly into his lap. A surprised squeak left your lips as he wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin atop your head with a satisfied sigh.

"Now, stay here and let me enjoy this warmth a little longer."

You grumbled, but the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear was a difficult comfort to resist. So, despite your embarrassment, you let yourself relax in his embrace, tail curling around his wrist as his fingers continued their lazy strokes through your hair.

Jing Yuan merely smiled, content.

This, he decided, was far better than any paperwork.

════════════════════════════

⋆˚࿔ ℬ𝓁𝒶𝒹ℯ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The silence in the room was comfortable, broken only by the occasional rustling of fabric as Blade shifted in his seat. He wasn’t one for idle chatter, and you had long since grown used to his quiet nature. It didn’t bother you. If anything, you found a strange sense of peace in his presence, knowing that despite his distant demeanor, he always kept an eye on you.

Curled up on the couch, your tail lazily flicked behind you as you read, the dim glow of the lamp casting soft shadows along the walls. Blade sat nearby, sharpening his sword with slow, methodical movements, his eyes flickering to you every so often.

And then—

BANG!

The sound of something heavy falling outside the room shattered the tranquility. Instinct took over before your mind could catch up, your ears flattened, your tail bristled, and in one swift motion, you leapt straight into the air.

Blade barely had time to react before you landed with perfect feline agility, on top of the bookshelf.

Silence.

He blinked.

Then, without a word, he set his weapon aside and leaned back against his seat, tilting his head slightly as a quiet huff of amusement left his lips.

"…Hmm."

That was it. No teasing remark, no laughter, just that small, almost imperceptible sound of amusement. But you knew him well enough to recognize it.

Your ears twitched. "Don’t say it."

He exhaled through his nose, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Say what?"

You narrowed your eyes. His were unreadable, as always, but there was something behind them? a flicker of entertainment that he was clearly holding back.

Slowly, deliberately, Blade stood up. You tensed, watching as he moved to stand directly in front of the bookshelf, his gaze sharp, calculating. Then, in one fluid motion, he reached up, his strong hands effortlessly wrapping around your waist.

Before you could protest, he lifted you off the shelf with ease.

"You land well," he mused, setting you down in front of him. His hands didn’t immediately let go, lingering at your waist as his thumb brushed against your side. "Jump high, too."

Your tail flicked, your ears still slightly flattened. "Blade."

His lips twitched, just barely. Then, as if the moment had already passed, he released you, stepping back as he picked up his sword once more.

"Next time, land somewhere I can reach you faster."

You stared at him. "Was that…concern?"

He didn’t answer, but the way his fingers tightened briefly around the hilt of his sword told you everything you needed to know.

And despite your lingering embarrassment, you couldn’t help but smile.

════════════════════════════

⋆˚࿔ 𝒟𝒶𝓃 ℋℯ𝓃ℊ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The Astral Express was unusually quiet that evening. Most of the crew had retired to their rooms, leaving only the soft hum of the train’s engine and the occasional flicker of passing stars through the windows. You sat comfortably on the couch in the archive room, tail lazily flicking as you drank some tea. Across from you, Dan Heng sat with his own reading material, his gaze focused, his expression as unreadable as ever.

This was routine. A quiet evening together, surrounded by books and tea, with the gentle presence of each other’s company. You liked it this way.

Until—

CLANK.

The sudden noise from the hallway shattered the silence. Something heavy had fallen, perhaps March had dropped her camera again, or Caelus had knocked over something. Either way, the sound was unexpected.

Your body reacted before your mind did. Instinctively, your ears flattened, your tail bristled, and with an alarmed yelp, you leapt straight up into the air.

Straight onto the shelf.

Silence.

Dan Heng’s book remained open in his hands, but his eyes had drifted upward, following your movement. You clung to the top of the shelf, wide eyed, tail still puffed up in fright. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, with a barely perceptible sigh, Dan Heng closed his book.

"I see your reflexes are…impressive."

Your ears twitched, heat creeping up your face. "Don’t say anything."

He tilted his head slightly, expression calm but unreadable. "I didn’t."

You scowled, shifting slightly but realizing with mild horror that getting down was trickier than expected. The shelf was taller than you thought, and your balance was precarious. You hesitated.

Dan Heng noticed.

Without a word, he stood up and walked over, stopping just below you. He extended his arms, gaze steady. "Come down."

You blinked. "I can do it myself."

A pause. Then, his tone softened, just barely. "You’ll land better if I catch you."

You hesitated again, but there was no teasing in his voice, no amusement at your predicament, just quiet patience. Huffing softly, you relented, letting yourself lean forward until gravity took over.

Dan Heng caught you effortlessly, his grip firm yet careful as he steadied you against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, his warmth familiar. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, he finally spoke again.

"Next time, stay close to me. That way, you won’t have to jump at all."

Your ears twitched, tail flicking against his arm. You mumbled something about not being that easily startled, but the way Dan Heng’s arms lingered just a second longer than necessary told you he wasn’t entirely convinced.

════════════════════════════

⋆˚࿔ ℬℴℴ𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The dusty air of Penacony’s lower districts buzzed with distant chatter, neon signs flickering in the twilight. Boothill leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the table, hat pulled low over his face. A slow evening, just how he liked it.

You, on the other hand, were perched on the armrest beside him, tail lazily flicking as you toyed with the rim of his hat. "You always this relaxed, cowboy?" you teased, ears twitching as you watched him.

Boothill let out a slow chuckle, tilting his head just enough to glance at you. "Ain’t no rush, sugar. If trouble comes, I’ll handle it before you even blink."

As if the universe itself wanted to test that claim, a loud crash echoed from the alleyway behind you. Something, someone, had knocked over a stack of crates. The sudden noise sent your instincts into overdrive.

Ears flattening, tail puffing up, you let out a startled yelp before leaping straight up and landing perfectly on one of the wooden beams above. Claws lightly digging into the wood, you clung there, wide eyed, heart pounding.

Silence.

Boothill stayed completely still for a beat. Then, slowly, he lowered his boots from the table, his hand coming up to tip his hat back as he looked up at you. His eyes gleamed under the neon glow, amusement curling at the edges of his smirk.

"Well, ain’t that somethin’."

You groaned. "Don’t."

He chuckled, rolling his shoulders before standing. "Darlin’, you got reflexes quicker than a gunslinger in a standoff. You ever think ‘bout joinin’ me for a duel?"

You shot him a glare, tail flicking irritably. "I don’t see you reacting that fast."

Boothill smirked, tapping his holster. "That’s ‘cause I don’t need to jump, sweetheart. My gun does the talkin’."

You huffed, carefully shifting your weight to prepare for a jump down. But before you could move, Boothill was already underneath you, arms casually open. "Go on. I gotcha."

Your ears twitched. "I can land fine on my own, you know."

He smirked, tilting his head. "I know. But humor me."

You hesitated for only a second before letting go, landing effortlessly in his arms. His grip was steady, warm, secure. You half expected him to tease you, but instead, he just chuckled, adjusting his hold for a brief moment before setting you gently on your feet.

"Next time, sugar, maybe try jumpin’ towards me instead of away."

Your tail flicked against his leg in response, but the way he grinned told you he definitely wasn’t gonna let this go anytime soon.

════════════════════════════

⋆˚࿔ 𝒮𝓊𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The dazzling lights of Penacony’s Dreamscape cast a golden glow over the lounge, where Sunday lounged effortlessly on a velvet couch, a half empty glass of wine twirling between his fingers. He looked as he always did, relaxed, poised, utterly unreadable.

You, on the other hand, were seated beside him, tail flicking lazily as you nibbled on a delicate pastry. The night was peaceful, the music soft, the company…pleasant.

And then—

BANG!

A bottle behind the bar toppled over, crashing to the ground with a sharp clatter.

Your instincts kicked in before logic could catch up. Ears flattened, tail bristling, you let out a startled yelp and leapt straight up.

Not just a small jump, no, you soared, landing gracefully on the chandelier hanging above the lounge.

Silence.

Sunday, who had not even flinched at the noise, slowly lowered his wine glass, looking up at you with an expression that could only be described as…delightfully intrigued.

"Well, well," he mused, tilting his head as a slow smile curved his lips. "Now that’s what I call a grand performance."

Your tail flicked, embarrassment heating your face as you clung to the chandelier, claws digging slightly into the golden frame. "I—That was—"

He chuckled, setting his drink aside before standing, adjusting his pristine cuffs. "Darling, if you wanted all eyes on you, you only had to ask."

You groaned, ears flattening further. "Don’t start."

Sunday merely extended a hand, the neon reflections in his golden eyes glimmering with amusement. "Come down, love. Or should I call in a ladder?"

You huffed, preparing to leap down, only for Sunday to effortlessly step forward and catch you midair before you even landed. His grip was steady, his arms strong as he pulled you close, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips.

"Impeccable form," he murmured, voice low, teasing.

Your tail flicked against his chest in protest, and he laughed, a smooth, velvety sound.

"Though, next time, my dear…jump into my arms first, won’t you?"

════════════════════════════

⋆˚࿔ 𝒥𝒾𝒶ℴ𝓆𝒾𝓊 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Jiaoqiu sat at his desk, his fingers tracing the lines of his latest research notes. He glanced up from his work, eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze fixed on his beloved, curled up like a content kitten on the sofa, a small book resting ion your lap. The gentle, rhythmic sound of your breathing was oddly soothing, and for a moment, Jiaoqiu allowed himself to indulge in the comfort of your presence.

Then, something happened. A sudden, sharp noise cut through the silence.

The next thing Jiaoqiu knew, you, who had been peacefully dozing, launchedyourself into the air with a startled yelp, an elegant but startled leap that mirrored the precise movements of a frightened cat. Your eyes were wide, the ears on top of your head twitching in every direction, and your tail, Jiaoqiu’s favorite part of you, was puffed up in surprise.

The scene happened so quickly, he couldn’t help but blink in disbelief.

"Jiaoqiu!" Your voice cracked with sudden alarm as you hovered midair, eyes flicking around the room, as if searching for the source of danger.

But Jiaoqiu was no stranger to your cat-like reflexes. Still, it never ceased to amuse him.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, low and warm, as he leaned back in his chair. His expression softened, though there was a glint of affection in his eyes.´´

"Did you got startled, love?" he teased, his voice calm and controlled, as always.

You landed softly back onto the ground, your face flushed with embarrassment. You quickly tried to compose yourself, but your tail betrayed you, flicking erratically behind you as your eyes darted around to make sure the threat (whatever it was) had passed.

"I…I wasn’t expecting that noise," you stammered, still trying to regain your bearings.

Jiaoqiu stood up from his desk, taking slow, measured steps toward you. His hand gently reached out, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. He couldn't resist teasing you a little further, but there was a tender warmth in his voice.

"You’re so cute when you’re startled,´´ he said, his lips curling into a soft smile. ´´You remind me of a cat, always so quick to react."

His words made your cheeks burn brighter, making you pull your knees up to your chest, feeling embarassed. You were so used to your feline-like tendencies, the ears, the tail, the reflexes, but hearing Jiaoqiu call you cute´ always ´turned you into a blushing mess.

"I didn’t jump that high!" you protested weakly, though the sheepish smile on your face said otherwise.

Jiaoqiu chuckled, sitting next to you on the couch. "You did. And I think it’s adorable," he said, his voice softening. "I never thought I’d be so lucky to have someone so…unique, so full of life."

You looked up at him, your heart fluttering in your chest. Despite the teasing, there was a sincerity in his words. Jiaoqiu wasn’t one to offer praise lightly, and when he did, it meant something.

"Really?" you asked quietly, your tail swishing a little more contentedly now.

Jiaoqiu nodded, his gaze soft and unwavering. "Absolutely."

He took your hand gently, pulling you closer to him, and placed a soft kiss to your forehead, brushing his fingers over the tips of your ears. "Now, I think it’s time for you to relax, my little neko. I’ll make sure nothing scares you for the rest of the evening."

You felt your heart melt as you curled closer to him, feeling safe in his embrace. Youwere still a little embarrassed about your jump, after all, you had hoped to appear graceful, even with the feline traits youcouldn’t help but flaunt. But Jiaoqiu never made you feel self conscious.

In fact, he loved you all the more for it.

And so, in the calm after the the startle, the two of you settled together.

