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smiteswrites · 19 days ago

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A Different Kind of Pain

Part One

Description: After losing a gem of a next door neighbor, Jack worries what the new resident will be like. Instead of a young obnoxious college kid, he meets you. Instantly struck by your warm nature (and good looks but he won't admit to that), Jack finds himself drawn to you in a way he hasn't experienced in years.

Tags: reader is a chemistry grad student bc i say so, shameless self insert, fem!reader, trying to avoid too many specific descriptors on readers appearance but i am new to this, reader is shorter than jack, widower!Jack, Jack talks ab therapy, trying to do justice to the fact that Jack is an amputee, but again I am not an expert, just some fluff and feelings, eventual smut, and so mdni 18+

A/N: Thank you all for the encouragement on the first version of this! It has been really really amazing to know people enjoy my ideas and writing and absolutely wild that y'all want more. I really love this idea and have many many plans for these two. I hope to get part two written and out this week. I am thinking around 3-4 parts total, but we shall see. This is starts similar to this post, but I made some changes and expanded quite a bit. I hope you enjoy and please send me asks/dms if you have any suggestions/comments/feedback on anything! I am always open to improving and learning.

gif credit - @iluvseb | divider credit - @cursed-carmine

Part One - 3k

Jack has been living in the left half of a red brick duplex, unit 101A, long enough to see a handful of tenants come and go on the right side, 102A. There was a college kid whose prefrontal cortex was just underdeveloped enough for him to be nothing but a pain in Jack’s ass. Needless to say, not his favorite neighbor. Then there was a young couple who were perfectly lovely until they had to move somewhere with two bedrooms to accommodate an incoming little one (Jack had been sure to give them his number in case they ever needed a friend in the ED). Most recently an older woman, Mrs. McAlister, who had regularly brought Jack all manner of baked goods and leftovers, had moved out and into her daughter's house.

The unfortunate loss of Mrs. McAlister’s cooking meant that the right half of his duplex (and yes he thought of it as his by this point) was empty. Jack couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread creep in as he watched the last of Mrs. McAlister’s things be packed into a UHaul on Saturday afternoon. Would his new neighbor be another sweet elderly woman? Or would he get stuck with some obnoxious twenty something with no common courtesy?

Fortunately for Jack, he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Housing got snatched up fast in a city like Pittsburgh, especially housing that was halfway decent and affordable, so it was no surprise that 102A was empty for under 48 hours.

His first glimpse of the new tenant comes when Jack is arriving back home from a shift, just before 8 am on a Monday. He isn’t surprised to see a moving truck out front, nor is he surprised to see you directing the two movers on where to put furniture and boxes. He can tell you're young, in your twenties is his guess, which immediately sets his nerves on edge. Jack doesn’t think he can handle anymore house parties or loud hookups or trash left out. But you have a quiet, competent air about you that seems to indicate you aren't going to cause a ruckus. You appear to be alone, aside from the movers. He finds himself looking for evidence of a partner, husband, wife, without really meaning to. Forcing himself to not be overly nosy, Jack moves past the two men, now carrying part of a bed frame, and lets himself into 101.

After a shower and the last of Mrs. McAlister’s roast (bless that woman), Jack is dressed in grey sweats and a black t-shirt, ready for bed. Despite the sleep threatening to overcome him, he finds himself looking out his window to check in on the status of your move. Apparently you had gotten here early, because he can see you handing the movers a wad of cash and sending them on their way. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbed his prosthetic and is hurrying to get the damn thing back on so he can step back outside. He may as well catch you as you’re heading back inside, introduce himself, make sure he doesn’t need to be concerned about having another pain in his ass next door. It is the neighborly thing to do after all, he reasons.

Another moment finds him a couple steps outside his door, clearing his throat to catch your attention from where you’re examining the front facing window of 102.

“I’m Jack. Abbot. I’m in 101. Figured I should introduce myself, welcome you to the neighborhood and all.” He outstretches his hand, wondering if a handshake is still what people do these days.

Smiling, you shake his hand firmly and give him your name, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. It is at this moment Jack finally takes you in fully. He was right, he thinks, you must be in your mid twenties, no ring on your finger, and certainly not a pain in his ass. You stand a handful of inches shorter than him, just enough that you have to look up to make eye contact. The smile you are giving him is radiant in a way that makes his stomach feel tight. He can see you’re flushed from the exertion of carrying boxes and helping to move furniture, and your hair has begun to fall from where you had it back.

But even though you aren’t at your most put together, Jack is left feeling off balance, as he can only see you as the most raw and real kind of beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes with a bright smile, dewy skin, and pink chinks. The kind that has as much to do with physical appearance as it does a person’s character. The kind of beauty that reminds him of his late wife when they first met. Even though he is just meeting you, Jack likes to think his gut is usually right about people, and his gut is telling him that you are exactly the type of kind, caring, intelligent person that spells nothing but trouble for him.

“It’s very nice to meet you Jack! I hope the movers weren’t too much of a disturbance, it seems like a quiet little haven around here.”

“About as close to a haven as you can get in the city,” he agrees with a small smile. “And don’t mention it, you weren’t a disturbance at all.”

In the few minutes the two of you spend chatting he finds out you’re a fourth year graduate student, “A PhD in chemistry? You might just be a bigger masochist than me.” You somehow work nearly as many hours as he does, and he finds your work ethic dizzyingly attractive. You moved to the area in the hope of finding somewhere a little quieter, some place where you didn’t feel like people were packed in like sardines. You aren’t from PA, but you have a couple close friends in town and your family tries to visit often. You confirm his suspicions when you tell him you’re single and don’t have any kids or pets so there shouldn’t be any noise waking him up through the night.

“Actually, I’m an attending in the ED, usually on night shift. Sounds like you aren't home much during the day, but-”

“Don’t worry Jack, I’ll keep it down during the day too. You can always bang on the wall if I’m being to loud,”

He feels the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Thanks, sweetheart.” It slips before he can catch up to his mouth. Even though he knows he shouldn’t be giving you nicknames, and definitely not that kind, the pink that dusts your cheeks at the term of endearment is enough to make him want to call you nothing else.

“Uh- listen I’ve gotta get to bed, but let me give you my number in case you need anything. Neighbor or doctor wise,” he says, shooting you a wink.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you doctor.”

And god, he knows you mean it in a teasing way, but it does nothing to help the steadily growing attraction he feels towards you. He knows he is at least 15 years too old, and far too emotionally unavailable to even entertain the idea of being with you. He knows. But when you smile at him like he’s just offered to hang the moon and stars for you, he really doesn’t know what to do with himself.

It’s just his number, no harm in you having it, and certainly no reason it has to have any underlying intention behind it. That’s what he tells himself anyway.

He puts his number in your phone when you hand it to him, putting “Jack Abbot” as the name and “the guy in 101A and doctor at PTMC” in the notes for good measure. You thank him again, giving his hand a squeeze as he returns the phone. You say your goodbyes, and he retreats into his black out curtain and noise machine generated paradise. The last thing he sees before shutting his eyes is a text from an unknown number with your name, just so he can save your number too.

You are going to be a pain in his ass alright, a kind he didn’t even think to be worried about.

After your initial introduction, Jack assumes (worries) the two of you won't see much of each other. During your initial meeting, in an effort to reassure him you wouldn’t make too much noise during the day, you had inadvertently given him your schedule: 6:45 am leave for work, 7-5 ish suffer, 5:30 pm arrive home from work. With anyone else he would be glad to know that there would be no one next door to disturb his sleep, but instead he could only focus on the fact that he would rarely, if ever, run into you.

