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qyllenhaal · 3 years

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Muse

Pairing: Artist!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve’s an artist, and you’re secretly his muse. 3rd POV. WC: 3.5k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, MDNI), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex. Fluff. Friends to lover.

Steve knew it was a risk to quit his job and focus full-time on being an artist. His boss laughed in his face when he turned in his letter of resignation and asked Steve how much he thought his "little paintings" were going to make him. Steve didn't just face this scrutiny from his boss, but his friends too albeit not as harsh. Many of the people in his life didn't understand his passion for something that might leave him struggling, but Y/n was always there encouraging him.

"You may struggle for a little bit, but I think it's great Steve! Only one day into your new life as an artist and you already seem happier!"

Steve has known Y/n for almost a decade. They met under odd circumstances that some would consider a meet cute. She's still so sweet and bubbly just like she was the day he met her. It wasn't hard for him to fall head-over-heels for her. She always has a kind word and an open ear even during times of distress.

Sometimes he blushes when she gives him a compliment. She claims to not know anything about art, but every time he shows her something new she always has something stark to say that sticks with him. Maybe it's because it's coming from her.

His time spent alone in his studio is sacred. He converted a room in his apartment into a makeshift studio and he finds so much solace in those four walls. He has wanted to dabble in painting live subjects, maybe even a nude model or too, but he found himself getting real shy about it. He'd love to have someone to pose and to capture the way the light perfectly hits their face. That someone he imagined was often Y/n.

He was shocked when she allowed him to make her his subject. It started with him asking to paint a few photos of her she had lying around for "practice." Y/n was more than happy to help her friend Steve, only under the condition that he show her the final product. Steve found no problem in showing off the pastoral setting paintings he created, but it was much more harder to show off paintings of the person he thinks is the most beautiful person in the world.

Just like he couldn't muster up the confidence to ask anyone else to be his model, Steve could never ask Y/n to model for him in person. He found himself becoming too shy whenever the question was on the tip of his tongue. It would be much better if he were here in person with him, but he opted for photos of her clipped to his easel for reference. He'd finish a painting in one day and send her a photo via text of the finished product.

“I really look like that? It's amazing Steve!”

But eventually he ran out of photos. He tried to reuse some old ways and paint in a different style, or play with the colors, but it was beginning to become stale. Steve needed something new, but he didn't want to let go of Y/n as his subject.

"So you need new pictures?"

"Yeah — it's fine if you don't have any more," he tries to play it off as if he doesn't have 10 canvases in his studio of paintings of her that he hasn't shown her.

"We could take some more. Do you still have that digital camera you got a few Christmas' ago?"

"No. I think it got lost when I moved."

"Oh. Well I think Sam has a camera we can borrow. It's one of those fancy ones, right?"

Steve agreed to ask Sam to borrow his camera, but he honestly wishes that he had just bought his own. The amount of teasing he had to endure when he explained to Sam exactly why he needed the camera made his skin heat up. He couldn't stop his cheeks from becoming rosy when Sam asked when is he finally going to tell Y/n how he feels about her. Steve doesn't want to ruin what they have just in case Y/n rejects him. He'd much rather wallow in his school boy crush than put a strain on their friendship.

"How do you want me to pose?"

Y/n sat on the lone couch in Steve's studio room. It wasn't the best quality but it was still useful.

The curtains were drawn to shield the sun that was nearly set. The lighting in the room was dim save for the soft light coming from a small lamp pointed at her. It casted a warm, yellowish light onto her skin. She wore a white dress and kicked her shoes off at the front door.

"Whatever comes natural to you," his voice is weak as he responds. The atmosphere of the room is slightly romantic and he can't shake his nerves. Everything feels extremely intimate.

Y/n is almost as nervous as Steve. She's never modeled for someone and it feels a little bit awkward. She's always comfortable around Steve, but she can't help but get a little nervous when she sees Steve with the camera in his hands.

"You look perfect like that," he compliments the half-asses pose she's doing before snapping the first photo. He looks at the preview before the camera's screen could go dark.