As Jiaoqiu continued to hold you, his beloved, close, you realized that sometimes, being startled and falling into the arms of someone who cared, made everything in the world seem perfectly aligned.

"Jiaoqiu" you whispered, nuzzling your cheek against his shoulder. "Thank you for always being here."

He smiled, brushing a gentle hand through your hair, his heart swelling with love.

"Always."

════════════════════════════

⋆˚࿔ ℳℴ𝓏ℯ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Moze had seen a lot of things in his time. But watching his lover, his sweet, supposedly normal lover, leap straight into the air like a startled cat? Yeah, that was new.

The night had been quiet. You walked beside Moze, tail swaying lazily, ears twitching at the distant sounds of the city. Moze, ever the picture of relaxed confidence, strolled with his hands in his pockets, cigarette hanging from his lips.

Then—

BANG!

A trash can tipped over in a nearby alley.

Before Moze could so much as glance over, you sprang into the air, landing effortlessly on the ledge of a street sign.

Silence.

Moze stood there, cigarette paused between his fingers, head tilting up to look at you. His eyes gleamed with slow, dawning amusement.

"Huh." He exhaled smoke, taking his time before smirking. "Didn’t take you for the ‘climb first, think later’ type."

Your tail flicked in embarrassment. "It was instinct!"

"Instinct, huh?" His smirk widened. "So, what’s the plan now, kitten? You settin’ up shop up there, or you need a rescue?"

You huffed, crossing your arms. "I don’t need rescuing."

"That so?" He took a step closer, tapping ash from his cigarette. "Then jump down."

You hesitated. The leap up had been easy. The jump down, especially with Moze watching so intently, felt…humiliating.

His grin turned lazy as he opened his arms. "C’mon. You know I gotcha."

With a sigh, you finally leapt and true to his word, Moze caught you effortlessly, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you against him.

"Told ya," he murmured, voice warm against your ear.

You buried your face in his shoulder. "You’re never gonna let this go, are you?"

A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Nope. Might even start keepin’ a tally."

You groaned, but his laughter, low, teasing, and utterly fond, made it a little harder to stay mad.

════════════════════════════

⋆˚࿔ 𝒜𝓋ℯ𝓃𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃ℯ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Aventurine had seen many things in his line of work, bluffs, desperate gambles, high risk plays that paid off or crashed spectacularly. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for the sight of you his oh so charming lover, springing into the air like an actual startled cat.

The two of you had been walking through the Reverie, his usual smug confidence on full display as he lazily shuffled a deck of cards in one hand. You, tail swaying, ears twitching at every sound, strolled beside him, casually entertained by his smooth talk about probabilities and luck.

Then, the universe decided to throw in an unexpected variable.

A sudden clatter, a serving tray crashing to the floor behind you.

In an instant, your body reacted before your mind could catch up, ears flattened, tail puffed, and you launched yourself straight up, landing gracefully atop a decorative light fixture.

Silence.

Aventurine blinked. Slowly. Then, with the ease of a man who had just been blessed with the most amusing hand of cards ever dealt, he let out a low, delighted chuckle.

"Well, well. I must say, I didn’t account for this particular…reflex of yours."

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. "Don’t start."

"Oh, but I must." He smirked up at you, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You know, darling, if you wanted a change in perspective, you could’ve just asked. Climbing the decor seems a bit dramatic, even for you."

"I didn’t mean to!" you huffed, tail flicking in irritation. "It was instinct!"

"Instinct, you say?" He tapped a finger against his chin, as if considering his next move in a game. "Fascinating. You do this often? Perhaps I should start placing bets on how high you’ll go next time?"

You shot him a glare. He only laughed, ever the picture of infuriating amusement.

Finally, he stretched out a hand, voice laced with an exaggerated sigh. "Come now, kitten. As much as I enjoy this newfound discovery, I’d rather not have my partner perched above me like some elusive jackpot prize."

You hesitated, only because you knew the second you were back on the ground, he’d never let you live this down. Still, with no other choice, you leapt down.

Aventurine caught you with infuriating ease, his arms securing you in place before he leaned in, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. "See? Always a safe bet with me."

You groaned, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. "You’re never letting this go, are you?"

His smirk widened. "Oh, sweetheart. Not in a million cycles."

© 2024-2025 vortexbloom all rights reserved. Don’t repost, edit, translate or plagiarize my work!

Have a good day/night/evening/morning/afternoon ☼꥟☽

[velaris-fic-repository]

Mishaps in Babysitting

@sjmxreaderweek May 10th Prompt: Free Day

Azriel x Archeron!Reader, Nyx is a menace

“Now, you’re sure you’re alright doing this?” your sister, Feyre, asked you by the door. She and Rhys were going out into Velaris tonight for a much needed date night just the two of them.

Nesta, Cassian and the Valkyries were in Illyria with the non envied task of dealing the camp leaders. Elain had agreed to a little trip around Prythian with Lucien, who had offered to show her all the various court gardens - among other things - and so the two of them could get to know each other a bit better. A chance to get themselves on better footing, as it were. Mor had a date of her own tonight and Amren was visiting Varian in Summer.

That left you at home to watch the Inner Circle’s beloved child, your precious nephew, Nyx.

“Feyre, if you try to talk yourself out of going through me one more time, I’m going to lose it.” You offered her an easy, loving smile. “I know it’s hard to leave him, but you have more than earned this. Go, spend a night with your husband. The little guy and I will be fine. If it makes you feel any better, Azriel said he should be home soon. The two of us won’t be alone for long.”

Feyre shook her head, the pins in her hair glittering like stars in the light as she did so, “I never meant to imply that you couldn’t handle it-“

“-And,” you interrupted her, “I never said you did. Feyre, I promise everything will be fine. Let me do this.” Your face took on a softer, guilty expression. “It’s the least I can do.” You didn’t need to specify what you meant.

Feyre frowned, but nodded, “okay.”

Rhys swept around you to hold her from behind, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Ready to go, darling?”

Feyre looked at you and finally nodded, more sure this time, “yes, I am.”

“There you go!” you said, “go out, have fun, we’ll be here when you get back!”

Rhys sent his feline smile your way over your sister’s shoulder. “He’s quite the handful on his own, you know. I’m sure I can call Azriel before we leave.”

You swatted playfully at your brother in law, “I’ll be fine! Besides-“ you put a hand over where your young bond with Azriel glowed in your chest- “if I need him, he’ll know.”

Rhys smiled.

“Nyx is smarter than his own good,” Feyre warned, “don’t let him trick you-“

“-Stop worrying! Both of you! Shoo! Out! Go! Out! Out!”

The couple laughed, sending a few more words of advice and thanks over their shoulders before leaning into each other on the lamp lit sidewalks of their beloved city. You watched them go with a soft smile before pushing off the door and walking back inside.

You rounded the corner to Nyx’s room shortly after. “Alright, Nyx what are you and your favorite auntie gonna get up to?” you teased.

You’d expected to find Nyx playing with his toys where his father had left him. In hindsight, you should have known better.

“Nyx, sweetie?”

Nothing. The room was empty aside from the entire toy box being strewn about. You carefully picked the toys up as you called out to the room, expecting Nyx to be hiding somewhere inside, maybe in the closet, where the toy box was… Hmm…

Okay, you could play this game.

“Nyx? Nyx where are you? Huh. I guess he’s not here. Welp, I guess I could at least responsibly put these toys away.” You were laying it on thick, you knew, but that was half of the fun.

You opened the closet slowly, finding the toy box tucked into the darkest corner with its lid slightly propped up. Little giggles sounded from the box, which was all you needed to know.

You crept closer and then all at once, yanked the box lid off. “There you are!”

Nyx, with his little wings tucked close to him, giggled up at you, amusement shinning in his eyes that looked so much like your sister’s.

“Gotcha!” You said, reaching for your nephew. That was, you did, until the world folded around him and you grasped nothing but thin air.

You blinked.

Had Nyx ever winnowed before? You felt like you’d have remembered something like that.

Dread spiked in your stomach for a moment until you took a deep breath, setting off into the house. This was alright, all you had to do was find him. All he had done was extend - and mildly increase the danger of - his hide and seek game.

You heard rustling in the kitchen and raced there.

Nyx, to your growing horror was spreading his little wings on top of the cabinets, perched like an adorable, little mischievous gargoyle.

“Nyx, honey, this isn’t funny anymore. You could get seriously hurt up there. Let me reach up there and pull you down.”

Nyx shook his head, “nuh-uh, auntie. I’ve got wings!”

“No! No, no, no. Nyx, sweetheart, please just stay there, I’m gonna get you down. Stay there.”

“Better idea!” He shouted in a way that reminded you so much of Cassian. He leaned forward a few times, preparing to launch from the cabinets. “Catch me!”

He launched himself from the cabinets, gliding down towards the counter. You scrambled to catch him, but there was no way you were going to make it in time.

Before Nyx could collide with anything, his descent was stopped by a hand clutching the back of his shirt. Azriel was home, and had Nyx grabbed by the scruff.

“So it looks like someone hasn’t been behaving for his auntie like he’d promised,” Azriel said, wryly.

Nyx flailed a bit but quickly realized that he wasn’t going to be escaping the strength of his uncle’s grip and quit.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Azzie” Nyx said in a sad, deflated voice.

“Don’t say sorry to me, say sorry to your auntie.”

Nyx sent sad, remorseful eyes your way, bringing tears to your eyes as well.

“Sorry…” he warbled.

“Aww,” you cooed getting closer to him. “It’s alright little buddy. You just scared me, that’s all. We all care an awful lot about you, you know that?”

He nodded.

“We want you to be safe,” you said, “and sometimes being safe means not doing every little thing you want to do. Sometimes, a fun idea can be dangerous. That doesn’t mean never do anything fun again, just think about what could happen to figure out if it’s safe. Make sense buddy?”

“Uh huh!”

“Good,” you smiled, “now, promise you won’t winnow away from us and Uncle Azzie will let you down so we can play. Sound fair?”

Nyx nodded vigorously.

“Okay.”

The rest of the evening went by far smoother. You tired Nyx out playing and then set him to bed. You and Azriel sat leaned against each other on the couch not too far away from the little one’s room.

“Thank you,” you sighed, “for coming.”

“I felt your terror through the bond,” Azriel said, sounding about as tired as you felt, “there was nowhere in the world I wouldn’t have left to come to you.”

Your heart swelled, “Az.”

“I don’t know what is wrong with human males for you to think that isn’t the treatment you deserve,” Azriel growled.

“Thank you, Az,” you said, kissing his cheek.

“Don’t ever thank me for that again. I don’t deserve praise for what I would do naturally.”

Not having the energy for even this back and forth, you simply sighed and leaned your head on Azriel’s shoulder. His wing moved in to drape over you like a blanket as the two of you rested there.

Rhysand and Feyre came home to find you and Azriel snoring on each other. Quietly snickering, they checked on their sleeping son. Happy to see all their loved ones were safe and accounted for, they draped a blanket over the two of you and left you to sleep.

[unstable-samurai]

Instructions

Irene x Male Reader

word count: 3.2K

—

You drive up to Irene's mansion, where every inch of the lawn looks meticulously manicured, and the fountain at the entrance shoots water in a pattern that can only be described as "obscenely expensive." You still can't believe you were hired to train a woman who doesn't seem to need a single day in the gym, but money is money, right?

You step out of the car and walk to the front door, a massive wooden structure that probably weighs more than your car. Before you have the chance to knock, the door opens as if the house has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Irene appears, and the first thing you think is that the photos simply don't do her justice.

She's like an upgraded version of a classic diva, someone with a beauty that would be admired in any era of humanity, now enhanced by all the improvements time could offer. Black hair cascading in soft waves, feline eyes that devour you in a fraction of a second, and a posture that makes you wonder if you're standing before a queen or a trap disguised as a woman.

"Oh, I was excited to finally meet my personal trainer," she says.

"Ms. Irene," you reply, offering your hand in a gesture that feels outdated in her presence. Her hand is soft and firm, and the grip is just enough to make you feel that you are, without a doubt, in foreign territory.

"Come on, I'll show you the house," she says, turning quickly without waiting for a response. You follow her, walking through a house that is a maze of marble, stainless steel, and glass. Every piece of art on the walls screams in a flamboyant way, "I have more money than you can imagine," and the faint scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air, as if even the aroma of the house was custom-made.