His assumption proved to be correct for the first two weeks of your time in 102A, only seeing you on occasion as he left for work. But, about halfway through week three, Jack wakes up earlier than normal. By the time 5:30 pm rolls around and he’s supposed to be on call for another 13.5 hours, he feels himself starting to get restless. It’s a nice day outside with a high of 75 and a low of 52, the sun has set enough to cast an orange glow on the city, but not enough that it’s going to be dark soon, and Jack has a rare burst of energy. His therapist has been telling him some sunshine goes a long way, and he didn’t spend all that money on the fucking sports prosethic to not use it.

By 5:42 pm Jack is in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, sports prosthetic on. He makes it about two steps out his front door, still adjusting the stupid prosthetic, when he senses he isn't alone. Straightening up, he realizes you’ve just come out of your front door as well. His gaze travels upwards from your feet as he makes his way to his full height. You’re dressed similar to himself in athletic shorts with a matching jacket, and he has to force himself to not linger on the exposed skin of your legs. When he does meet your eyes, he finds you smiling at him in a way that suggests you caught his little slip up, but are too polite to mention it.

“Hey Jack! Are you heading out for an evening run? Well- I guess it would technically be morning for you, sorry,” You laugh at yourself lightly, cheeks coloring only the slightest bit. Whether it’s from embarrassment at the slip up or something else he can’t be sure.

Either way, he gives you what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I still consider this to be evening. I am a proud night lurker, there is no part of me that wants to be waking up before 3 pm.” A small fit of giggles overtakes you, and he feels his smile turn into something more genuine.

“But no, not much of a runner,” he gestures to his right leg where the prosthetic is on display. “I’m on call tonight and can’t do much besides hang out here, figured a walk might do me some good.”

To your credit, your expression only falters slightly when you take in his leg, quickly recovering to match his eye contact as you listen. You nod, humming warmly in agreement, still keeping your eyes locked on his. “I have to agree. I’m also not much of a runner but I try to walk after lab most days. I think it’s a great way to reset after a long day.”

“Sounds like you’re the evening walk expert then?”

“Something like that,” you joke back.

Jack knows that the conversation is winding down, it’s time for him to wish you a good walk and find a reason to hang back until you go on your way. Wait to see which direction you turn before beginning to walk in the opposite way. But Jack also knows that you’ve been looking at him with an attentiveness that, while he gives freely, is rarely if ever matched. If there were ever a sign of not wanting a conversation to end, he thinks the way you’re looking at him is surely it.

Fuck it.

“Well, I’m new to this whole walking for fun thing, maybe you could show me the best route to take?”

Your eyes brighten, “Of course! I mean, obviously I’m new to the area, but I think I’ve found a good path. It’s about 30 minutes, if that’s good with you?”

“Of course, lead the way,” he gestures forward with his hand, indicating for you to lead the way, leaning forward slightly as he does so. If you notice the way he stumbles forward slightly as his weight shifts on an unfamiliar right foot, you don’t say anything. But Jack swears he you’re biting the inside of your cheek to fight off a grin as you walk down the steps.

Fucking sports prosthetic.

The walk is… nice. Nicer than Jack expected. He can hear the birds chirping in the trees that are awkwardly implanted in the sidewalk. He can hear the sounds of the city too (sirens, honking, a plane overhead) but they’re less pronounced than normal. The two of you walk side by side as you lead him through parts of his neighborhood he’s never really taken the time to look at. You point out a café that apparently ‘makes a mean oat milk latte.’

“I hate to fulfill the old white guy stereotype, but I only drink my coffee black.” Self-deprecation as a form of self-defence, the oldest trick in the book.

“As horrifying as that information is,” you begin, closing your eyes and placing a hand on your chest, “I also can get behind a black coffee, so if you’re calling yourself old you’re gonna have to call me old too.” You smile at him and make eye contact for only a moment before breaking looking at the pavement a few feet ahead of you.

“Besides, you have got to be the sexiest ‘old guy’ I’ve ever seen so I’d be wearing that badge proudly if I were you.” You put your hands up in mock defensiveness and accentuate your point with air quotes.

He really isn’t sure what to do with himself besides laugh. Looking at you now, he could tell that even if you were uncertain, you were not the type of woman to let him get away with putting himself down. Nothing to do but admit defeat.

“I think I’ll be quite happy with that title.”

By the time the duplex is coming back into view Jack has learned that you’ve been walking everyday for years after a suggestion from a therapist. He’s learned that you “actually thought about going to medical school, but turns out biology and me don’t get along.” He’s also relearned more about chemistry than he ever hoped he would have to after asking the simple question “What does your lab research?”

He had told you his own therapist had suggested he ‘get his ass outside’ more often, and that maybe the shrink was right more often than he wanted to give the guy credit for. He also shared one of his gorrier work stories and had been impressed when you were hanging on to his every word rather than going green. More importantly, he had only let himself spend about 3 minutes total looking at the way the sunlight caught your hair, or the way it framed your face as it fell from the loose bun you had it in, or at your lips as you spoke rather than your face, or at the necklace laying against the soft place where your neck met your collar bones. Just 3 minutes, not bad at all, practically a record.

As you approach the front steps you hesitate, and he feels it too, he thinks. The uncertainty of where the two of you stand with one another. Jack knows where he stands, and he has a feeling he knows where you do too, he hadn’t been the only one with a staring problem. But even if Jack thinks he knows, he doesn’t really know.

“Thank you for sharing your route with me, I think I was right to call you the walk expert.” He shoots you a trademark Abbot smirk, trying to put a lid on whatever feelings may or may not have been simmering during the past 30 minutes.

“Anytime Jack, it was nice to have some company.” The smile you give him in return is softer, warmer than his own. For not the first time, and certainly not the last, he feels torn about how to approach you. He knows this feeling, he’s felt it before and it landed him in a world of heartbreak and pain. It was a place he’s worked hard to move on from, and thank god he can see now that while yes feelings, raw and vulnerable, can end in pain they are also what make life worth living.

He isn’t sure where the two of you stand, after all you’ve barely started to get to know each other. However, he is sure that he wants to at least give himself the chance to find out, no matter how scary or stupid a choice it might be.

“Well… maybe we could do this again sometime? I know my therapist would throw a fucking party if he got word of me not only being out in daylight but also socializing outside of work.”

“I’d love that,” you smile wider now, staring at your feet briefly and rocking back on your heels slightly before looking back up at him. “I’ll be here a little after 5:30 pretty much everyday, join me whenever you like. Okay?”

“Okay,” he feels his own expression melt into something so sickly sweet his cheeks hurt. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #the pitt #smites writes #smites fics #a different kind of pain #jack abbot fluff #jack abbot x female reader #neighbor!jack

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leslongxia · 2 months ago

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"Death shall be here to offer you comfort, always by your side, for your are my precious vessel." This animation is for all the people who made art or think about Lamb in Narinder's hand ! Inspired as well by @bamsara TRoD Narinder's "Maintenance" of their vessel I ended up making this rough within a day, or two, very happy with it ! I will improve it if you enjoy it !

#cult of the lamb #cotl #cotl lamb #lamb #cotl narinder #narinder #cotl narilamb #narilamb #lessy art #lessy animation #animation #digital art

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unstable-samurai · 10 months ago

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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.”