"Let me see." He shows her and she just nods her head, "let me adjust myself," she whispers.

Y/n unbuttons the first two buttons of her dress, exposing more of her chest that only gives a glimpse of her breast. Steve pretended to not notice it as he took another picture of her. Once again Y/n asked to see the photo and looked a little more satisfied with it this time.

"Do you think that I could — nevermind."

"What is it Y/n?" He asks with a soft laugh that makes her want to melt.

"Do you think I could unbutton my dress all the way?" Her voice faltered as she asked. She watched Steve's reaction intently. She hopes the question doesn't make him uncomfortable. "It's just that I was looking up some ideas online so I could prepare and I saw this really pretty picture of this model and she was semi-nude but it was really pretty so I wanted to ask if we could try it," she explained; or perhaps over-explained.

Steve was completely dumbfounded. If Y/n couldn't see it in his dropped jaw, then she can see it in the way he just freezes.

"It's okay if that's too much."

"No! No, it's okay."

Y/n gave him a half smile before she began to unbutton the front of her dress. Steve tried to look away, but how could he not? The more she revealed herself, the easier it was for him to see the swell of her breast. Her skin looks so soft and he feels compelled to reach out and caress her bare skin. But he keeps his hands to himself.

"Is this too much?" The puffy sleeves of her dress were off of her shoulder and her dress was all the way open until the middle of her stomach. It's a lot for him to handle, but he feels blessed to see such a sight.

"No. It's perfect. You're perfect."

Y/n's skin heats up despite the room being cold. She was starting to get a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't a bad one or an uncomfortable feeling, but it was something she wasn't used to.

Now she's half-naked and posing on his couch. The first few photos he took of her like this were awkward as they both had to adjust to Y/n being half-naked.

Steve couldn't ignore the way the cold air made her nipples hard and breast tender. Steve was supposed to be on his best behavior, but he is seconds away from making a stupid mistake with his best friend.

Y/n arches her back which makes her breast jut out at him. Steve pauses to pray that he doesn't get a hard on. He feels a bit like a scumbag for even having this dilemma. It's just his best friend's half-naked body — that looks so soft and tender.

He forced himself to steel his resolve and hurry up and finish the task at hand. He began to treat her more like a model instead of the best friend he has a crush on.

"Try this," he suggests to her to move her body in a different way, which she does, but it's not quite what he wants. He was hesitant to get his hands on her, but he went for it anyway, "a little more like this."

In the process of moving her body, his hand brushed against her nipple. Y/n involuntarily let out a moan which made both of them pause. They looked at each other before Y/n let out a nervous laugh to try to play it off.

"Sorry," Steve apologizes.

"It's okay."

He glosses over what just happened and goes back to moving her body to her liking. He can't get over how good she feels underneath him. The truth is that he was taking his time to be able to have this experience for much longer. He may never have this kind of closeness with her again and he just can't quite let go.

Y/n watches his face as his hands touch her body. He looks so handsome under this lighting and Y/n wonders if she's always felt this way about Steve. For some reason she feels lust swirling inside of her. She hopes she isn't making a mistake when she leans forward and kisses him. Steve freezes under her kiss, stunned by reality, but he lets it happen. Her lips feel so soft against his, just like he always imagined.

She pulls away and places her forehead against his. Steve still has his eyes closed, lost in the dream that is Y/n's closeness.

"You can open your eyes now," she teases him. He obeys her and laughs along with her.

"I've wanted this for so long," he admits.

The revelation is shocking to her. She had no idea he felt this way about her, but now she wonders how much she's been oblivious to.

"Do you want this, Y/n? The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable."

"No, no — I want this Steve. I wanna feel you touching me," her voice became somewhat whiny as desire fueled her.

With her blessing, Steve did not hold back. He kissed her hard, the way he imagined he would always kiss her. Imagine the way his heart nearly stopped when Y/n kissed him back with the same amount of fervor and want. Her hand came up and rested against the stubble on his cheek. They wish they could say their kiss was delicate, but it was not; it was sloppy and their tongues danced with each other.