"This here is the living room," she says, passing through a room larger than your entire apartment, and you pretend not to be impressed. "And over there is the kitchen. You might need something to drink after the workouts. Or during, if I decide to tire you out too much."

She smiles again, and this time you can’t help but smile back, with that kind of irony that only arises when you know you're in trouble.

"This is the bedroom," she says, stopping in front of a closed door. You feel the tension rise a bit, and she notices it. "Not that you’ll need it, but I thought you'd like to know where it is." She opens the door and reveals a room that looks like it came straight out of a decor magazine: an immense bed, silk sheets, and a view of the garden that seems hand-painted.

"Nice place," you say, more out of politeness than anything else.

"Thank you. Now, the gym," she says, as if this was the true purpose of the entire visit. She leads you to a room where all the exercise machines seem to shine with newness. "I need to stay in shape, after all," she says, leaning casually on a treadmill, her posture suggesting that the idea of sweat is something completely alien.

"Shall we begin, then?" you ask, already pulling out the water bottle from your bag, trying to appear professional.

You decide to start the session with the basics, which seems like the best approach when dealing with someone whose idea of physical effort probably consists of reaching for the remote control.

"So, Irene, have you trained before?" you ask, but in your mind, she doesn’t exactly look like the type who frequents a gym.

She smiles, that smile you're already beginning to associate with trouble. "Only if you count marathon shopping trips and half-hour Pilates sessions with my instructor who told me to breathe deeply and think of happy places. Does that count?"

You smile back. "Well, let's start with something simple. A warm-up. Just to prepare the muscles."

"Oh, I love a good warm-up," she replies.

You guide her through some basic stretches, and of course, she starts asking for help. "Can you show me how to do this one? I've always had trouble with it," she says while trying to touch her toes.

You approach, placing your hands on her waist to guide her, trying to ignore the fact that she’s perfumed for a workout. "Like this, push a little further forward... That’s it."

She lets out a soft sigh, almost inaudible, but you notice. "I don't think I've ever had someone help me like this," she says, making you realize that "help" has multiple connotations for her.

"Practice makes perfect," you respond, trying to stay focused.

After the warm-up, you lead her to the weight machines. "Let's start with something simple, like the leg extension machine. This will work your quadriceps."

She looks at the machine as if it were some kind of medieval torture device. "Quadriceps... Right. And this does what exactly? Makes me gain muscles?"

"Exactly. You sit here, adjust the weight, and lift your legs to extend the knee. It’s great for toning the thighs."

She sits down, but instead of following your instructions, she just pretends to be confused. "I don't think I'm getting it. Can you show me again?"

You lean in to help her adjust the position of her legs, and you feel her gaze fixed on you. "Like this? Is it good now?" she asks, her voice softer than it should be for a simple exercise instruction.

"Yes, it's perfect," you reply.

"So, have you been training for a long time?" she asks as you guide her through the exercise. "It’s noticeable, you know... by your physique, the way you explain…"

"I’ve been training for a few years. It’s a passion of mine."

"Passion? Interesting," she says. "And are you single? Or is there someone waiting for you at home after you spend the day helping women like me stay in shape?"

You hesitate, realizing that the conversation is veering off course.

"I'm single. I guess my work takes up most of my time. What about you? You told me your husband is always traveling, right?"

"He's away most of the time, yes. His work is... demanding. But luckily, I know how to take care of myself," she says, lifting her legs on the machine with a little more enthusiasm. When Irene was done, she paused to drink water, then walked between the machines until she chose the next one. “Hey, help me here. I don't want to mess up the movement, I need your guidance." She says, standing in front of the lat pulldown machine.

"Oh, great. This one’s for your back and shoulders," you explain, adjusting the weight. "You hold here, pull the bar down, and then release slowly, feeling the resistance."

She looks at the machine as if it were an abstract art piece.

"Looks complicated. Show me how it's done?"

You demonstrate the movement, feeling her eyes on every motion of your body. When you finish, she positions herself, but instead of pulling the bar, she holds it for a second, looking at you with a false expression of confusion. "I think I’m not doing it right. Can you guide me?"

You approach again, this time placing your hands on her arms, helping her execute the movement. "Like this," you say, your voice a little lower. "Pull with your back muscles, not just your arms."

"Since you’ve been working out for a long time, you must be very strong," she comments as she pulls the bar, her muscles tensing softly under your hands. "And you must be used to lifting heavy, right?"

"It depends on the workout," you respond, trying to ignore the fact that every word she says seems to have a double meaning. "But it’s always good to vary, to do a bit of everything."

"So, how many of these should I do?" she asks, as if she’s genuinely interested in the answer, but her eyes say something else.

"Let's do three sets of twelve reps," you reply, trying to keep a professional tone. She does the first set with you close by, watching every movement, and then asks for your help with the next machine.

The dynamic continues until, by the end of the workout, she’s sweating, but in a way that looks more like a healthy glow than discomfort. She stretches, her muscles relaxing, and looks at you with that same smile that started everything. "I think you made me work pretty hard today. Maybe I’ll need a massage afterward," she says, her tone provocative.

You smile, unsure whether to take her seriously or laugh. "Massages aren’t part of the package, but we can talk about a relaxation stretch."

"We’ll see," she says, stepping closer with that smile that always precedes trouble, the kind you should have learned to avoid. “It seems like I’m the only one sweating here,” she says, with a sweetness that’s pure venom, before leaning in and, without warning, licking your cheek.

You take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. "Ms. Irene, what is this?!"

"I told you, you’re not very sweaty. And I licked you to prove it," she responds with the casualness of someone asking the time.

"But what the hell does that mean? I came here to work—"

"And you’ll get paid at the end, of course!" she interrupts, her smile widening in a way that only makes things worse. “I just want… to have a little fun with you. Include that in the deal. You could earn a bonus for it, if you’d like.”

She takes another step forward.

“Irene, you’re married. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not a good idea.”

“No one needs to know, sweetheart,” she whispers, as if it were a secret you truly wanted to hear. “You’re too young to be so worried about life.”

You try to speak, but the words come out jumbled, as if your mouth forgot how to work.

“I-I… This isn’t right.”

She laughs, a sound that makes you feel like a mischievous boy caught in the act. “I bet I’ll make you change your mind once you see what you’re missing.” With a quick, decisive movement, she removes her top, revealing small, pale, perfect, and provocative breasts. Her smile widens, and you feel your face flush with heat. Worse than that—you feel your cock pulse in your pants.

“What do you think?” she asks, each word dripping with irony and certainty.

“Cover yourself, please!” Your voice comes out louder than you intended, but the plea is almost pathetic.

“Oh, don’t play the saint with me,” she retorts, suddenly stepping closer, grabbing your hand with firm resolve and placing it on her breast. The touch is warm and soft. You swallow hard, but it feels like the lump in your throat is stuck there for good. And the worst part? You can’t pull your hand away.

“What do you think? My boobs are small, but they fit perfectly in your mouth,” she teases, her voice lower, more intense.

“This isn’t right, Ms. Irene…” you try, but your resistance is fragile.

“Shh! Just call me Irene,” she orders, and before you can protest again, she seals any chance of escape with a kiss—warm and commanding, as if she already knew you wouldn’t say no.

Before you could even process what was happening, Irene had already wrapped her hand around your cock. With force. With a desire that you felt reverberate down your spine. “You’re so hard for me,” she whispers, her lips pulling away from yours, but the heat of her proximity still clinging to your skin.

“Irene…” you murmur, the name escaping as a whisper, almost a plea, but for what? For her to stop or to keep going?

“That’s right,” she continues, giving you no room to regain control. “I want to hear you moan my name while you fuck me good.”

Before you could refuse—or worse, agree—she pulls you toward a weight bench like she’s practiced the move a thousand times. It’s astonishing how a woman so small, so delicate, can exert such absolute control over you. You feel like a toy in her hands, powerless to resist.

You take off your shirt while she kneels to untie your shoes, making sure every detail is perfect, that you’re comfortable—but not for you, for her. When she asks you to take off the rest, you comply without question, feeling the cool air caress your exposed skin. She compliments your physique, her words sliding over your skin like hot oil. Her hands roam over your muscles, her fingers tracing the contours of your biceps.

“You’re so hot,” she murmurs, kissing your chest, her lips warm and soft. The excitement builds within you, uncontrollable, wild.

You sit back down on the bench, Irene kneels between your legs, her smile a mix of wickedness and pure desire. She takes your cock with a confidence that makes you hold your breath, her touch firm, almost possessive. “Wow… you’re much bigger and thicker than my husband,” she murmurs, licking the tip, teasing, while her eyes remain fixed on yours. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have something like this… I’m going to love gagging on this cock.”

She slowly opens her mouth, her lips stretching around the head of your cock, and the sensation is mind-blowing. You watch, mesmerized, as she starts to take you in, inch by inch, until her mouth is completely full. “Oh, yes,” she mumbles with difficulty, her words muffled as she struggles to accommodate your size.

She begins to move her head up and down, faster and faster, the wet, warm sound of her mouth creating a steady rhythm. Her small mouth adjusts to your cock, fighting the instinct to pull away, but instead, she pushes forward, making it clear she wants more.

The sight of her, drowning on your cock, is almost unbearably arousing. You can’t resist, your hands go to her hair, pulling to gain more control. With a decisive move, you push deeper into her throat, and the muffled moan she lets out is a mix of pleasure and challenge. “Just like that,” she moans, tears welling in her eyes from pleasure and effort, but with no intention of stopping. She wants this as much as you do.

You feel her throat tightening around your cock, each movement sending waves of pleasure through you as she takes you as deep as she can, not giving up even when her air becomes scarce. The mix of pain and pleasure on her face only fuels your desire further, and you continue, deeper and deeper, until she finally has to stop to breathe, gasping, but with a satisfied, lascivious smile on her face.

Irene stands up, her gaze burning with a desire that mirrors your own. She starts to take off her leggings, revealing she’s not wearing any panties. The sight of her like this, naked and ready, is enough to take your breath away.

Without a second thought, you grab her firmly, your hands holding her slim waist as you lift her off the ground with an ease you didn’t even know you had. Irene lets out a low, sensual moan as she wraps her legs around you, locking her ankles behind your back, pulling the two of you even closer. With a decisive movement, you press her against the nearest wall, the cold concrete contrasting with the growing heat between you.

“Ohhh, yes,” she moans as you penetrate her for the first time, her head falling back, hitting the wall, but she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re so thick!”

With each thrust, Irene responds with louder, more desperate moans. “Just like that, baby… more, please, more!” Her voice is a mix of command and plea, her nails digging into your shoulders, pulling you closer, as if she wants to merge with you.

“That’s it! Oh, God! You fuck me better than my husband!”

That somehow spurs you on, every movement becoming deeper, stronger, as if you’re trying to shove every inch of yourself into her. Irene bites her lip, her face in pure pleasure, and then she starts babbling, as if facial expressions weren’t enough to describe what she’s feeling. “Yes… fuck me… fuck me hard… do what my husband never could…”

But she’s not the only one on the edge. The heat of her body, the almost painful tightness around your cock, every moan and sigh, it all makes you want more, makes you lose control.

After what feels like both an eternity and an instant, you feel like you need more. With a quick move, you pull away from the wall and carry her to the bench. Irene drops to the floor, turns around, positioning herself on all fours while you sit down. She positions herself, slowly lowering onto your cock, moaning as she feels you stretch inside her, filling every inch.

She leans back against you, her head resting on your shoulder, her body sinking even further into your lap. Your hands immediately move to her small breasts, squeezing them, while your lips find her delicate neck, biting and sucking the soft skin. Irene lets out a loud moan, the sound of pure satisfaction, and arches her body, pushing herself even deeper.

“Yes… leave a mark… mark that you were here… that you fucked me like no one ever has,” she pleads, her words breathless, interrupted by moans that only grow louder as you squeeze and thrust into her.

You don’t hesitate, biting harder, leaving a visible mark on her neck, a testament to what’s happening. Irene shudders in response, her pussy tightening even more around you, each of her movements sending waves of pleasure through you, making you forget any shred of morality. She moves against you, her rhythm frantic, the need for more, always more, evident in every gesture.

“Yes… yes, baby… fuck me until I can’t take it anymore,” she moans, her hands reaching back, grabbing your neck, pulling you closer as she continues to move, to lose herself in the sensation.