#kpop smut #male reader #male reader smut #smut male reader #x male reader #x male smut #smut #gg smut #irene smut #irene red velvet #red velvet irene #red velvet smut #m!reader #smut oneshot #irene x reader

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girlfromflor · 2 months ago

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super soldiers!141 x new to the unit!reader | this is dumb and poorly written, i'm sorry, just needed to get it out my mind

thinking about a sci-fi, future-ish au where human soldiers became sort of a social experiment on a large scale after machine soldiers have proven to be inefficient against certain “threats” because of their lack of motivation, incentives. purpose. machines needed things to make sense, they couldn’t be encouraged to do some tasks. they would follow orders, of course, but they – for themselves – were not ethical at all.

machines didn’t care if it was a child, a man, a woman or an animal, if it was their target they were going to put it down at any cost and that caused problems. a lot of different problems throughout their years of usage. especially if a mission needed fast changing of target. but they were a single mind distributed in countless bodies of wires and hard plastic, and that was their biggest strength. if one knew, they all knew. if one was given an order, all the others knew what it was and what should be done to reach it. it was visceral, a core knowledge that no human was capable of achieving by natural means – of course.

so the government started to support the return of human soldiers on field, with the exception that they required new training, one to make them more united, more like one living force. they also had to work within a task force – the fewer people in a group, the better. in the first two years of this change of scenario, higher ranked soldiers started making their own task forces in order to choose the people that they worked more in sync with, and proceed through training to get them all to feel in synch as well – until the whole group felt like there was no doubt ever, just pure certain and mutual understanding.

after a sufficient number of task forces were completed and started to act on the field again, it became clear that intense training wasn’t enough. they kept running tests to understand exactly what these soldiers were lacking to improve their performance. after a few months scientists developed a new device, one that should answer their remaining questions. it was an extremely small piece of technology that was injected into the soldiers and that allowed them to communicate better – they needed fewer and fewer words to understand one another. of course, that didn’t really last long until they became obsolete and were replaced by new ones.

that technology kept on evolving until, a few years after, a special type of “device” was achieved. it half worked like a hormone in the human body – heightened senses mostly, that allowed an insane capacity to deeply understand things in a visceral matter. some people suspected it was made from specific DNA traits of animals highly skilled in things that mattered in the military – like hunting –, but in reality no one really questioned what it was. the results were all very natural – as far as they could possibly be in human terms. it worked, and that was all that mattered. it was almost totally customized, the injectable liquid had a different composition depending on what it was that the task force needed to improve as a whole. everyone in the same group received the same sample, they weren't repeated because it changed accordingly with the task force.

the truth is that task force 141 never really needed any of this shit, since day one they were a highly effective unit in all matters. with a total of five years in and out of test devices, they one hundred percent relied on their personal interaction – as any other unit should do. to say that they had each other's back was a total understatement, they completely trusted each other in an extremely vulnerable way. of course it required a deep amount of reliance to reach that, but they had come a long way anyway – with all the training plus the training with the previous test devices. but as time passed and it became law that “all working units shall have a dose to optimize their performance on field”, they had no other choice but to accept. which they were silently glad for, but they were never going to admit it. 141 was the best unit since new training began and human soldiers were a thing again, they were the very proof that human connections were necessary to certain tasks. but after they took their dose? oh boy, they were the best of the best. no questions asked, they all became more sensitive to nature itself. gaz started knowing all significant changes on the weather two day before it happened even if he was in blindfolds, soap somehow managed to always calm stray animals with his mere presence on the empty concrete forests that they had to visit every once in a while, ghost could tell how many people were inside of a room even several floors apart and captain price stopped needing to bark orders, he simply acknowledged them and then the boys seemed to simply know what to do.

they slowly morphed into one consciousness, not like the artificial intelligence prior to them, but like a new evolved version of themselves. suddenly ghost understood every sensation gaz ever talked about, gaz just knew what went through soap's mind, soap didn't even need to touch price to feel his tense shoulders anymore because everytime their captain got worried, they felt it. not like they felt their own feelings, but it was there. like they understood the very idea of their emotions.

eventually, they grew used to their new form, an emotionally charged bond that held them together. if they felt something hard enough they made the others feel it too. it wasn't always nice. one time kyle and johnny fought and that created an atmosphere where they all kept feeding off their anger, until captain told them to knock it off already and then he was mad at them like he felt both their ire – he did feel it, and it sucked. but then sometimes it was outstanding, like when ghost was so horny on a random ass tuesday and he kept horny for the rest of the week and the week after. when he finally managed to get his sweet, sweet relief, he dragged all his boys with him – even though he was alone in his room and they were all doing their respective chores. they all felt that knot loose in their lower half and just knew exactly what it was – who it was. after that they all tried to rile each other up with only their weird telepathic bond.

things were fun and enigmatic, they didn't need scientific explanations to things they simply knew. and understood. it wasn’t a problem to be solved by any means, they all simply embraced this new scenario and tried to make the most of it. and it worked, they got to a level that some things didn’t even have to be said because they would know from the moment that the others acknowledged it as well.

until one day they were chilling in the living room of their house, watching tv when a small pang of anxiety sparked somewhere low in their chest. cap furrowed his brows looking at johnny for an answer but he was just as confused. he turned to simon to see his visible discomfort at the foreign sensation. simon turned to kyle, the only one who seemed rather unbothered by it, although just as confused, and asked “what is it?”, even though he knew it wasn't kyle, and he knew kyle didn't know either.

kyle simply shrugged, “dunno, but it's weird as fuck.” it was his way to cope with the strange feeling, trying to not let it consume him. he wondered where it was coming from, since it wasn't from any of the others.

“we will know soon enough,” john said, the soothing tone a bit unusual in the captain's voice, but it was welcome nonetheless. it managed to work the boys' nerves, and soon enough none of them felt the small, irritating poke of anxiety.

it wasn't four days later that realization washed over them. it was price who received the news – of course, like always – but they all immediately knew that something was up. they wordlessly gathered at john's office door exchanging glances until his voice cut through the silence. they didn't knock but he knew that they were standing there, “come in already, will you?”

johnny opened the door, simon and kyle stepped in first as he held it open for them. he closed the door behind him, watching john's expression. they all knew they needn't worry, but they also knew it wasn't easy news. no one said a word, simply watching silently as price lit up a cigar and rubbed a hand down his face, then his hand scratched his beard. he sighed, taking a few seconds to find the right words, he took one final drag and settled his cigar down.

he wasn't stressed, just tired – and that said a lot, it also soothed the boys. they could help him relax in their own way if he was tired, but if he was stressed he never really allowed them close – that required a great deal of work, he never wanted them to feel stressed too. john took a breath, opened his mouth to say something more elaborate, but he couldn’t, he was just as surprised as the boys would be. so he just spilled the words out.

“we are getting an addition to the unit.”

a/n: i have no idea what to think of this. | series masterlist

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enchantressiren · 6 months ago

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❝𝐏𝐀𝐂: 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲.. 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭.. 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮.❞

Which sex position is your future lover’s favorite and why? (Detailed)

Masterlist

Author's note,

It's been a while since I last posted, hi everyone. I hope you enjoy your Christmas coming up!

Divider

Pile I.