When Steve pulls away, he's out of breath, but he's happy. The light touches he gave to her body earlier were not a bit rougher. He wants to explore every inch of her body in seconds, but he wants to be patient; he has all night to discover every inch of her.

"Touch me right here, Steve."

Y/n places his hands on her breast with his thumbs in reach of her nipples. Steve's thumb runs across her taut nipples which makes her sigh. "You like that?" He asks with a bit more confidence. She nods her head and her approval emboldens him. “Good.”

His lips ghost across the skin on her neck before he places a wet kiss against the skin on her throat. He can feel her breath hitch every time he places a tender kiss on her flesh. She smells like lavender and it makes him feel dizzy. He keeps playing with her nipples as he begins to suck on her neck. Y/n wants to just lay there and take in the feeling of him spoiling her, but she also wants to hear him moan. She strokes the bulge in his pants with her knee and she feels him groan against her skin. He lightly grinds himself against her knee to relieve all of the tension that built up inside of him. Neither of them are sure who wants who more, but it doesn’t matter to either of them. Knowing that this is an equal exchange of love and lust is enough for the two of them.

“Oh god Steve,” Y/n coos when he sucks on the most sensitive part of her neck. They’ve only just begun, but he makes her feel so good. A part of her is wishing that she had discovered Steve’s crush on her a long time ago, but she has him now and that’s all that matters.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he says against her skin, “I wanna make you cum.”

Y/n can’t help but moan at his confession. She can already imagine how it would feel to have him between her legs.

“Please Steve!”

Steve sits up just to push her dress up. The cotton panties she wears has a pink bow sewn onto it and he finds it adorable. He glances back up at her and he notices that she’s looking away from him. She’s now feeling bashful knowing that he’s going to see her completely naked even though she wants all of this and more. “It’s okay, pretty girl,” Steve pacifies her by slowly stroking her outer thigh. She finally looks at him, her pupils wide with lust. She almost sighs in content when he starts to slide her panties down. The cool air of the rooms only heats her up once it hits her hot sex.

“My god,” Steve whispers to himself. She looks so pretty, but she’s absolutely messy between her legs. She places her foot on the back of his couch to spread herself wider for him. “Good girl.”

Steve lowers himself between her legs and just stares at her for a moment. He wants to remember this for the rest of his life just in case this is the last time something like this happens between the two of them. He would be crushed if Y/n asked to just continue on as friend’s after this, but he would be eternally grateful that she granted him this opportunity. All he wants to do is make her feel good; his pleasure will follow suit, but it’s all about her.

One of his fingers runs along the edge of her folds. Y/n whimpers at the delicate way he treats her body. She feels so lucky to have someone so kind and sweet like Steve. He touches her with care, and love is in every stroke. “You’re so perfect,” he says before kissing her inner thigh. Every part of her body is sensitive but somehow she is able to withstand it all.

The first lick to her pussy overblows both of their senses. She’s sweet like honey and juicy like a peach. Steve’s first instinct is to groan against her pussy which sends vibration throughout her entire body. She feels like she’s on fire as all of the blood in her body goes straight to her sensitive nub. His tongue focuses on her clit and she’s in heaven. Steve’s tongue moves with so much skill and precision, but most importantly, passion. Steve treats her like he truly wants her, and Y/n can’t help but fall for him at this moment.

“You taste so good,” he coos against her slick.

The way he paws at her body while licking her pussy makes her feel like she’s being worshiped. Tears well in her eyes the harder he sucks at her clit. She hopes his neighbors’ aren’t home because they’d probably be annoyed at the loud sounds of her cries of pleasure. He has her on the edge and it just takes him rolling her nipples with his fingers that finally push her over.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Her cries are so angelic to him. And as much as he wants to keep licking her out, Steve needs to be inside of her so bad. He tames himself and pulls his mouth away from her to pull himself out of his pants. His incredibly hard, the head of his cock an angry red as it leaks pre-cum. “This is what you do to me,” his words are haunting. Y/n whines and wiggles her hips from being so impatient.