Irene, breathless, leans in closer, and with a soft voice, almost a whisper, says in your ear, “I want you to fuck my tight ass.”

Her words are like a match striking the box, igniting something fierce within you. Irene rises off your lap and walks to a corner of the gym, where she grabs a bottle of lube. She returns with a mischievous smile, shaking the bottle in the air. “I brought this just for this moment,” she says.

“You had this in mind from the start, didn’t you?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Irene doesn’t bother replying. Instead, she kisses you before lying down on the padded floor, her pale skin contrasting with the dark material, her body exposed in a posture of pure submission, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they want. “Come here, you naughty boy,” she calls, her voice like poisoned honey.

You kneel beside her, your hands trembling with desire as you reach for the lube. Irene smiles at you, then gets on all fours and arches her back. With steady movements, you pour the gel into your palm and begin applying it to her ass, feeling the warm, soft skin under your fingers. Irene lets out a low sigh, closing her eyes, savoring the sensation. "That's it... get me ready, I want to feel every inch of your thick cock inside me."

You don’t waste any time. With one hand, you spread the lube around and inside her ass, your fingers gently penetrating to prepare her. Irene bites her lip, her body slightly writhing, a mix of pleasure and anticipation. "Feels good, keep going... make me ready for you."

When you feel she’s sufficiently lubed, you apply the rest to your cock, rubbing it until it’s fully coated, hard and throbbing.

Irene changes position, lying on her back on the floor. You position yourself between her raised legs, and she looks at you with eyes full of desire. "Come on, don't wait any longer," she begs, her voice low and sweet. You press the tip of your cock against her tight entrance, pushing slowly, feeling the initial resistance. Irene lets out a moan of pain mixed with pleasure, and you keep going, advancing inch by inch, feeling the heat and pressure around you.

"Ahhh… yes," Irene moans, her eyes closed, her hands gripping the padding beneath her as you penetrate her slowly. "It's so big… so tight…"

You keep pushing, feeling her ass open up, millimeter by millimeter, her body adjusting to your size. The heat, the pressure, the sensation of filling her completely is indescribable, and the low moan she lets out only fuels your desire. "Yes, yes, yes! Fuck me deeper," she pleads.

You obey, pushing deeper until you're finally all the way inside her. Irene lets out a muffled moan, a sound of pure satisfaction, her body arching with pleasure. "Yes… like that… don’t stop," she begs, her eyes shining with wild desire. You start to move, slowly at first, savoring every second, every contortion of her body, every moan that escapes her lips.

As you gain rhythm, Irene’s moans grow louder, more desperate. "Yes… fuck my ass… do what I never let my husband do… ahhh… harder… please," she moans, every word an encouragement for you to go deeper, to push both of you to the limit.

And you do, increasing your speed and force, your hands gripping her thighs firmly, guiding each thrust with precision, feeling her body tremble with pleasure until it all comes down to heat, sweat, the pure desire consuming you both.

Irene then begins to tremble, her body stiff with imminent pleasure. She looks at you, her eyes burning with lust and urgency. "Mmm, I’m about to cum, babe… Let’s cum together?" she asks, her voice broken by moans.

You feel her body pulsing around you, each contraction almost pushing you over the edge.

"Do you want to come inside my pussy? Fill it with your cum?"

The desire and madness of the moment take over you. “Can I?” you ask, your voice tense, almost disbelieving.

“Of course you can,” she replies with a wicked smile, "I'm on the pill, darling. I want to feel you unload everything inside me."

With that, you both move into the classic missionary position. Irene spreads her legs and bends them, her feet planted on the floor, while you kneel between her thighs, your cock positioned exactly where she wants it. Irene wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth and tightness of her pussy confirm your decision: you need to cum inside her.

You start thrusting into her, each stroke deeper and faster than the last. Irene moans loudly, the sound of her moans echoing through the gym. “Ahhh, yes… more… harder…” she screams, her eyes closed in pure ecstasy. “Fuck my pussy… Make me your cum dump.”

You’re on the verge of exploding, your entire body tense with the anticipation of climax. Irene feels it and, between moans, murmurs, “I’m almost there… I’m going to cum…”

“Me too… I’m almost there…” you reply, your breathing fast.

She opens her eyes, her gaze burning with intensity. “Have you ever cum inside a stranger before, huh? Ever filled a married woman with cum, you pervert?” She asks, her words hitting you like a wave of heat.

Those words make you lose control. With one last, powerful thrust, you bury yourself deep inside her, feeling your cum release into the depths of Irene’s pussy. She screams as she cums at the same time, her body writhing beneath you, her legs tightening around your waist.

“Ahhh… I can feel it all… it’s so warm… so good…” Irene moans, her words loaded with pure pleasure, her breathing ragged as she feels every hot stream filling her. You keep moving, even as the orgasm leaves you breathless, prolonging the pleasure for both of you.

When you finally pull away, your cock slipping out, cum begins to slowly drip from her pussy.

Irene smiles, a satisfied and wicked smile, as she looks at you, her breathing still uneven. "That was… exactly what I wanted," she says, her eyes gleaming with contentment, as the cum drips between her thighs, and you watch, fascinated, as she uses her fingers to spread her lips, letting the cum flow freely. She collects some of the semen with a finger and brings it to her mouth, tasting the result of your mix.

Irene kneels beside you and leans in for a deep kiss, her lips warm and moist against yours, while her hands glide over your body, caressing you with a certain tenderness.

“So, handsome, what did you think of the workout?” she asks.

You, still with your body pulsing with residual pleasure, respond with a smile, “I loved it. It was… incredible.”

Irene smiles back. “Good to hear that,” she says, with a note of amusement, “you can consider yourself my official personal trainer now. And the best part, you’re still getting paid for it. Isn’t it the best job in the world?”

You laugh, a mix of incredulity and amusement, realizing that your concept of ‘job’ will never be the same. “So that’s it? Daily sex with a gorgeous woman and I’m going to get paid for it? What are the downsides?”

“There aren’t any. As long as my husband never finds out, of course. But that’s my problem. Your only requirement and concern is to keep me satisfied.”

With that, she gets up nonchalantly, and starts gathering the clothes scattered on the floor.

You also get up, and as you’re dressing, you can’t help but think about the absurdity of the job you’re accepting.

When you’re almost ready to leave, Irene approaches, casually adjusting her hair.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow is training day again,” she says, her voice full of light arrogance. “Same time. Don’t be late. I want more of that… energy,” she adds with a smile.

You nod, laughing to yourself as you try to regain some of your composure.

“Sure, I’ll mark it on the calendar.”

[aventurineswife]

Meow :D

what if the reader found a cat that acts like their lover? Like they have the same kind of attitude! Reader takes the cat home to take care of it with their lover! Imagine you just see you’re lover and cat staring each other down for you’re attention lol

you can do this with any honkai star rail (I’m bad with names) characters! (I prefer male but you can add female if you want) and you can do as many as you want! I just like telling my ideas :)

Two of a Kind

Tags: Jing Yuan x Reader, Blade x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Romance, Humor, Fluff, Jealousy, Rivalry, Comfort, Lighthearted, Domestic.

Warnings: Mild Jealousy (between the characters and the cat), Slightly suggestive interactions (implied, but nothing explicit), Fluff overload, OOC 😔💔.

The moment you found the small, snow-white cat in the alleyway near the Cloud Knights’ barracks, you knew something was strange. It lounged on a pile of silk scraps like a dignified ruler, eyes half-lidded in serene boredom. When you crouched down to offer a hand, it yawned leisurely before rubbing its head against your palm.

"Lazy little thing, aren’t you?" You chuckled, scooping it up. It was oddly… familiar. The way it melted into your touch, stretching lazily, as if it had all the time in the world.

Bringing it home was inevitable.

Jing Yuan was reclining in his study when you arrived, eyes flickering open as you placed the cat in your lap. He raised a brow, immediately sitting up.

“…You brought home another one?” His voice held a mix of amusement and suspicion.

"This one’s different," you grinned. "Look at it."

The cat blinked at Jing Yuan, slow and deliberate.

Jing Yuan blinked back.

Then, as if recognizing a rival, the cat turned its head with a haughty sigh and curled up in your lap, looking every bit like a miniature version of your lover when he feigned sleep to avoid meetings.

Your laughter made Jing Yuan frown. "Don’t tell me… it acts like me?"

"It really does! Look at the way it lounges!"

Jing Yuan rubbed his temple. "I’m being replaced by a cat."

For the next few days, the battle for your attention escalated. Whenever you pet the cat, Jing Yuan would pull you onto the couch beside him, draping an arm over your shoulder. If you scratched behind the cat’s ears, Jing Yuan would hum pointedly until you did the same for him. You even caught them staring each other down one evening—one with feline eyes, the other with his usual patient amusement, both vying for your affection.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. "You do realize you’re jealous of a cat, right?"

Jing Yuan huffed, crossing his arms. "I’m not jealous. I’m simply… asserting my rightful place."

The cat, as if mocking him, promptly stretched across your lap.

Jing Yuan sighed in defeat, then reached over, stroking the cat’s head with surprising gentleness. "Hmph. I suppose we can share."

And so, the rivalry ended in an unspoken truce—one where you were adored by both the lazy general and his equally lazy feline counterpart.

You weren’t sure what it was about the midnight-furred cat that made you stop in the middle of the street. Maybe it was the sharp red eyes, eerily intense for a feline. Or maybe it was the way it sat in the shadows, unmoving, its aura both captivating and unsettling.

Regardless, you brought it home.

Blade was polishing his sword when you arrived, and his first reaction upon seeing the cat was a deadpan stare.

“…You’re joking."

The cat, sitting by your feet, glared at him with the same unnerving stillness.

You tilted your head. "What?"

Blade sighed, setting his sword aside. "It looks like me."

You blinked. Then you looked at the cat again—black fur, red eyes, an almost unnatural stillness to the way it held itself. Then, you burst out laughing.

"Oh no," you wheezed. "You’re right."

Blade scowled, rubbing his temple as the cat leapt onto your lap, curling into a tight ball like it had no interest in anything else.

"You brought home a brooding, quiet stray," Blade muttered, arms crossed. "Sound familiar?"

You grinned. "I have a type."

For days, the cat shadowed you, always quiet, always intense. Blade would sit in the corner, watching as you absentmindedly pet the feline while reading. At some point, you noticed the two of them mirroring each other—both staring at you, both exuding the same quiet, brooding energy.

It was unnerving.

"Are you two competing or something?" you finally asked.

Blade scoffed. "Tch. I don’t need to compete with a cat."

The cat, in perfect synchronization, flicked its tail as if scoffing right back.

You buried your face in your hands. "I can’t believe this."

Still, one night, you woke up to find Blade sitting on the floor beside the couch, absently petting the cat with an almost thoughtful expression.

"...You like it," you whispered.

Blade's hand paused, his expression unreadable. "It’s quiet. Doesn’t ask for anything."

You smiled. "Like you?"

Blade clicked his tongue, but he didn’t deny it.

And so, the brooding warrior and his feline doppelgänger coexisted in an eerie, wordless understanding—both bound to you, both unwilling to admit that, maybe, they had found comfort in something they never expected.

The cat you found had fur as soft as clouds and an uncanny, almost celestial presence. With golden eyes, and an air of quiet authority, it reminded you of someone.

Taking it home, however, proved to be the real challenge.

Sunday was seated in his grand study, calmly flipping through a book when you entered with the cat in your arms. The moment his eyes met the feline’s, an odd silence settled over the room.

The cat blinked.

Sunday blinked.

You swore you could feel the tension.

Finally, Sunday exhaled, closing his book. "...My dear, why does this creature look like it stepped out of my reflection?"

You grinned. "I was thinking the same thing."

Sunday reached out, gently brushing his fingers over the cat’s fur. The cat, rather than lean into the touch, simply tilted its head with a regal, knowing gaze.

Then, as if dismissing him, it turned its attention back to you, purring contentedly as it nestled in your arms.

Sunday raised an elegant brow. "I see. A competitor has appeared."

You chuckled. "You’re not actually jealous, are you?"

Sunday didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder. "You wouldn’t abandon me for a mere feline, would you?" His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was a quiet possessiveness beneath it.

You rolled your eyes. "It’s just a cat, Sunday."