“I want to devour the sweet nectar of the sin that lies beneath me. To feel it dripping on the sin of my fingertips, the graze that will melt us into ecstasy burning in the brain of our subconscious, such a beauty that I only get to see—for how lucky I am.. a lucky bastard.. that I am.”

Your future lover’s energy puts me in a calm trance, the calmest one could be. I feel like I am sleeping or walking on a path of water that will lead me to paradise. They are so soft with you, their love, or shall I say devotion, to you is something they cherished tremendously, and they could not bear losing that with you. To lose you would simply be their death, and they cannot have that done, and that is why their favorite sex position is all over the place. They do not have one and could never dare; they want to feel you everywhere, in every position, and want to see your beautiful face move and show pure pleasure as they please you with the utmost respect. “That is something you deserve, you deserve the utmost respect one could bear, and that is the one thing you never have to ask or prove with me—it will be with you the minute you are my lover, though I am sorry it was not done when we were fighting.”

Enemies to lovers, or rivals to lovers, is your trope with them. You honestly made them want to fall in love, and made them understand what it was to actually love. Their ex, (or multiple, energies are flying around like crazy), were nasty. That’s really it, so awful, but they used that to improve on what they wanted, which was building walls around until you had the audacity to break them and make them fall for you, “shame on you!’’

(I can feel them next to me, they are so animated, so damn loving, it’s like they want to grab you right here and right now and pull you to their future).

Aside from your “audacity,” they are very happy that you did because they were spiraling into something darker and started to use something dangerous, not illegal or self-harming (it’s not my place to tell you), as a coping mechanism, yet now.. you are their drug. Not literally, but you basically saved them from this impending doom of shame and guilt. I believe you should get ready to heal your inner child (even if you have) with them because they will be spoiling you .. like crazy, maybe a bit too much? I see a vision with an insane amount of gifts, teddy bears, jewelry, sports gear, food, or something to do with your religion. Also art supplies or crystals that are insanely expensive, but if it is for you, then “fuck it, right?” That is how their attitude is with you.

Ten of wands.

I took a break because something was missing from them, and they could not tell me. Meaning they kept focusing on the positive aspects when it comes to your relationship and sex with you. However, with the ten of wands, they actually do not know how to have a favorite sexual position. In a way, they thought it was off-putting that others always picked a favorite; if you picked a favorite, then you lost the chance to explore around and make your lover feel sexual pleasure. So, intuition tells me they feel overburdened and overwhelmed picking a favorite, but at the same time, they feel pressured to pick one.

They know that you would not give a damn whether or not they had one, but their colleagues, co-workers, a boss, or some type of group pops up with how they think about sex, and it is affecting your future lover right now, and when you meet; they will feel insecure throughout your sexual journey with you thus why the relationship with them will be enemies or rivals to lovers. I believe it's peer pressure with them. My intuition tells me this is the reason why you saved them and why they would do anything for you.

I feel a lot of anxious energy with them, a part of me wants to hug them and tell them they are okay, okay to love and show their pleasure in their own way, but I already know this is how you feel with them and what you will tell them. And when you do, they will confess you saved them.

As I was editing, I had to give you a message and also saw 777. Listen here. You are absolutely allowed to love whoever you want, you are allowed to be spoiled and pampered, you are allowed to be kissed in the most romantic ways, and you are allowed to have someone help you take showers. No, this person will not treat you in a bad way because you struggle with mental health problems. And no, they will not let anyone laugh at you even when you guys are not together because you do not deserve that, and they also think someone who does that is a "fucking asshole.'' You are so so so .. and many so worthy of love and I hope each day you tell yourself that, because it is true or else I would not have said it nor left this message, understood? Allow yourself to have the happiness you deserve and stop being your own blockage because, at the end of the day, it is not worth it, and seeing you struggle to have your happiness, do you think your kid self would like that? Would that be okay with them or is that okay—to have yourself struggling to make amends with your past, forcefully giving yourself guilt for something that should have been forgiven a long time ago? Let it go, it is seriously okay, let it go. Yes, what you did was awful, and should not have happened with them, but let it go and do and become better for the mistakes you caused and for yourself so it does not happen again. So as I said before, if I didn't mean it, I would not have mentioned it in your pile, so let it go.

Masterlist

Pile II.

Your future lover's favorite sex position is face sitting. They love, and I mean this very heavily, love eating you out, giving you oral, sucking you off, whatever the case is, they are very addicted to your private parts. “All you, all you, and .. all you, you are so fucking delicious baby, fuckkkkk.” I see a scene where they are covered in your juices, your cum, everything about you, and they are still eating you out as you grab their arms, body parts, or hair. Gripping for dear life, begging for relief, but nothing happens other than using their tongue in or on you faster, swirling it until it hits that sensitive spot of yours and, as well, as they are filled to the brim with your essence. The whole idea of eating dessert does not appeal to them UNTIL it is yours.

I hope you are ready for a very smutty scene since I cannot channel anymore other than their fantasies.. for you. I will address you as Y/N (your name), and them as F/L (future lover).

Scene A)

Your F/L will grab your leg and flip you over as they crawl towards your body, grabbing your skin to feel your skin. To feel the heat of your body because of how aroused you are. They will crawl towards your lips and greedily suck your top lips, nibbling the bottom to feel the taste from the last meal you ate, and chew softly. Then they will roughly thrust their tongue into your lips, sucking and grazing their tongue on yours and your teeth; they want to feel everything about you. Then they will pull out, grope your jaw and spit into your mouth as they crawl down and then sensually drag their tongue down to your chest area, sucking on them, and then to your private part as they blow air on it, seeing you twitch, whimper, groan, moan, etc. They will lean down and then give you oral.

Scene B)

Y/N is focused on doing their work, finishing up a coming project, and their deadline is coming within a week or two. F/L comes waltzing in as if they own the place and gazes at Y/N, smirking at their inconvenience. Though it would have been better if they could have helped Y/N, but no, it did not fit their shenanigans or their agenda. They stride over to Y/N as they massaged Y/N's shoulder, building trust with them. Once gaining their trust, they forcefully kiss Y/N, tasting their sweet nectar and feeling their tension dropping down until they remember their work as they push away F/L. But no, you would assume F/L will hold back and respect that push, yet they will not (still consent here). F/L will pick Y/N over their shoulder despite the weight of Y/N, and walk towards a countertop or over a table and bend them over. F/L will look at Y/N, and undress them as they crouch down and tease Y/N’s undergarment until they see a wet spot and then take it off only to tease Y/N with a toy, waiting for them to release but not cum since it is not allowed.

It will last for 2 hours straight, and once Y/N has had enough, they will face Y/N over their shoulders, similar to someone sitting on someone’s shoulder, only in this case, Y/N is sitting in front of F/L. F/L will suck or eat out Y/N until they are cumming over.. and over again and sobbing for F/L to stop. But it will not happen until Y/N uses their safe word(s) and once that does happen, pampering aftercare will erupt and leave Y/N comforted to the highest degree possible. With an insane amount of kisses, "because you deserve that and you deserve me to eat you out more!''

Masterlist

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driedposies · 4 days ago

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I'm so cold, let me in your window

Summary: You've always been sick. Your sisters hoped that becoming Made would cure you. Azriel believes you to be his punishment from the Mother.

Warnings: ANGST with no comfort, talks of illness & all its graphic details, character death.