Steve lowers himself and presses the head of her cock at her opening. She’s so slippery that he pushes into her with ease. His cock is so big that she inhales sharply as she takes all of him inside of her. Her walls are like silk around him.

“So tight baby — oh god.”

Steve feels like he’s going to explode already. Her pussy is squeezing him and she looks up at him with wide eyes as she takes his cock like a good girl. It is the hardest task he’s ever faced in his life to not cum already. She just feels so good.

“Are you okay?” He asks sweetly before dipping his head to kiss her forehead.

She nods her head, “yes, Steve…feels so good,” she manages to speak coherently.

Her legs were thrown over his legs which allows him to fuck deeper into her. She looks so beautiful underneath him. Steve wants to feel her cum on his cock so bad. She flutters around him when he pulls out of her only to push back in seconds later.

Steve can only control himself for so long before he’s pounding into her. The cry of his name on her lips is so saccharine that it gives him a sweet tooth. He sucks on the skin of her neck to satisfy that need while Y/n places her hand on the back of his head as she moans for him.

“I’m gonna cum Steve! You’re going to make me cum!”

The ridges of his cock feels so good inside of her, but what really does it for her is how the head of his cock is kissing her cervix. The stretch of his cock is such a delicious burn that she wants him inside forever. With his face planted in her neck, lips kissing at her skin, Y/n is completely enamored with the way Steve consumes all of her. She is his just as much as he is her.

He feels her sex squeeze him one more time before she’s cumming all around him. She clings to him as her orgasm ravages through her. Steve fucks her through it before reluctantly pulling out of her. Her jerks himself off until he’s cumming all over her pretty tits, painting her body like she’s one of the world’s most precious masterpieces.

The two are completely spent as their limbs dangle off of his couch. Y/n’s heart is full feeling his cum cooling on her chest. She dips a finger in his spent and sucks it off, savoring his taste since she didn’t get a chance to go down on him. Steve almost passes out at the sight.

“You’re crushing my legs Steve,” she laughs warmly. He rolls off of her and off of the couch entirely.

Steve grabs a towel and starts t0 clean up her chest. He remembers what they were supposed to be accomplishing, but after what just happened between the two of them, Steve is certain he won’t be anxious about asking her to be his model again.

“So, where do we go from here?”

The question catches him off guard. He slowly wipes away his cum with the damp towel from her chest. As much as finding the answer to this question is hard, he is happy that she asked it because it means that she’s giving him a chance.

“I don’t want this to be the last time we do this,” Steve admits. He’s quickly become addicted to the way their foreheads pressed together; it just feels so intimate. “I love you too much for this to be the last time we ever spend like this together.”

As much as tonight has been shocking to her after the revelation of Steve proving to her that he loves her, she’s only overwhelmed with positive emotions.

“Then let’s not let this be the last time,” she whispers against his lips.

A wave of relief washes over Steve as he just lays there against, their bare bodies pressed against each other as if this is always how it should’ve been. His only hope is that they can stay like this forever.

#steve rogers #artist!steve #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #fic #Chris Evans #chris evans characters #mcu #mcu fanfic #mcu smut #stever rogers fanfic #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n

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danganronpadespairtime · 3 years

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Bonus Episodes + Other Questions

Briefly, I will open up the askbox again, because I think there may be some questions.

You can send in questions here. A Tumblr account is not needed to ask questions.

There may be chapter 1 spoilers.

Anonymous asked:

Can we get color palettes for the characters? It's hard to get the right colors from the sprites since there are so many gradients, and not every character has a CG. Sorry to inconvenience you.

I color pick from sprites, because when the gradient is removed it may make certain colors look lighter... But if that isn’t a concern for you, then I will provide flats.

Anonymous asked:

What each of the cast member’s clothing preferences? I want to do fan art of them in casual clothing, so I’m pretty curious!