"Yet it looks at me as if I am the intruder here," he mused, golden eyes glinting. "Fascinating."

For the next few days, you often caught Sunday and the cat watching each other in eerie silence, as if locked in an unspoken battle for dominance. Whenever Sunday pulled you onto his lap, the cat would jump onto your shoulder. Whenever the cat nestled against your chest, Sunday would wrap an arm around your waist, subtly claiming you back.

It was absurd.

"Sunday," you sighed. "You’re not actually fighting a cat for my attention."

He simply smiled, pressing a kiss to your hand. "My dear, I always win."

The cat, unimpressed, flicked its tail.

And so, the celestial rivalry continued—an eternal battle between a regal dream-weaver and his equally dignified feline reflection.

[ticifics]

𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚

James Potter x f!reader

Summary: “Hey…” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Did you just wink at me?” Your face heats up instantly. “What? No! I just—” James moves closer, and before you can escape, his hands are already around you—warm, firm, secure. And then, he attacks. Kisses. A relentless succession of them.

Warnings: muggle au, est. relationship, fluffy, no use of y/n, james doing a kiss attack, shy!reader

The rain drums softly against the window, streaming down the glass in thin rivulets, distorting the view outside. The apartment is warm and lit by a discreet lamp, casting soft shadows over the furniture. You’re sitting on the kitchen counter, your feet swinging in the air, your hands wrapped around your teacup, soaking in the warmth it offers. There’s something comforting about this silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional rustle of the newspaper forgotten on the table.

And then, he speaks.

“Did you know that if you close both eyes, you can’t see anything?”

You blink, lifting your gaze from the tea and meeting his, blue and full of mischief behind the lenses of his glasses. James is leaning against the doorframe, a half-smile tugging at his lips, his black hair in perfect chaos over his forehead. He looks absolutely pleased with himself, as if he’s having fun at the expense of a secret you haven’t discovered yet.

“Of course,” you reply, arching an eyebrow. “Everyone knows that.”

“Ah, but if you close just one...” He leans slightly forward, “You can still see everything.”

The sentence hangs between you, and without thinking too much, you close one eye, testing the logic.

In the next second, you realize the mistake.

James lets out a low chuckle, and the glint in his eyes intensifies in a dangerous way. He pushes off the doorframe and advances slowly, his steps feline, his posture too relaxed to be innocent.

“Hey...” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Did you just wink at me?”

Your face heats up instantly.

“What? No! I just—”

But there’s no room for explanations.

James moves closer, and before you can escape, his hands are already around you—warm, firm, secure. One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you forward until your knees bump against the sides of his hips. The other slides up to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your heated skin.

You smell him, that mix of woody soap and something purely James. And then, he attacks.

Kisses. A relentless succession of them.

First, one on the high point of your cheek. Then, another near the corner of your mouth, then another and another, until he traces an entire path across your flushed skin. You let out a weak protest, a breathless laugh escaping before you can contain it.

“Jamie—”

“No, no,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice slightly muffled. “This won’t go unnoticed.”

“I wasn’t flirting!”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression absolutely delighted.

“Ah, so only I can flirt?”

You open your mouth, but he’s already smiling that impossible smile, the one that makes your heart stumble.

“Good to know,” he says, and then he’s back, nipping lightly at your flushed cheek before pressing a longer kiss there. You feel his lips curve against your skin.

Your chest tightens in a dizzying way, in a way you can’t quite describe.

It’s always like this.

James, whole, intense. He loves as if he doesn’t know how to love any other way. With everything he has, with everything he is.

You, on the other hand, feel small in the face of it. Not in a bad way. But because James lights up everything around him, and you’re not quite sure how you deserved so much.

The shyness still warms your face, but you don’t resist when he starts covering your face with kisses again, laughing between each one. Your hands slide into his black hair, your fingers digging in as he finally gives you a break, resting his forehead against yours.

He’s smiling against your skin, that smile you feel more than see, and his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that matches yours.

James sighs, dragging his nose lazily across your face before murmuring against your cheek, “Did you know I’m all yours?”

Your heart stumbles.

He doesn’t say it with the intention of being dramatic. James never says anything halfway, never loves halfway. The sentence slips from his lips with so much truth, so much certainty, that you feel your chest tighten. You feel something blooming inside you, something that’s always been there but now pulses with more strength.

Maybe it’s the fact that he always takes the initiative, always breaks down your barriers with that tireless, charming way of his.

And maybe, just maybe, you want to surprise him this time.

The idea takes shape before you can talk yourself out of it.

With a hesitant but determined movement, you lean in and press your lips to his cheek.

He freezes for a second, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses, his mouth slightly open as if he’s trying to formulate a sentence that never comes.

You almost pull back, almost shrink away from the sudden impulse, but then you see his expression. It’s rare to see him like this, speechless, without a ready response on the tip of his tongue.

Your chest warms.

So, before your courage disappears, you kiss him again.

With a touch of boldness—the most you can muster—you scatter a trail of kisses across his face, following the same path he traced on yours. The curve of his jaw, his chin, the spot just below his ear. Your shyness makes your skin burn, but something about seeing James so visibly affected encourages you.

And when you return to his cheek, nipping lightly, he lets out a low sound, a mix of a laugh and a sigh.

“You...” he stammers, looking absolutely amazed. “Did you just bite me?”

You nod, a little uncertain, and James... well, James melts.

Literally.

His body sags against yours, his arms tightening around your waist, and he hides his face in your neck, laughing as if you’ve just completely destroyed him.

“Ah, that’s not fair,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. “I wasn’t prepared.”

You feel his smile there, his lips pressed against your neck, and before you know it, you’re smiling too.

“Now you know how I feel,” you whisper, and James lets out a dramatic groan, as if he’s been struck in the heart.

“No,” he says, lifting his face again. His hands slide back to your face, his eyes shining as if he’s just discovered something new and fascinating. “That was worse. You have no idea what you just did to me.”

“Jamie—”

Suddenly, and before you can react, he grabs your cheeks firmly. The gentle pressure pushes them together until your lips form a forced pout.

James smiles. Beautiful, mischievous, absolutely enchanted.

“Ah, what a precious thing,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with an almost exaggerated fondness. He studies your face for a second, his eyes shining, before lowering his head and lightly biting your lower lip trapped between your pinched cheeks.

You squirm in his hands, trying to escape the trap, but he holds your face a little longer before finally releasing your cheeks, his thumbs gently brushing over your warm skin as he watches every detail.

James is always watching.

All the time.

And he never gets tired.

His hands stay there, holding your face with an almost exaggerated care, as if he wants to memorize the feeling. He rests his forehead against yours, and the touch is lazy, comfortable.

“I’m officially a lost man,” he says, so close that it’s impossible to tell where his breath ends and yours begins. “You could ask me for anything right now, and I’d do it without hesitation. My heart? Take it. My dignity? Gone. My soul? Well, I think it’s been yours for a long time.”

You laugh, and James looks absolutely delighted by the sound.

He watches you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath falter.

“Could you kiss me again?” he asks, and his voice is low, almost hesitant.

Your face burns, but you nod, and when your lips meet his skin again, James closes his eyes and lets out a satisfied sigh.

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.) 

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory. 

For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes – you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages – you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window. 

It floats aimlessly; unhurried. Much like you.

The echo of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—fragmented and unsteady. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut. 

And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down. 

“So, what happens now?”

The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers. 

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes. 

“I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with. 

There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are. 

“Seems we’re at an impasse.” 

It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night; a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this precarious game of two. 

But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.

“...Indeed.”

You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit. 

You need another hit. 

“Why the long face, little dove?”

Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus. 

“We can figure this out together, can’t we?” 

You pick up your phone. 

––––

“You’re here? Make yourself at home.” 

You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely. 

Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.” 

There’s a shocked silence; then—

Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character. 

You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.” 

He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth. 

"Good morning, indeed."

––––

You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary; which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance. 

“So you could, like– hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?” 

He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you, half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.

The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago. 

Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal. 

(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.) 

“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows. 

He knows the question you’re about to ask, curious thing that you are.

“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.

“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”

“And Memory Cards?”

“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”

“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”

“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”

“More or less.”

“And you never thought to question that?” 

“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”

You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.” 

––––

You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else. 

For starters, he’s a lot chattier.

“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”

“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?” 

“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.” 

And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.

“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!” 

“Move, then. Let me handle it.” 

“Block it, block it!”

“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?” 

He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC. 

“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh? 

Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.

“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.” 

Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.

––––

Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work. 

You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.

And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate. 

“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”  

He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value? 

“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway. 

After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.

‘tofu easy lunch recipe’

‘10 mins tofu recipes’   

‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!

… Really, kitten? 

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices. 

(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.) 

Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”

After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway. 

Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—

Another notification pops up.

Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.

Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.  

Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say. 

-

-

In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.

“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.

“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”

“Anytime, darling.”

––––

“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.” 

Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.

"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"

You blush and look away. "...Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."

––––

Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.

Well. Almost nothing. 

A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X

You almost ignore it – brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando – when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.

… Huh? 

“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…” 

+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten. 

Then–

+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit– you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?” 

+0063-XXXXXX: 👍

+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄

So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure. 

You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.  

+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say. 

+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.

+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.

+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph? 

… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is. 

You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus  

+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK. 

You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.

He sends two more messages. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie. 

Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉

––––

Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic. 

You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?

You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>

Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps. 

Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately. 

You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??

Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder. 

You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….

Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.   

Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie. 

"Um, hello–?" 

Your gaze snaps back to the—very real, very present—person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.

Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.

Oops. 

They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"

You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.” 

Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”

They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.

Your phone vibrates. Twice. 

…

You sneak a quick, final peek.

Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️ 

Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK? 

Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply. 

You: will do !:9 

Sy-Sy (??): Good girl. 

––––

"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."

“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?” 

You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing. 

It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.

Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.

“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.

You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue. 

"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."

Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger. 

Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.” 

There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.

Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.

 With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a small bow in respect.

––––

You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies – enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real – and you’re bored to tears. 

“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.

Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.

“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines... I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.  

To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards – no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups. 

After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.

He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you, not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).   

There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…

Oh, wait. 

“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?” 

-

-

You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.

“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.

He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker. 

“... How are you so good at this??” 

“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.

By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.

––––

“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”

“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”

 

It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying. 

You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.” 

––––

“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.

It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening. 

He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll; if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.

“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!” 

He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”

“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”

“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”

He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”

Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”

“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.

“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore. 

Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen. 

Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed. 

“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”

He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation? 

His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions. 

“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.

No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–

perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—

I want to see you––

Why do I care–?

I don’t care––I care, I care so much–– 

“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.” 

He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours. 

I don’t care. I don’t. 

You take the first shot. 

____

“What’s the song you’re playing?”

You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise. 

“Uhh– Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?” 

He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.” 

And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.

____

From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.

In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop. 

And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio. 

The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep. 

-

-

-

You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact. 

Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie. 

Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.

Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.

Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient. 

You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.   

You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here

You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk 

You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2

You: <3* 

Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. Im looking forward to it. 

Sy-Sy (??): ♥️

____

From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.

Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum; the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.  

There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.

It’s elusive; this connection. Something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade. 

The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude – one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time – comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth. 

The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.

Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.

And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore. 

Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been. 

____

“Come to me, just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Yes, I know I can be wrong

And maybe you’re too headstrong

Our love is––”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean

(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)

[enhaflixer]

nightwing!Riki x catwoman!reader - purrrreee porn lol

cw: this is probably too filthy for a few ppl, there is ass splay, not penetration but quite a bit, a lot of spit, a lot of leather. so proceed with caution but this is quite good wank material im ngl tried and tested lol

-

Gotham City pulsed beneath you like a living, breathing beast. Neon lights flickered against rain-slick rooftops, the streets below teeming with life despite the late hour. But up here, on the rooftops, it was just you—sleek, silent, and untouchable.

Your catsuit was painted onto your curves, the black leather stretching taut over every dip and arch of your body. The fabric gleamed under the pale moonlight, hugging you like a second skin, molded to perfection. A high collar framed your throat, the zipper teasingly half-drawn down your chest, exposing just enough to keep wandering eyes entertained. Your mask fit seamlessly over your face, leaving your lips painted in a deep, sultry red—the only burst of color against the shadow you had become.

And then, of course, there was the tail.