Song inspiration: "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush & "This Night Has Opened My Eyes" by The Smiths

Word Count: 4.7k

Notes: I think I died writing this. The constant rain has put me in a mood. (and, yes, i did reference throne of glass)

The Town House stood like a brooding poem, its marble façade streaked with the memory of a hundred rains. Ivy clung to the walls, shivering in the wind, while the iron railings curled like sleeping serpents along the steps. The day was a sullen bruise, clouds pressing low, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and distant thunder.

Inside, the rooms were hushed and dim, shadows pooling in the corners, velvet curtains drawn back just enough to let the grey light seep in. On the second floor, in a chamber papered with faded violets, a young fae woman perched on the window seat, her knees drawn up beneath a quilt of moss green and silver threads. Her hair was knotted over her shoulders, catching the faintest glimmer from the world outside.

You watched the rain with wide eyes—eyes that held the memory of wild woods and sunlit glades, though they were rimmed with weariness. The glass was cool beneath her fingertips, trembling faintly from the drumming of the storm. Each drop traced a silvery path down the pane, racing its fellows, blurring the view of the garden below.

Lightning flickered, painting your features in fleeting gold. For a moment, your pointed ears and the faint shimmer of your skin seemed to glow with an inner light, a reminder of the magic that lingered, though your body felt heavy as rain-soaked branches. You breathed in the petrichor, longing for the taste of wind and wildflowers, for the freedom of running beneath open skies.

Beyond the closed doors of the room named yours, you could hear the quiet murmuring of your youngest sister. Feyre was once again conversing with Madja about remedies and teas to soothe your muscle aches and dry cough that had suddenly started to produce bloody mucus.

The wisps of darkness that lingered between your cotton handkerchief and lace collar told you Azriel was close by.

"I thought you said becoming Made would strengthen her body." Nesta was beyond the door now; a rare visit from her, especially now she had training and a fae man to keep her company. Not that you could be upset with her.

Nesta looked at you with those mourning grey eyes she had whenever she looked upon your Mother's grave.

Madja was letting out another heavy sigh—a sound she made when she saw no improvements. "It was an assumption; a sound judgement. Fae rarely get sick," Madja was repeating herself. "But no one knows the Cauldron's will and what gifts it shall extend. She was sick before she was Changed."

“So there is nothing that can be done to cure her?” Nesta was getting angry again, something Cassian was yet to crack through.

“We’ve exhausted all known solutions. Priestesses have poured over every healing book and tome, and all of our contacts throughout Pyrthian have sent their theses and support,” Madja’s voice lowered, a courtesy meant for you. No one wished to utter or imply death in your presence. “All I can do now is keep her comfortable. Temper her fevers and chills, reduce the pains in her head, and keep her from developing pneumonia.”

There was a long silence that followed, grave and solemn. Your teeth began to gnaw at the peeling skin atop your bottom lip. You had already been instructed to apply one of the many balms when sores began to form, but the tin was all too far away for your aching knees.

The conversation you weren’t meant to hear was making you anxious, and you needed something to fidget with. You used to pick at your fingernails—now wrapped after an episode of delirium, when your hands felt like a foreign appendage.

“I’ll continue the search through the Day Court Libraries.” Azriel. No one dares remind him that the library had already been scoured through.

Something moves within your throat, clawing for release. A handkerchief appears with a shadow in your palm as you start to cough up the fluid dripping down towards your lungs. Those behind the door scatter, conversation ending the moment they’re confronted with your awareness.

As you pull the slip of cotton from your mouth, darkness swirled to mask the splotches of blood. A small forewarning to the one that remained.

The door creaked—a soft, doleful sound—as Azriel entered. Shadows pooled around his boots like liquid obsidian, curling upward to cling to the hem of his leather tunic. His presence filled the room, a paradox of gentle enormity. Tall and broad-shouldered, with hands that could cradle a sparrow or shatter bone, he carried a tray steadied in his grip; a porcelain teapot painted with forget-me-nots, a cup of honeyed tea, and a small glass vial of iridescent medicine that shimmered like trapped starlight.

He was nothing but Azriel to her; the terrifying Illyrian Shadowsigner reputation he carried was otherworldly to the reality in this closed chamber. Although you’d taken to calling him my shadow in your weaker moments, when fever made your tongue loosen—a fragment from an old folklore tale your Father told you before bed.

Azriel paused just inside the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. You hadn’t turned from the window. Your silhouette—frail yet regal, like a birch sapling bent by wind—seemed to merge with the fogged glass. The sight pierced him, as it always did. His shadows stirred, restless, mirroring the ache in his chest. He called your name, a rumble softened by habit.

His voice didn’t startle you anymore. Something ancient that strung you two together made you aware of him long before he spoke. Still, you waited a breath before turning, your lips curving into a smile you knew didn’t reach your eyes.

“You’re late,” you teased, your voice a rasp. The cough had been worse today; you knew Azriel heard it through the walls at dawn, a hacking, wet sound that left you gasping.

Azriel set the tray on the walnut side table, its legs carved into strings of ivy. “The rain delayed the herbalist’s delivery. The roads are rivers.” Shadows still lingered at his wrists, tendrils retreating as he lifted the teapot. Steam spiralled upward, carrying the scent of ginger and thyme.

“Liar.” You tilted your head, hair slipping over your shoulder. “You stopped to argue with the baker again. The plums in the tarts weren’t ripe enough.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. You knew him too well. Months of shared silence, of glances held too long, had made you a cartographer of his habits. Azriel poured the tea, the liquid amber-gold in the gloom. “They weren’t ripe. You deserve better than a sour treat.”

“I deserve a swig of that sweet faewine and a gallop through boundless highlands,” you muttered, but accepted the cup, your fingers brushing his. A spark leapt between you—the soulbond’s relentless pull—and you flinched, nearly spilling the tea.

Azriel caught the cup, steadying it with a calloused hand beneath yours. He was close—almost too close—enough to wrap the scent of cedar and smoke around your mind. Your breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, you feared what he thought. You likely smelled of fever-sweat and familiar copper.

His shadows writhed, seemingly wishing to curl around you, to seep into your lungs and scour the sickness from your blood. But this illness was a tricksy thing, resistant to fae magic and remedies. This plague had claws.

“Drink,” Azriel ordered, softer than he intended.

You obeyed, wincing as the hot liquid slid down your raw throat. The medicine came next—a bitter draft you’d affectionately called star-sludge—and he watched your throat move as you swallowed, his own jaw tightening. When you finished, you pressed the vial back into his palm, your touch lingering.

“Tell me about the storm,” you asked suddenly, nodding toward the window. Rain lashed the glass now, blurring the world into a watercolour of greys and greens and browns.

Azriel sank into the armchair beside you, its upholstery worn velvet the colour of dried blood. “What’s to tell? It’s angry. Relentless. It’ll likely flood the garden by nightfall.”

“No.” You turned back to the window, your profile sharp against the gloom. “Tell it properly. Make it a story.”

Azriel stilled. You’d asked this of him often lately, as if his words could anchor you to the world. A memoir of his life, a tale in unknown lands, a favoured memory of his found family. He closed his eyes as shadows thickened around you, and the room seemed to sigh, the air growing heavy with the scent of ozone.

“The storm isn’t just rain,” Azriel began, voice low. “It’s the sky grieving. It weeps for the sun it hasn’t seen in days, for the swallows trapped in their nests. Each drop is a lament. Listen—” a rumble of thunder shook the walls, timed as if he’d commanded it “—that’s the thunder-drummers, pacing the clouds. Their beats shake the roots of the mountains. And the lightning?” He opened his eyes. A flash outside turned you into a gilded statue. “That’s the Queen of her Empire of Storms, cracking her whip to herd the winds.”