Sorry, I have a bad fashion sense and it may limit my responses, but I’ll try to answer to the best of my ability

Eden: She enjoys cute fashion, but she also enjoys wearing androgynous style clothes.

J: Refuses to wear feminine things. Likes dark colors and hoodies.

Teruko: Her fashion sense diverges from what she’d actually wear. Secretly she wants to wear girly, cute things, but is unable to afford that kind of thing. She likes skirts.

Nico: Like Teruko, wants to wear girly things but doesn’t due to external factors

Hu: Wears modernized casual hanfu. She also likes long skirts

Veronika: Complicated, lolita-like fashion

Min: She cares more about practicality than looks. She wears comfortable clothing

Levi: Fashionable

Arturo: Something that appears expensive... Designer clothes, faux high fashion

Whit: A similar style to the clothes that he is current wearing

Arei: Cute,Girly

Ace: Sporty

Charles: Semi-formal, but he doesn’t care too much about appearance

David: Semi-formal. ‘professional’ and stylish look

Rose: Eccentric and colorful, and not delicate

Anonymous asked:

This question doesn’t relate to the episodes, but rather the comic: would you say that the comic is also canonic and prior to the events of drdt?

No, it was just a joke.

Anonymous asked:

Was the Ultimate contest for eminent students part of the Korean Hope’s Peak, and then Min later came to america?

Currently there is no confirmation that Korea has built a Hope’s Peak. I think there may be some assumption that because someone has a foreign name, they can’t be american nor have grown up in america. This isn’t really true.

Stated explicitly, every member of the cast is American, and has spent a significant portion of their childhood growing up in the US.

That being said, Min has always been serviced by america’s Hope’s Peak. Whenever DRDT references Hope’s Peak, it will almost always be in reference to the American ones.

Anonymous asked:

Why Xander has both eyes? What happend to his eyepatch?

Xander presumably received his eye injury shortly before the start of the the events of DRDT, so it’s not like he had it for most of his life.

Anonymous asked:

sorry im so confused... is chariton like, a country that xander is from or something?

Chariton is a fictional town in an unspecified state in the US. North C is a city that is north of Chariton, in the same state. Both receive water from Chariton River (also fictional) that flows from north to south.

There is a real town and a real river named Chariton but that is an unintended coincidence.

Anonymous asked:

Is there gonna be more Bonus episodes?

That is all there is for now. More bonus episodes may come after chapter 2.

Anonymous asked:

Is there a fully body for Xander's casual outfit in the bonus episode? I think it looks really awesome!

Anonymous asked:

Do you have a rough estimation of the next chapter release? It’s ok if you don’t!

No to both, sorry. Regarding the second thing I am so early on in the production process that I cannot even begin to fathom a release date.

Anonymous asked:

Are both "unnamed students" the same person given that they have the same voice actor? Or is it just a coincidence? Also, why is Nico called "Nico Kasabyan" in the prologue? Was that his original name?

1. Same person

2. That was a mistake

Anonymous asked:

Not exactly an important question, but did Ace’s hair turn more dull?

Yes. He is getting a little sloppy with his hair dye maintenance, and/or he stopped caring.

Anonymous asked:

What year does this take place?

I don’t want to be too specific with dates nor places lest I accidentally invoke some real-life associations. DRDT takes place 70-80 years after the events of Danganronpa, somewhere in the US. That’s about specific as it gets.

Although you’d expect things to be very different after almost a century, much of that time was devoted to rebuilding post-Tragedy, so it is about analogous to our present day.

Anonymous asked:

Will Duke Spurling be mentioned in the main story at all? The story in the side episodes intrigue me a lot, and it makes me wonder if they’ll ever cross over.

I should clarify that the bonus episodes being “not plot important” doesn’t mean that none of the content will show up in the main story, just that if any events in them are plot important, then they will be also discussed as necessary within the story themself. That is to say, you can skip them and still understand the main story.