A sleek black whip, curled around your waist when idle, attached to the small of your back, swinging ever so slightly as you moved. The perfect little touch of feline grace, a mockery of the hero who constantly tried—and failed—to catch you.

Tonight’s prize was nestled securely between your fingers: a rare, deep crimson diamond, one that shimmered even in the dark. Priceless. Enchanting. And, most importantly, stolen.

“That’s a pretty little trinket you’ve got there, Cat.”

His voice cut through the night like a blade, smooth and sharp. Nightwing.

You didn’t have to turn around to know he was there—perched somewhere just out of sight, watching, waiting, always one step behind. You smirked, holding the diamond up to the sky, letting the city’s dim glow refract off its flawless surface.

“I know, right? Thought it’d match my claws,” you purred, admiring it for a moment longer before tucking it safely into the hidden pocket at your hip. “You’d look good in red too, you know. Maybe you should try it sometime, Birdie.”

A gust of wind whispered across the rooftop, and in a blink, he moved.

He was fast—faster than you’d given him credit for. The air shifted as he flipped from the adjacent rooftop, the sound of his boots landing cleanly against the concrete just behind you. Your body reacted on instinct, spinning into a defensive stance, legs slightly spread, one hand reaching for the whip curled at your waist. His silhouette towered over you, clad in obsidian armor, muscles taut beneath the signature ‘V’ etched across his chest.

“Now, now,” you teased, flicking the whip loose with a practiced snap, the tail of it curling dangerously at your feet. “Didn’t your mentor teach you not to sneak up on a lady?”

Nightwing chuckled, but it was low, dark, something unreadable simmering beneath the surface. “And didn’t anyone ever teach you not to steal?”

You grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

And then, like the striking of a match, the fight began.

He lunged, and you countered. A dance of shadows and speed.

Your whip cracked through the air, but he dodged, twisting mid-air with that infuriating acrobatic grace he always seemed to have. His escrima sticks flashed under the moonlight, one swinging toward your midsection. You twisted, barely avoiding the hit, the leather of your suit creaking as you arched your back like a feline in motion.

He was precise. Focused. Calculated.

But so were you.

A well-aimed kick sent him stumbling back, his boots scuffing against the ledge. You grinned, licking your lips. “Getting slow, Birdie?”

He responded with a smirk that sent a chill straight down your spine.

“Just luring you in, kitten.”

Before you could blink, he struck.

A feint—a damn good one. Your wrist was caught mid-swing, his grip tightening just enough to pin your arm behind your back. In one smooth motion, he spun you, pressing your front against the cold brick wall of the rooftop.

You gasped, but not from pain. No, this was something else entirely. Something hot and heavy that curled deep in your belly.

“You never learn,” he muttered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. His body was flush against yours, the hard lines of his armor pressing into the soft curves of your suit.

You let out a breathy chuckle, shifting slightly, just enough to make your ass brush against the front of his thighs. “Oh, but if I did… you wouldn’t be having this much fun, would you?”

His grip on your wrist tightened.

And just like that, the real game began.

The air was thick with Gotham’s night chill, but none of it reached you—not with him pressed so firmly against your back, not with his fingers digging into your hips, forcing you to feel every hard, unyielding inch of his body through the taut leather of your suit.

“You’re quiet,” Nightwing mused, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. His voice was pure sin—low, smug, amused. “Not like you at all. Don’t tell me I finally caught the little kitty with her tongue tied?”

You let out a slow, deliberate exhale, pushing back just slightly against the solid heat of his chest. His grip tightened instantly—his fingers curling possessively around your waist, dragging you flush against him, pinning you to the rooftop’s ledge.

“You’re gonna have to do more than this to shut me up,” you purred, voice laced with mock boredom, even as heat coiled low in your stomach.

The chuckle he let out sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh, I plan to.”

His hands moved lower, slow and deliberate, until his fingers cupped the heat between your thighs. Leather on leather. A frustrating barrier.

“Oh?” His tone dripped amusement, but there was an edge beneath it, something dark, something mean. “What’s this, kitten? Squirming already?”

You rolled your hips forward slightly, teasing, taunting. “Not squirming. Just wondering if the big, bad hero has the guts to do more than talk.”

A sharp slap landed right between your legs, the sound obscene against the leather. You gasped, your body jolting from the impact, a delicious sting blooming between your thighs.

“Oh, trust me,” he murmured, dragging his fingers slowly over the spot where he’d just struck. “I don’t just talk.”

Another smack—sharper this time, more deliberate. Then another.

Each one sent sparks of pleasure and pain twisting up your spine, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to truly hurt, not enough to satisfy. Just enough to tease.

“You can’t even feel me properly, can you?” he mused, his voice filled with faux sympathy. His fingers traced slow, taunting circles over the leather, applying just enough pressure to make your thighs clench. “Bet that’s killing you, huh? Knowing I’m right here, knowing I could ruin you, but all you’re getting is friction.”

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, the sound humiliatingly needy. Your hips rolled forward instinctively, searching for more, but he held you still, pressing you even harder against the ledge.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue, full of mockery. “Gotham’s biggest slut, and look at you. Desperate.”

You huffed, gripping the concrete edge in front of you. “And yet I’m still the one in control,” you shot back, twisting your head slightly to glance at him. “All this effort, and I’m still laughing.”

A dangerous smirk curled his lips. “Yeah?”

His gloved fingers curled around your throat, wrenching you back against his chest. “You sure about that?”

Your next breath hitched, and he felt it. The way your body tensed, the way your thighs instinctively pressed together. His grip didn’t squeeze—not yet. Just a warning. A silent threat.

His other hand, still between your thighs, moved in slow, lazy circles over the leather of your suit, barely pressing down, just enough to make you suffer.

“Tell me,” he murmured, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “How bad do you want me to take this off?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse thrumming beneath his fingers. “Who says I do?”

His chuckle was wicked. Dark. A promise.

“You think I don’t see it?” He squeezed your throat just enough to steal your next breath, just enough to make your lashes flutter. “The way your body fucking begs for it?”

You let out a breathy moan before you could stop yourself, and he rewarded you with another sharp slap between your legs—this one harsher, making your knees buckle. Still, not enough.

“You wanna be ruined, don’t you?” he taunted, his fingers pressing down harder, rubbing you through the suit, knowing damn well it wasn’t enough.

You hated him for it.

Hated how he made you crave it, hated how you were already soaking through the leather despite not having felt his bare fingers once. Hated how badly you needed him to break you.

You tilted your head slightly, smirking as best you could despite the wave of frustration coursing through you. “You talk a lot, Birdie. Maybe you’re the one who needs to prove something.”

Something in his demeanor shifted.

And then, he dropped to his knees.

A rush of air left your lungs, a shockwave of anticipation shooting through you. “Oh?” you purred, trying to sound smug, but your voice betrayed you—breathy, eager, too damn willing.

He spread your legs wider with a firm grip, his breath hot against the leather now slick with your own arousal. He could smell it.

“Look at you,” he murmured, so fucking condescending. “Dripping. And for what?”

You bit back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

He exhaled slowly before tilting his head, eyes locked onto yours as he did something so unspeakably filthy you nearly choked on air.

He licked you.

Right through the suit. Slow, deliberate, all tongue.

The heat of it bled through the material, and even though you couldn’t feel his mouth fully, the pressure, the friction—it sent a violent shudder up your spine.

“Oh,” you gasped, knuckles going white against the ledge.

He did it again, slower this time, tasting the leather, tasting the need trapped beneath it.

It was unbearable.

“I could make you cum just like this,” he mused, dragging his tongue along the seam where the suit clung to you the tightest.

You whimpered, head dropping forward, panting against the rooftop air.

And then, he laughed. Mocking. Dark. Knowing.

“I don’t even have to touch you to break you, do I?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, cursing under your breath.

He sat back on his heels slightly, tilting his head. “You wanna beg yet?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to keep your composure. Barely.

Instead, you gathered every ounce of pride left in your body, and with a smirk, you purred, “Make me.”

Something dark flashed behind his eyes. Something wicked. Something cruel.

His fingers dug into your hips, and you knew, in that moment, he was about to ruin you.

Nightwing’s fingers were still gripping your hips, his mouth hovering over your soaked leather, his breath hot and heavy against the unforgiving material. You were already a mess—panting, quivering, dripping despite him barely touching you.

And he knew it.

“Knew you were a filthy little thing,” he murmured, dragging his tongue over the seam of your suit again, this time slower, wetter, filthier. His spit smeared against the leather, mixing with the arousal he couldn’t even reach, his breath coming out low and taunting when he saw the way your thighs trembled.

“Oh?” he cooed mockingly, tilting his head as he licked you again, pressing harder this time, rubbing his face against the wetness. “Are you shaking, kitten? Thought you were the one in control.”

You barely heard him over the sound of your own ragged breathing. Your knuckles were white against the concrete ledge, nails digging into the surface as you clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg.

But you needed more.

And you weren’t above taking it.

You reached back, gripping his hair roughly, forcing him closer. “If you’re going to make a mess,” you panted, grinding against his tongue, “then make it worth my time.”

His low, dark chuckle vibrated through you.

“Oh, you wanna be fucking used?” His voice was drenched in something dangerous, something cruel.

You didn’t even have time to answer before his hand came down hard between your legs—a wet, smacking slap.

Your moan came out broken, needy, filthy.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging his tongue along the slick surface again, making sure you heard every wet, messy stroke. “You do.”

His gloved fingers hooked into the tight fabric at your hips, tugging hard—not enough to tear, but enough to make the leather stretch. “Bet you taste just as fucking good as you look.”

He spit onto your cunt right through the suit.

The wetness seeped into the fabric, mixing with everything else, soaking you in a way that made you groan in frustration. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

You needed more.

You twisted your head to look at him, your lips curving into a smirk despite the desperation clawing through you. “Pathetic,” you teased breathlessly. “All that talk and you’re still scared to take what you want.”

His hand wrapped around your throat before you could even process it, yanking you backward into him.

The sudden force of it made your back arch, your ass pressing right against the hard length in his suit. His grip tightened, his chest heaving against your back as he let out a low, ragged exhale, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You have no fucking idea what you just started.”

You barely had a second to react before he spit into your mouth.

Hot, messy, degrading—his grip on your jaw keeping your lips open just wide enough to take it.

Your moan was instant. Your thighs clenched, your entire body lighting up from the sheer filth of it.

And he saw.

“Ohh,” he laughed, mocking, low, drenched in satisfaction. “You really are Gotham’s filthiest little slut.”

Before you could retort, his mouth was on you—

Sloppy, messy, spit-slicked kisses down your throat, his teeth grazing, his tongue licking up the mess he’d made.

He turned you around in one swift motion, forcing you back against the ledge, his hand gripping your jaw, prying your mouth open again.

“You wanna be fucking used?” he murmured against your lips, his own mouth wet, his breath fanning over your face.

Then—another spit.

Right onto your tongue.

“Swallow.”

Your legs nearly gave out.

You obeyed without thinking, without hesitation, without anything but the sheer need consuming your body.

And he lost it.

His mouth crashed against yours, the kiss wet, filthy, tongues tangling with no sense of control. His gloved fingers found your waist, yanking you flush against him, grinding the hard length between his legs against you.

“This fucking suit,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip before pulling away. “Gonna fucking ruin you right through it.”

He dropped back to his knees again, this time not teasing, not taunting, just fucking devouring you.

Spitting. Licking. Sucking. Biting.

The leather was soaked.

You were a mess.

And he was just getting started.

His grip was relentless—fingers bruising your hips, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek, your suit slick with his spit. You were a mess, bent over the rooftop ledge, trembling, grinding against the frustration of leather against leather, caught in his cruel game.

And the worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Look at you,” he groaned, grinding his hips against yours in slow, agonizing rolls. Teasing. Mocking. Dragging it out.“So fucking needy. Gotham’s filthiest little slut, dripping all over my tongue, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Your teeth clenched. Again.

That fucking nickname. Again.

He’d been throwing it at you all night—taunting you, pushing you, like he knew it would break you eventually.

And oh, it did.

Your entire body tensed, your hands pushing back against his chest as you suddenly turned, facing him with a slow, sultry smirk that had danger written all over it.

“Gotham’s filthiest slut, huh?” you repeated, voice sickly sweet, dripping in menace.