Your laugh was a fragile thing. “You’ve missed your calling. You should’ve been a bard, not a Spymaster,” you affirm softly, eyes wrinkling at the corners.

The barb landed, though you hadn’t meant it to. Azriel looked away, scarred fingers digging into the arms of the chair. Spymaster. Shadowsinger. Assassin. Is that all you saw? A Night Court mercenary, not a male who’d burn cities to ash if it meant buying you one more breath?

You felt the shift in him. The bond throbbed, a second heartbeat. “Azriel, I—.”

A coughing fit seized you. It wracked your body, violent, your shoulders shaking as you doubled over. Azriel was there in an instant, one arm bracing your back, the other pressing a handkerchief to your lips. When the fit subsided, the cloth came away speckled with more blood.

The silence that was always calm felt heavier than ever.

Then, a whisper. “Don’t look at me like that,” you plead, unable to meet Azriel’s honeyed brown eyes.

“Like what?” Azriel’s voice was gravel.

“Like I’m already a memory.”

Mist clung to the city of Velaris. Dawn’s pale fingers crept over the horizon, brushing the world with trembling gold, cracking through the dreary clouds.

You’re at the window again, nursing ginger and lemongrass tea splashed with honey. It’s one of the very few things you can keep down now. It was as if your body was rejecting anything that gave you life—solid foods, medicine, pain relievers.

There was a shadow brushing your knuckles, and you knew Azriel was hovering near. He watched you with worry etched in every line of his face, but you caught his gaze and smiled—a bright, reckless thing that belonged to another season.

“Let’s go outside,” you said, lighting your voice as if it were any other morning. “I want to feel the sun.”

Azriel hesitated. He saw the pallor beneath your skin, the way your breath caught, the faint shimmer of sweat along your brow. But your eyes—unyielding eyes—dared him to deny you.

You rose, slow and careful, refusing his offered arm at first. You straightened your back, drawing yourself up with all the dignity you could muster, though your limbs quivered with the effort. Only when your knees threatened to buckle did you accept his support, your fingers cool in his rigid, callused palm.

“No further than the garden,” Azriel murmured as he wrapped a cotton shawl around your shoulders, leaving no room for argument.

Shadow leaked from every nook hidden in your room, smothering you both until you no longer were within the Town House. Stepping into the garden, the world awakened. Birds trilled in the branches, and the wind danced through the grass. You closed your eyes, lifting your face to the sun, letting the warmth paint your cheeks with fleeting colour.

You moved among the wildflowers, trailing your fingers through the bluebells and foxglove, your laughter rising—soft, but real. For a moment, you felt like yourself again, warm and untouchable. You knelt to pluck a daisy, but the motion left you close to breathless, and Azriel could only watch how your shoulders shook as you steadied yourself.

Still, you pressed on, weaving a crown of petals, your hands deft despite their trembling. You placed it upon your head with a flourish, grinning up at him. “See? I am not so fragile.”

Azriel knelt beside you, watching the sunlight flicker across your face, the shadows beneath your eyes deepening. “You are the bravest thing I have ever known,” he whispered, voice thick.

You laughed, the sound bright but edged with defiance. “I will not be a ghost in my own life, Azriel. Not yet.”

Azriel guided you through willows, curtain vines shaking at every breeze. You paused often, leaning on his arm, but you hid your pain behind stories and memories from a time before you were ill. The moment you stumbled, Azriel retreated to a stone bench, setting you down with all the patience in his bones.

You wouldn’t allow yourself to be saddened over your weakening body, tiring over a mere walk through a garden. Azriel settles beside you, and for a peaceful moment, fears and worries evade you.

For a time, you both listened to the chorus of crickets and the soft rustle of leaves above. Azriel’s hand found yours, your fingers entwined, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your knuckles. He turned towards the sky, watching the clouds shy from the sun, but your gaze was turned inward, your mind wandering places he could not follow.

At length, you spoke, your voice a fragile thing, barely more than a sigh. “Azriel?”

He turned to you, his expression open, forebearing.

You hesitated, your lips trembling with the weight of your question. “Do you think… do you think my sisters will lead happy lives, once I’m gone?”

The question hung between you, delicate and devastating. Azriel felt it settle in his chest, a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples of sorrow through his soul. He looked at you, at the way your spirit seemed to flicker and flare even as your body waned.

Azriel didn’t speak for a long, weighted pause. He was choosing his words with care. “I think your sisters will grieve. They will weep for you, and the world will feel emptier. You have given them so much—your laughter, your courage, your wildness. Those gifts will live on in them,” he answered. “But in time, the ache will soften.”

“I want so much for them,” You whispered. “I don’t want them to feel the weight of my absence.”

Azriel’s hand squeezes yours. “They will carry you with them, always. You are not a shadow. You are the sunlight that lingers after the storm.”

You smiled, small and trembling. “Promise me you’ll look after them,” you urge, putting a considerable effort into returning his squeeze.

“I promise.” Azriel nodded, his throat tight with emotion.

Azriel was then looking away, hiding the strain in his jaw, the darkness in his whiskey eyes.

The Town House was silent but for the soft crackle of the hearth, its embers painting the walls with restless shadows. Night pressed against the windows, thick and velvet, the stars hidden behind a shroud of cloud. Azriel sat hunched in the old armchair, a half-empty bottle of amber liquor cradled in his hand, his gaze fixed on the flames as if he could divine answers in their dance.

He was still in his leathers, the wings at his back limp and heavy, slumped without their usual pride. The glass in his other hand trembled slightly, though his face was carved from stone. In the firelight, the hollows beneath his eyes were deep, and the haunted set of his mouth spoke of sleepless nights and wounds that would not close.

A door creaked softly. A presence, familiar as the darkness itself, slipped into the room—tall, regal, crowned by Night. Rhysand paused in the doorway, his violet eyes taking in the scene with a quiet, aching understanding.

Rhys did not announce himself. Instead, he crossed the room with measured steps, the silence between them thick with unspoken sympathy. He poured himself a drink, the liquid glinting gold, and settled into the chair across from Azriel.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The fire snapped, sending sparks spiralling up the chimney, and somewhere in the distance, the wind sighed against the eaves.

“You’ll burn a hole through my floorboards if you keep staring like that.” At last, Rhysand broke the silence, his voice low and gentle.

Azriel’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes. He took a slow sip, the liquor burning a path down his throat, and set the glass down with a soft clink.

Rhys watched him, his gaze steady. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he murmurs, tone full of an understanding Azriel was not able to accept.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. He looked away, the firelight gilding the tears he would not let fall. “She’s slipping through my fingers, Rhys. No matter what I do. No matter how hard I try.” Azriel swallows thick. “I don’t have High Lords imparting their gifts or a Cauldron to turn to.”

The words were bitter, full of envy. Full of misplaced anger. Rhys knew that feeling all too well, enough to withhold a cold retort.

Instead, Rhysand’s expression softened, grief flickering in his eyes. “I know,” he says, the bond shared with Feyre was enough to keep him awake.

Azriel’s voice was raw, scraped bare. “It feels like punishment. Like the gods are mocking me. A mate I can never truly love—not as I should. Not with all of me. She’s fading, and I’m helpless.”

Rhysand set his glass aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The Mother can be cruel, brother. She gives us miracles and then takes them away. But this,” he gestured to the bottle, to the shadows clinging to Azriel’s shoulders like a cloak, “this isn’t your fault. Nor hers.”

Azriel’s wings shifted. “I keep thinking—if I’d been better. Deserving. That my existence wasn’t a curse on others—”

Rhysand cut him off, gentle but firm. “You care for her. And that is all any of us can do,” he states, firm, not allowing Azriel to spiral further.

The firelight flickered, casting their faces in gold and shadow. Azriel’s hand tightened around the glass. “She asked me if her sisters would be happy when she’s gone. She worries about being a burden. Even now, she thinks only of others.”

“She is lucky to have you. And you, her. Even if it is only for a little while.” Rhys’ eyes glistened, the pain of his own losses echoing in the space between them.

Azriel closed his eyes, the weight of grief pressing down like a mountain. “It isn’t enough,” he whispers to the quiet room.

“I know,” Rhys murmurs, unable to say anything more. Unable to find something to ease the ache deep in his brother’s heart.

Not even the shadows on the walls could reach Azriel now.

It was an afternoon, the clouds and rain fogging up the windows into a mellow grey, when you felt your chest collapse into itself. Like the weight of the world had implanted itself upon you in one battering swing.

Azriel was already with you, like he always was, calling for Madja, Feyre, Rhys, anyone that could hear. Every sound felt like it was made behind a closed stone door, warbled, dreamlike. You were too focused on trying to breathe through the phlegm clogging your throat and lungs, sticking the flesh together until there wasn’t a passageway to be used.

Cold towels were placed against your forehead and chest, hot skin trembling in protest. For such heat your body seemed to be making, you felt so awfully cold.

It was darker when you came to, candles now lit, filling your chambers with lavender and thyme. The rain continued to tap against the window, a relentless, mournful rhythm that filled the dimly lit room.

Azriel was still at your side, thumbing hair from your damp cheeks, tucking the strands behind your ear. Despite the soul-sinking realisation that you may not live to see the next sunrise, you’re consumed by the impotent longing for the male who hasn’t left you. Jealous, knowing you’ll never love him in the way other women surely have in the past.

“I’m sorry,” Azriel whispers, and you can feel the breath of his fist against your cheekbone. “There is nothing else left to do,” he adds, choking, pressing his palm over his mouth as if it would stop the terror and sorrow from pouring out of him.

You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to comfort someone when the cause of their anguish was made by your own hand.

Azriel sinks into himself, grabbing one of your clammy hands, squeezing harder than he intends. Your fingers were too numb for you to notice.

“You don’t like the quiet,” Azriel murmurs, a frantic sound. “I’ll talk to you, even when you can’t hear me. I won’t allow you to grow lonely.”

You try to smile, the corners of your lips perking up just a fraction. Azriel notices—he always does, nothing ever slips him—and he returns one in kind. Softer, something to hide the tears clumping his lashes together.

“One day, I’ll be wrapped in the same soil that’ll hold you, and we’ll never be alone,” Azriel promises like a confessional, a blood oath.

For a fleeting moment, the fear dissipates like mist in the wind. You’re imagining the warm earth taking you in, cradling your body in wait for the male that held your heart in a gold string to follow.

You felt yourself slipping, the room growing dimmer, the world softer. The rain grew louder, a crescendo that matched the pounding of your heart. Then, as if the world itself held its breath, everything stilled. The pain eased, replaced by a gentle weightlessness. You exhaled, a final, shuddering sigh, and the storm outside seemed to pause in reverence.

In that quiet, you drifted—beyond the rain, beyond the sorrow—toward a place where the sickness could not follow.

The earth shuddered at your departure.

#a court of thorns and roses #archeron sisters #acotar #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel

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hayatoseyepatch · 10 months ago

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Description: You couldn't believe your misfortune. Once more, you found yourself tethered to Sylus, stuck in a closet with no choice but to stay hidden so you both wouldn't be discovered. But this time around, it seems Sylus has every intention of making sure you have a hard time remaining quiet enough not to be caught. Character: Sylus (Love & Deepspace) Word Count: 2.1k Contains: Sylus x Fem!Reader. SMUT. Forced proximity, penetrative sex, semi-public sex (kinda?), trying not to get caught, dirty talk, praise, degradation, Sylus being Sylus.

Authour's Note: So I just realized it's been almost an entire month since I've published an actual fic, 𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖕 𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖕. Hi y'all thanks for sticking around and being patient with me! Between kinktober prepping and working on my matchup event (thanks for being patient I'm getting those out asap) I've been SWAMPED. This is based off the "Immobilized" memory, I couldn't stop thinking about this ever since I pulled it so here we are.. This is my first Love & Deepspace fic, so please be gentle with me, if there's anything I can improve please let me know! I just started playing and I'm already hooked (its so bad save me). Anyways I hope you enjoy!

The enclosed space in the closet is cramped, you and Sylus were chest to chest, both trying to remain quiet as to not be caught. You couldn’t believe you had been so foolish as to forget another one of your belongings in this room. The bond around your wrists still tethering you together, he smirked, a glint in his vermillion eyes as he leaned down. His lips pressed against the shell of your ear, you could feel his hot breath caress the sensitive skin as he speaks. “Careful, kitten, or I’m going to get the wrong idea and think you like being stuck in a cramped space with me.” He teases, that infuriating grin never leaving his lips. You reach your free hand over, shoving him harshly, which only serves to make him chuckle.

You peek through the slots in the closet door, the roommate you had for this event was just sitting down at the vanity in the room to get started on her hair and makeup. You exhaled, careful not to do so too loudly to alert her to the fact you were currently tethered to the leader of Onychinus. The mischievous glint in Sylus’ eye was impossible to ignore. He stood to full height, in two strides in the cramped space, he had your back pressed against the wall. His head ducking to the crook of your neck, his breaths fanning across your skin had your heart racing and breaths coming in unevenly. “What are you doing?” You whisper harshly to him, though your words are hardly threatening due to the way your voice shook from having him so close.

The only response you get is a soft ‘shh’ sound coming from his lips before his lips attach themselves to your neck. His mouth begins to leave open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your neck, not stopping until his lips reach the shell of your ear. “Seems like we’ll be trapped here for a while, sweetie.” His whisper comes in between rasping breaths to your ear.

“Let’s see how quiet you can be while we ‘pass the time’, shall we?” His sentence was punctuated with a playful nip to the skin of your neck. His large hand grabbing the back of your thigh to wrap one leg around his hip. Any words you could attempt to formulate would be cut off by the following kiss he presses against your lips. The tension between you two over the last few weeks could be cut with a knife and Sylus couldn’t stand it any longer, he needed to have you. He was a man who seized opportunity, and he saw this as the perfect one to make you his.

You can’t help but melt into the kiss. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you never wondered what kissing Sylus would be like, as frustrated as it made you, you couldn’t help but think of him often. The striking red of his eyes, his broad shoulders, that deep rasp that his voice held making every word he spoke go straight to your- Your trailing thoughts were interrupted by a gasp, feeling him roll his hips into yours, feeling just how much the kiss was effecting him against your center. He pulls from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips for a moment before it snaps. Looking up you meet those vermillion orbs, he lifts a sculpted eyebrow, smirk returning to his features.