Nightwing’s smirk barely faltered. “That’s what I said.”

Your fingers reached for the zipper at your chest.

“Then I guess it’s time I show you what that actually fucking means.”

His eyes darkened instantly.

You didn’t just unzip the suit. You ripped it open, shoving the leather down your arms, rolling your hips as you tugged it off completely, leaving yourself standing in the cold Gotham air—wearing nothing but a tiny black leather G-string.

The look on his face?

Priceless.

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched. His pupils blew wide as he took in every bare, glistening inch of you, illuminated only by the city lights.

And then, the cocky bastard smirked.

“Shit,” he murmured, licking his lips, his voice turning hoarse, greedy. “Guess you really are a whore.”

You laughed. Low. Dangerous.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Birdie.”

Then, deliberately slow, you turned around.

You bent at the waist, spreading your cheeks with both hands, letting him see exactly where that tiny strip of leather disappeared between your folds—where it rubbed against your asshole, soaked with your arousal.

A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat. The sound of a man barely holding himself together.

You wiggled your hips just slightly, grinding against the empty air, arching your back just enough to give him the perfect view.

Then, without a word, you crawled away.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Letting your hips sway, knowing damn well he was watching every inch of your body move.

He let out a shaky exhale, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“You…” he swallowed hard, his voice wrecked. “You are so fucking evil.”

You only grinned, settling onto your back at the center of the rooftop.

Then, you spread your legs.

Your fingers traced along the thin strip of leather, teasing, barely touching yourself, making a mess just for him.

His entire body locked up.

You smirked, rolling your hips lazily, teasing, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his gloved fingers flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back from grabbing you.

Then, in the filthiest, most sinful voice you could muster, you pouted and cooed:

“What’s wrong, baby? Pussy got your tongue?”

His groan was guttural.

You weren’t done.

Tilting your head, you made a slow, come-hither motion with your finger, voice dropping into something dark, dripping in depravity.

“C’mere, Birdie. Wanna let this pussy teach you about the birds and the bees?”

His breath shuddered. His entire body twitched.

Then—he fucking snapped.

One second, he was standing there, panting like he’d lost his goddamn mind.

The next?

You were on your back, spread out on the rooftop, Nightwing between your legs, his hands everywhere, his mouth crashing into yours—hot, wet, filthy.

And for the first time all night, he was the one begging.

“Say it again,” he panted, grinding against you, licking into your mouth like he was starved for it. “Say it again, baby, I fucking dare you.”

You moaned into his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck, dragging him closer, arching up into him.

“What’s wrong, Birdie?” you panted, voice dripping in mock innocence. “Pussy got your—”

His hand clamped over your mouth, his palm pressing down hard.

“Ohh, no, no,” he chuckled darkly, his hips pressing down, making you feel every thick, hard inch of him through his suit. “You don’t get to fucking talk anymore.”

Then, with no hesitation—he spit right into your mouth.

Messy. Wet. Dominating.

“Swallow.”

Your body shuddered violently.

You swallowed without thinking. Without hesitation. Without anything but the overwhelming, suffocating need between your thighs.

And then? He fucking lost it.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your jaw, pressing your legs open wider, teasing, taunting, making a mess of you.

His mouth was on you, licking, sucking, biting, drowning in your filth, spitting between your legs just to watch it drip down your skin.

“You wanna talk about Gotham’s filthiest slut?” he groaned, dragging his tongue over the soaked fabric barely covering you.

He spit again.

This time, right onto your bare, swollen clit.

Then he licked it up, slow and obscene, making sure you heard every single filthy stroke of his tongue.

“Then let me fucking worship her properly.”

And with that, he dove in

You were sprawled out beneath him, your legs wide open, your body on full display, wearing nothing but that tiny strip of leather that was already soaked through.

And he was kneeling there, staring at you like you were something holy.

Like something he was about to worship.

His gloved fingers slid down, hooking under the thin string of your G-string, tugging it back just enough to 

Snap.

The sting of the leather snapping against your clit sent a sharp jolt of pain-pleasure through your body.

And all you did. Was moan.

Loud, broken, filthy—a sound so obscene it made his breath catch.

His hands froze for a second, his lips parting slightly as he let out a low, wrecked chuckle. “Holy shit,” he muttered, his voice wrecked with something dark, something unhinged.

He did it again.

Snap.

And you moaned again.

His pupils blew wide. His fingers dug into your thighs as he let out a low, shaky groan, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasped.

But then, finally, he gave you what you needed.

His mouth.

His hot, wet, wicked fucking mouth.

He devoured you.

His tongue licked a long, leisurely stripe over the soaked fabric, pressing down, teasing. His lips wrapped around the thin strip of leather, sucking on it like he was tasting you through it.

It was good—too good.

But it wasn’t enough.

You let out a breathless whimper, rolling your hips up against his face, chasing more friction, more pressure, more fucking anything.

He chuckled against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping into the fabric.

“What’s wrong, kitten?” His voice was mocking, his tongue darting out to flick against the fabric too lightly, too soft, too slow. “Not enough?”

You whined. Actually fucking whined.

“No,” you panted, voice raw, desperate, completely ruined. “More.”

He smirked against your inner thigh, his fingers trailing up to press just barely against your entrance, spreading your slick over the leather.

“More?” he repeated, his tone dangerously amused.

You glared down at him, panting, shaking, your hands fisting into the rooftop. “More.”

He hummed, dragging his tongue lower, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs, avoiding where you needed him most.

His mouth was everywhere but there.

You groaned in frustration, rolling your hips up again, trying to make him touch you, do anything real.

But he just laughed, watching you suffer.

“Oh, poor thing,” he cooed, dragging his teeth lightly over your skin. “So desperate. So fucking greedy.”

Then, another flick of his tongue—light, too light—and your patience snapped.

“Riki,” you whined, your voice breaking, your entire body trembling. “I said more.”

His smirk disappeared.

He snapped.

His gloved fingers grabbed your wrist, yanking it down, forcing your hand between your legs.

“Then fucking touch yourself.”

Your breath caught.

Before you could react, before you could even process what he just said, he spit.

Right onto your fingers.

Hot, wet, filthy.

“Rub yourself,” he ordered, his voice dangerously low. “Since nothing I do is enough.”

Your entire body shuddered.

And you did it.

You slid your fingers over the soaked fabric, spreading his spit, spreading yourself, moaning at the sheer depravity of it.

His gaze darkened, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. “You’re actually—”

Then he lost it.

His mouth was back on you, devouring you, licking into your fingers, sucking them into his mouth, tasting you off your own skin.

He yanked the soaked leather aside, spitting onto your bare skin this time.

His fingers were inside you.

Deep, rough, curling just right, fucking you open with no hesitation.

“Still not enough?” he panted, licking, sucking, spitting, fingering you all at once.

Your eyes rolled back.

Your moans shattered into nothing.

He was everywhere.

His spit was dripping down your skin, his mouth was wrecking you, his fingers were filling you, his voice was taunting you, breaking you, ruining you.

“Yeah?” he growled, fucking his fingers into you harder. “That enough for you now, kitten?”

You couldn’t even answer.

You could only moan, sob, beg, take it.

And he just kept going.

More. More. More.

Your body was wrecked, trembling, covered in spit and slick and sweat, your legs still spread wide open as you panted against the cold Gotham air.

Nightwing’s breath was heavy as he hovered over you, his gloved fingers still buried deep inside you, dripping with everything he had coaxed out of you. His other hand was wrapped tight around your wrist, keeping your fingers right where he wanted them—pressing into yourself, rubbing slow, messy circles soaked in his spit.

His voice was low, taunting.

“You think I’m done with you?” he murmured, dragging his fingers out, just to slap them back against your clit.

You whimpered, your body jerking from the impact.

“No,” he growled, watching the way you twitched, the way your body craved more. “You’re not done. Not even close.”

Then, with one hand still on your jaw, prying your mouth open, he reached down with his free hand—

And grabbed the stolen jewel.

Your breath hitched. Your body froze.

He lifted it slowly, rolling the smooth, perfectly rounded crimson diamond between his fingers. The same diamond you had risked everything to steal tonight.

And then—

His gloved fingers spread you apart, lower this time.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“W—wait,” you gasped, your voice trembling, your fingers clenching against his arm.

But Nightwing just smirked.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” he murmured, pressing the cool gemstone right against your tight, untouched asshole.

You squeaked.

“You were so cocky earlier,” he continued, voice dripping in mockery, rubbing the gemstone right there, pressing, teasing, making you gasp at the contrast of heat and cold. “What happened to all that attitude, kitten?”

Your thighs clenched, your whole body shaking as he pushed—

And the jewel disappeared inside you.

A wrecked, broken scream ripped from your throat.

Your back arched violently, your body convulsing, a sharp wave of pleasure unlike anything you’d ever felt crashing into you.

“Ohhh,” Nightwing groaned, watching the way your asshole fluttered around the jewel, clenching, squeezing, trying to adjust to the perfect, filthy weight of it.

Your fingers clawed at the rooftop, your entire body trembling.

He was stunned.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed. “You like that?”

You whimpered, shaking, nodding so hard it made him laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, watching you lose your fucking mind. “Didn’t realize you were this much of a slut for it.”

Your only answer was a wrecked, gasping moan.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his gloved fingers tracing over the jewel, pressing it deeper, twisting it, watching you shudder.“Look at you, baby. Completely ruined just from having your ass filled.”

You were gone.

Shaking, dripping, lost in pleasure.

He wasn’t finished.

You barely had time to process it before he reached for his baton.

Your breath hitched violently.

He noticed. And he smirked.

“You’re looking at me like you’re scared,” he murmured, twirling it between his fingers with ease. “Thought you liked surprises, kitten.”

Your eyes widened as you shook your head, breathless, still adjusting to the fucking jewel sitting inside you.

“Riki,” you stammered.

But he just hushed you, dragging the smooth, cold length of the baton down your stomach, lower, right against your dripping folds.

Then—he turned it on.

A low vibration rumbled through your core, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight up your spine.

You screamed.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, grinding the vibrating baton against your clit, watching you convulse beneath him. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The double stimulation was unbearable—the jewel keeping you stretched, your walls clenching around it, while the steady, pulsing vibration of the baton pushed you closer and closer to insanity.

It was too much.

Too much.

Too fucking good.

Your body arched off the rooftop, your back bowing, hands gripping his arm like you were about to break.

“Ohh, I think she likes it,” he teased, his voice breathless, watching you come undone beneath him. “Look at you, taking it so well.”

You could barely fucking breathe.

“Tell me how it feels,” he panted, pressing the baton harder against you.

You whimpered, unable to form words, your head spinning, drowning.

But that wasn’t good enough for him.

He pressed the baton against your clit again—

And turned the vibration up.

Your scream cracked.

“That’s it, kitten,” he growled, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open, forcing you to take it. “Fucking lose it for me.”

And you did.

Completely. Utterly.

Your orgasm slammed through you, ripping you apart, drenching the rooftop beneath you, your thighs shaking violently as you sobbed through the overwhelming, unbearable pleasure.

You were gone.

Ruined.

And he was just getting started.

The night air clung to your sweat-slick skin, every nerve in your body alive, overstimulated, twitching from the filth Nightwing had already dragged you through.

Still. He wasn’t done.

Not until he’d ruined you completely.

His breath was hot against your ear as he lined himself up, dragging the thick, leaking tip of his cock through your soaked, messy folds.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, dripping in filth. “Fucking dripping, baby. You that desperate for me?”

Your whimper was answer enough.

He smirked against your skin, his gloved fingers tracing your slit, feeling the way you clenched around nothing, soaking his cock before he even pushed in.

“So wet,” he muttered, dragging himself slowly over your entrance. So messy.

He pressed the jewel deeper.

Your entire body lurched forward, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as the cold, unyielding stone inside your ass shifted, stretching you further, pressing against something that sent shockwaves up your spine.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, watching your reaction, his cock twitching from just the way you shook.

“Still cold, huh?” he teased, smirking against your ear. “Guess I’ll have to warm it up for you.”

Then, in one slow, filthy slide—he sank into you.

Your walls stretched around him, sucking him in, clenching down like your body didn’t want to let him go.

The sound was obscene.

Wet, sticky, a loud, filthy squelch echoing through the Gotham night.