“Someone seems distracted. Something on your mind, sweetie?” His words are hushed as to not draw attention to the third party just outside the closet door. Suddenly your current predicament comes rushing back, alarm bells ringing in your head. “We shouldn’t, what if we get caught?” You look up at him, eyes laced with panic, to which he only chuckles under his breath.

“Well, then I guess you’ll just have to be quiet then won't you, kitten?” He cuts you off once more with his lips, his tongue slipping past your parted lips with ease. His hand slipping up the smooth skin of your thigh, well past the fabric of your skirt. He relishes the sweet whimper he receives when the pads of his fingers come into contact with the damp fabric of your panties. His next words coming murmured against your lips. “But of course we can always stop if that’s what you want.” He goes to pull from you, grinning when your lips chase his as he attempts to separate.

“Though if we’re going by the state of your panties, darling, I’d say you want this as much as I do.” He coos, pushing the fabric to the side. He tsks as he collects your wetness on the pads of his fingers, using it as aid to glide his fingers against the sensitive nub of your clit. “So wet, is this all for me, little bird?”

Your fingers grip the fabric of his sweater, so lost in the feeling of him you don’t notice the bind connecting your wrists had vanished. His fingers begin rubbing lazy circles against your sensitive spot, lips returning to your neck. “I couldn’t hear you, kitten, who made you this wet?” He grins as you grip him harder, nails pinching his skin through the fabric. Your words are unsteady and hushed, trying your best to remain concealed.

“Yes, Sylus, I’m this wet for you.” His grin is palpable, guiding his fingers to your entrance. Rewarding your compliance with a finger sliding past the velvety walls of your cunt. “That’s my girl.” Without hesitation, he slips a second finger inside you, groaning lowly at how your walls contracted around his fingers. Just feeling how tight you were has his eyes rolling back in his head. He works you over with his fingers, digits scissoring inside you to offer some preparation of what's to come. He works you over on his fingers, pumping them in and out of your tight heat.

“I don’t know, baby, I think if anything’s gonna get us caught, I think it just might be this cute little cunt.” He chuckles softly as you slap his shoulder in protest. “It’s not my fault she’s being so vocal for me, do you hear her?”

His words have heat rising to your cheeks as he speaks. He curls his digits, pads of his fingers expertly hit the spongy spot within your walls that has your eyes seeing while. Bundling his shirt in your fists, lunging forward to sink your teeth into the skin of his neck to muffle your moans as you shake against him. Walls spasming around his fingers as you come undone on his fingers. He hisses upon the impact of your bite but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. He barely allows you time to recuperate, maintaining eye contact as he slips his fingers from your cunt and past his lips, tasting you on his digits and groaning low in his throat.

“Absolutely delicious sweetie.” He purrs, lifting your thighs to wrap around his waist. Supporting your weight with one hand that grips the plush skin of your ass. In one swift movement, he has his pants unzipped, pulling his hardened member from his boxers. Hand holding the base to position himself at your entrance. “Need to hear you, kitten. Tell me how much you want me inside you.”

Your eyes look up into his own, holding onto him as you're pressed between him and the wall. Chewing on your bottom lip, whimpering as he uses your slick as leverage to tease your clit with the mushroom tip of his cock. Unable to take his teasing any longer, you comply, not recognizing your own voice from the need lacing your tone. “Please, Sylus, I need you. Need you to fill me up with your cock, want to feel you splitting me open, please.”

Your words send a shiver up his spine, wishing only that he could hear you whisper to him so sweetly on repeat. “Now how could I deny my little bird when she begs me so sweetly?” He grins slipping past the tight ring of your entrance, silencing your sounds with his mouth. Tongues and teeth clashing from the intensity of the kiss both of you being consumed by your need for one another. He spurs on, continuing to sink inch by inch before bottoming out. He lets out a shaky breath against your lips, pulling away just far enough to check that you were okay. The half-lidded expression you send him has his cock throbbing, your eyes begging him to move. The both of you catch the sound of the door shutting outside the closet door, the tell tale sign that you both no longer needed to be quiet. “Fuck, finally, need to hear you kitten. Don’t you dare fucking muffle a single sound, you hear me?” He groans into the skin of your neck.

His hips start to move, setting a brutal pace from the start. Every moan, whimper, and call of his name that slips past your lips goes straight to his cock. The sounds only spurred him to continue slamming his cock against your gummy walls. Leaning forward as he began rolling his hips against your own, pressing another desperate kiss against your lips. He pulls from you after a moment, using his thumb and finger to open your mouth and spitting directly between your now-parted lips. Watching with hunger as he watches your throat contract as you swallow.

“Gods kitten, so goddamn pretty.” He grunted out throwing his head back, his hands coming to the backs of your thighs, using them as anchors to pull you down on his cock. The feeling has a deep groan slipping past his lips, his eyes rolling back in his head from the intense pleasure. “Fuck sweetie, so fucking tight. Gonna have you molded to my shape by the time I’m done with you.”

His words have you shivering, eyes hazy with pleasured tears glassing over your vision. Feeling your end approaching, needing desperately for him to push you both over the ledge. “Please Sylus, fuck me harder. Fuck, please, Sy can't take it, please.” Your words ignite a fire in him, hand coming to the small of your back pushing you down just a bit further angling your hips for a better angle.

“Oh? is that really what you want kitten? Want me to breed this pretty little pussy? Have you walk out of here and back to base with my cum dripping down your thighs? Want me to fuck you harder, is that so?” he questions, a satisfied grin on his face, but unable to deny the effect your words had on him. “Well your wish is my command, sweetie, begging me so prettily. Oh so proud of you, that’s my girl.” He grips your hips, slamming them against your own the sounds of skin slapping echoing in the room. “Fuck daddy, please, fuck please” You beg, hearing the pathetic need in your own voice. Your eyes roll back, hearing your own wetness now, coil inside tightening at a rapid rate aching to snap.

Sylus felt his own coil reaching its end. He knew that it was bound to break and crumble, much faster than it usually did from the sheer tightness of your gummy walls. Whimpers started falling from his mouth as he heard your calling to him begging for your own sweet release. His thrusts became sloppy, desperate, as he urged you both to tumble over the edge.

“Go on kitten, give it to me, you can let go.” He whispered in your ear, making sure that you released before he finished the chase for his own high. Reaching between your legs rubbing your clit in small tight circles, feeling you tighten around him as he shivered a bit. Your cries and begs were like music to his ears. Unable to help it, your hips rolling against the attention to your clit. Hand gripping him by the back of his neck to pull him into a heated kiss, moans spilling into his mouth. One last harsh thrust has your coil snapping, crying into his mouth as your walls clamp down on his cock. Sylus groaned, biting down on your shoulder, sure he would leave a mark in his wake. Falling over the edge himself. A low groan and a cry of your name falling from his lips. His hips slowed as he allowed you both to come down from your highs, holding you close to him. Pressing his forehead against your own as he stilled his hips.

“So beautiful sweetie, did so fucking good for me. Let's get you home, kitten. Get you nice and cleaned up where you can rest.” Sylus never imagined this being the situation where you both would find yourselves in each other’s arms. But he would be the last to complain, so long as he was finally able to call you his, he couldn’t ask for more.

Dividers by @cafekitsune & @adornedwithlight. Writing & character banners by me. Special thanks to @staraxiaa & @ambiguouslady42 for beta reading for me you guys are the best! Tagging: @pixelcafe-network

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