Nightwing let out a choked laugh, his fingers gripping your hips, stilling deep inside you for a second.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Did you hear that?”

Your face burned. You tried to say something, but all that came out was a helpless moan.

He just chuckled darkly.

“Ohhh,” he mocked, pulling back just a bit before sliding in again, deliberately slow, making sure you both heard the filthy sounds your pussy made.

Another loud, wet squelch.

He groaned, laughing. “Oh, baby—it’s talking dirty to me.”

Your eyes rolled back.

Another thrust—sharp, deep, pushing the jewel further inside you.

Another loud, disgustingly wet sound.

“Fuck,” he gasped, completely lost in it. “She’s filthy.”

Your breath hitched.

“Ohh, you like that, don’t you?” he murmured, nipping at your jaw, rolling his hips deeper, grinding against the cold pressure of the jewel.

Your entire body convulsed.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he rasped. “She likes it. She likes when I press it.”

That was when something shifted.

A slow grin curled at your lips.

Your fingers dug into his arms, your body rolling into his thrusts, meeting him, matching him, overtaking him.

“Yeah,” you gasped, moaning like a slut, rocking against him. “She likes it, Birdie. She fucking loves it.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“Ohh,” you mocked, your voice thick, teasing, wrapping around his cock like a vice. “What’s wrong, baby? She too much for you?”

He let out a wrecked groan, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, his pace stuttering for half a second before he lost it.

“Yeah?” he growled, thrusting into you harder, meaner, pressing the jewel deeper, his cock grinding against it from inside.

Your moans shattered.

“Ohhh, she loves that,” you panted, rolling your hips, smirking through the absolute filth.

“She’s greedy, baby,” you taunted, gripping his wrist, guiding his hand lower. “She wants it all—your cock, your fingers, your cum.”

His breath shuddered.

“Jesus fuck,” he gasped, grinding harder, chasing the wet, squelching sounds. “You’re actually a fucking menace.”

“Ohhh, is Birdie struggling?” you pouted, tilting your head mockingly. “Can’t handle how fucking dirty she is?”

His jaw clenched, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Say it again,” he gritted, grabbing your throat, holding you still while he wrecked you. “Say it again, kitten.”

Your smirk widened.

“She wants your cum,” you gasped, rolling your hips to meet his every snap. “She needs it, baby—fuck, she needs it so bad. She’s sucking you in, begging for it, stretching just to take all your fucking cock.”

His groan cracked. His body shook.

But then, you arched your back further, pushing your ass against him, forcing him deeper, forcing him to feel the way the jewel shifted inside you.

“Press it,” you whispered, your voice dripping with sin. “Play with it. Show everyone what you’re doing to me.”

His breath hitched.

“What?” he rasped, his cock twitching inside you.

You smirked, looking back over your shoulder, eyes dark and full of wicked intent. “You heard me. Make her put on a fucking show.”

His hands gripped your hips brutally hard, his fingers spreading you apart, exposing the way the jewel sat inside you.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, his voice wrecked.

“Press it, Birdie,” you purred, wiggling your hips. “Show them how deep she can take it.”

His control snapped.

He slammed deep, forcing the jewel against your walls, twisting it, watching the way your body convulsed from the sheer filth of it.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, completely lost, completely obsessed.

And as your moans turned to helpless, desperate cries, you knew—

He was going to give you exactly what you begged for

Your body was wrecked.

Your face was pressed against the rooftop, your breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps as you shook, convulsing, drowning in the filth he had forced you into.

And the jewel?

Still inside you.

Still cold, still stretching you, still pressing against every nerve ending, keeping you wide open, making sure you never forgot who put it there.

Nightwing wasn’t any better.

His chest was heaving against your back, his grip still brutal on your hips, his cock twitching inside you as he pulsed, throbbing, leaking, completely fucking wrecked.

“Oh, baby,” you giggled breathlessly, rolling your hips against him, making him groan, shaking from overstimulation.“She’s still so full.”

His head dropped to your shoulder, his laugh wrecked, breathless, completely broken.

“You are fucking insane,” he muttered, dragging his lips over your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

“And yet,” you panted, rocking back, making him feel every aftershock, every squeeze of your body still holding onto him, still milking him. “You loved every second of it.”

He exhaled shakily, his hands trailing over your body, gripping your ass, pressing on the jewel just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re keeping it in,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement, dragging his fingers over where the gem sat snug inside you.

“Maybe I like the way it feels,” you purred, tilting your head, lips brushing against his. “Maybe I want you to take me home and keep me plugged up all night.”

His groan was filthy.

“You are a fucking problem,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

He smirked.

“Fine,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over your swollen, wrecked clit, making you jolt. “But if that jewel stays in all night, I get to fuck you with it still inside.”

Your grin widened.

“Baby,” you purred, cupping his jaw, pulling him into a slow, messy kiss.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

And as the night stretched before you, one thing was certain.

This wasn’t over.

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

neighbor!reader x simon 'ghost' riley pt 10

masterlist

The summer solstice. The longest day of the year, the day with the most light. That particular day in June never really meant that much to you- until now. It was officially five months since Simon had left.

Not that you were keeping track.

Simon had never given you an address or anything to send letters or packages to while he was gone. To be fair, you never asked him about such things. Maybe you should have. It was a little late for that now, though. You had to just trust that he was okay.

You tried not to be disheartened from the lack of contact with your strange neighbor while he was off saving the world. Well, that’s what you told yourself in your head that he was doing. You knew he was military of sorts, really good at what he does, but he kept things like that private, even from you.

You were just his neighbor, after all. Right?

The day began like any other. You went about your usual morning routine, feeding your cat, then yourself, getting ready for work, etcetera.

Work went as well as it did any other day. Customers weren’t too awful, thank goodness. You were feeling particularly down on that day, even though it was the day with the most sunlight out of the year.

You decided on your way home from work that you’d spend the night baking cookies, maybe even in Simon’s apartment. That might lift your spirits. Maybe you’d even pretend that Simon was there with you to keep you company, like you wished he could.

God. You missed him. Five months was too damn long. And not even a single text message or phone call. You tried not to let that get to you. He was probably super busy with whatever military stuff he was doing.

You just hoped that he was okay.

-

Simon’s apartment still smelled like him, even after all those months of him being gone. Part of it was due to you spraying little spritzes of his cologne that you found on the top shelf of his closet every few days, especially in the spots where he typically spent time in his own apartment.

Not that you’d ever admit to snooping for such a thing. No, you definitely didn’t also have to bring your step ladder from your apartment to reach it. Why didn’t he have his own stepladder-?

Oh, yeah. Tall man. Whatever.

“Izzy, I hope you know that these aren’t for you,” you mumbled teasingly to your cat, who had followed you from your apartment to Simon’s, like she often did. You were sure Simon wouldn’t mind the feline in his apartment. He had a soft spot for Isabella, whether he’d admit it to you or not.

How silly that you could see the soft spot he had for your cat, and not the one he had for you, but anyway.

You had just put in the first batch of cookies, like always you decided to start with sugar, then go to chocolate chip, then peanut butter. Small batches this time, since most of them were going straight to your own cookie jar, some were going to be put in the freezer to keep fresh for Simon’s return, and you had promised a few neighbors a box of cookies that week.

It was a small batch for you. Not a small batch for regular people baking.

In Simon’s absence in the last five months, you found yourself more and more making yourself at home in his flat. He had given you that key to use at your leisure, after all, so you wanted to put it to good use. You did just that.

No, you never found his security cameras in all that time. To be fair, you never looked for them. That sort of thing didn’t even cross your mind.

-

It was just after midnight. You had decided to stay a bit longer in Simon’s flat before heading to bed in your own. With a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of you and Izzy purring on your lap, you reached for the remote to click ‘next episode’ on the series you were watching absently.

As the opening credits on the show began to play, during a part you knew there was supposed to be silence, you heard something. As the opening continued, you couldn’t help but wonder what that sound was that you heard. You knew not to be worried about safety in Simon’s apartment- he was the safest guy you knew, and you had all three locks set on his front door.

His apartment was probably safer than your own, come to think of it. Since you sometimes forgot to lock your front door. You were getting better at it, though! Especially knowing that Simon wasn’t going to be able to just walk right in your unlocked door. Knowing it would be someone else coming through that door uninvited was a real deterrent.

Deciding to yourself that it was probably just your imagination from being up so late, you reached in front of you to grab for the bowl of popcorn.

It wasn’t until you put your hand in the buttery popcorn that Simon made his presence known.

“ ‘m back, love. Miss me?”

The popcorn was forgotten. You couldn’t see him at first, since you had been staring at the TV screen in his dark living room, but as soon as you did, you couldn’t help but freeze.

There he was. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, in the flesh, back after being away on a no-contact mission for five months. But he wasn’t-

He wasn’t wearing his mask.

You had never seen him without it before.

Your heart stopped as you looked at him. He looked both everything and nothing like you expected. In the end, it probably didn’t matter what he looked like.

But you were glad that he was pretty damn handsome underneath all that fabric anyway.

“Simon?” you breathed out. As you stood up from the couch, Izzy meowed in protest to being moved from your lap. “You’re… You’re here.”

It was the first time you ever saw Simon smile without the mask, and it was now forever burned in your mind. “Yeah, I’m back,” he told you softly.

Before you knew it, you were launching yourself into his arms. Your arms found their way around his neck, though you did have to lean up a bit to reach. Once Simon realized what you were doing, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you tightly to him. The stubble on his chin brushed against your scalp, making you shiver slightly at the foreign sensation.

“I missed you, love,” Simon told you softly.

“I missed you, too,” you mumbled against his chest.

“I told you not to miss me too much.”

“Well, you left for five months without contact, so…”

“Touché,” he hummed, closing his eyes as he hugged you closer. If that was even possible.

It honestly felt like you were dreaming. You had dreamt of this very moment for five months now, since the very moment that Simon told you he had to go just the night before he left.

After who knows how long, you finally pulled away just enough to look up at Simon more clearly. You could see exhaustion in and around his eyes, but you could also see relief. Relief to be back home, relief to be safe, relief to-

Relief to be back home with you.

“You look tired, Si,” you murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek. You gently traced over the shadow of a scar on his cheek with the pad of your thumb.

Surprisingly, Simon leaned into your gentle touch and closed his eyes. “You have no idea, love. Tired doesn’t even begin to cover it. Been travelling for over twenty-four hours now.”

“Why don’t you come sit down?” I offered, finally unwrapping my arms from him to tug on his arm, leading him to the couch. He didn’t resist.

Once he got seated, you sat down beside him, close enough that your thighs were touching. Now that he was back, you didn’t want to be apart from him.

“Do you need anything?” you asked him softly, looking up at him. “Something to eat, drink, maybe a shower…?”

“You sayin’ I stink?” Simon hummed before stretching his arm around your shoulders. He pulled you into his side gently, letting out a soft breath. “No, love, I don’t need anything. Just this.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, but you tried not to read too far into it. You rested your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you breathed in his scent. It was unlike anything, and even with over twenty-four hours of travel on him, you couldn’t get enough.

It was Simon that eventually broke the silence.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you,” Simon said to you softly, his voice rough with emotion. “I wanted to. Every damn day. But it wouldn’t have been safe.”

He had wanted to contact you?

“Oh, Simon, you don’t have to apologize,” you assured him, turning your head to look into his eyes.

“I don’t, but I want you to know.”

Where was this coming from?

“I..” You cleared your throat, looking up at him still. “I’m just glad you’re home safe, Si.”

Simon nodded at your words, his eyes searching yours. “Me too, love. Me too.”

That was when his hand gently cupped your chin as he began to lean towards you. His touch was light, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to what you expected from the mighty soldier.

Frustrated with the slow pace of his lips’ descent to yours, you lurched forward and closed the gap, your arms returning to their earlier spot around his neck.

It was soft, tender. There was a bit of surprise at first from Simon’s end, he clearly hadn’t expected you to rush forward, but he had gladly accepted your advance and met it with equal vigor.

It was perfect. Simon’s lips were firm yet gentle, moving against yours in a dance that took your breath away. His hand on your chin came up to cup your cheek, tilting your head slightly as he deepened the kiss.

By the time you broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily. Simon rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

“I’ve… Wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted quietly, his warm breath mingling with yours.

A small smile tugged at your lips. So it had been mutual.

“Me too,” you said softly.

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