I do realize now this may be misleading wording on my part, so I apologize. That being said, some of the people and events mentioned, particularly in the second episode, may come up in the story... sometime in the distant future... Please remain patient!

koivoid asked:

How many students were in East Class 27?

16 students, with (including) one randomly selected Ultimate Lucky Student. This is standard for all Hope’s Peak classes, with very few exceptions. In addition the classes are always “evenly split by gender” (in theory).

Anonymous asked:

are Nico's eye fades red or gray? Cause I noticed some inconsistencies between the videos and cast page. I'm not sure if it's intentional or the cast page is old and needs to be updated.

I changed them to gray after seeing that too many characters already had red eyelashes, but I haven’t updated the cast page. If there are any discrepancies within the cast pages or photos, they’re usually insignificant.

#QnA

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arizona2004 · 3 years

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Who the Real Wolves Are.part 1

Azriel x reader

warnings: OC death(not too descriptive), eventual smut?

word count: 1777

There will be 2-4 parts total. Part 2

It had just been an average day when I’d met Azriel. I was walking through the woods, taking the shortcut back to the small cottage I lived in with my grandmother. The first thing I noticed about him when we collided was how tall and built he was. It was frightening but also unbearably attractive. Then I noticed, looking up to his face, the beautiful color of his eyes- hazel. And they glowed golden in the sunlight. He’s beautiful, I thought. Behind him, I saw movement, and that’s when I noticed his wings.

They are magnificent, large, and as beautiful as his face. I take several paces back and continue admiring his wings. He’s fae, but that doesn’t frighten me as it should. I’m curious and step forward toward him. Now he’s the one to step back, and he cocks his head slightly as though confused or thoughtful.

I try again to take a step forward. He doesn’t move. I step again, and this time, looking up into his eyes, I reach out a hand to his wings. Quick as a fly, he grips my wrist and growls. That has me tensing, oops, I think. But when I look back into his eyes, they don’t look as angry as I feared. I relax slightly and try to pull my wrist back.

He lets go and asks, “What are you doing in the woods?” Now he does sound angry.

What gives him the right to be angry at me, I think, and say, “walking.”

“It’s not safe out here,” he says, “you shouldn’t be walking by yourself”

“Oh, really? I walk this path every day. I’ve never encountered anything dangerous.”

“Before today,” he responds, indicating himself.

“Are you threatening to harm me if I walk this path again?”

“No. There are dangerous things other than just me out here.”

“Well I don’t think you’re very dangerous at all,” I say, sticking out my chin.

“I’m very dangerous,” he sounds defensive now. It makes me laugh, and he furrows his brow at that, “what?” he asks. It makes me laugh harder, and I push forward, walking past him. “Don’t just walk away from me,” he grumbles behind me, “I’m very dangerous.”

He followed me home that day, but I didn’t mind. When I stood feet from the door to my house, I felt his presence fading and turned around. He wasn’t there. He was shooting into the air, and I assumed I’d never see him again, but that didn’t stop me from hoping.

Every day for the next two weeks, I searched for him on my way home, but he was never there. Then, one evening, I felt someone watching me. I was in nearly the same spot I had been when we collided weeks ago. I stopped and spun around looking, but I didn’t see him. Then, far in the distance to my left, I spotted him. Or just his hazel eyes. He was covered in shadows; it looked as though a tree was swallowing him.

As soon as our eyes connected, though, he vanished, and I was alone again. I walked the rest of the way home in confusion and slept fretfully that night. My thoughts were filled with questions and feelings I didn’t understand. I wonder about his name. I want to see him again. I want to touch him too. I want to know why he disappeared and what he was doing on that trail. Mostly, I want to know what his lips taste like.

I’ve been kissed many times before. Some were sloppy. Others fine. And a few were even good. I’d never done anything more intimate than kissing, but this male made me question what exactly I’d let him do to me if he tried.

Several more days pass before I sense him watching me again. This time I don’t look for him -afraid I’ll scare him away. I just stop in my tracks and speak to the space in front of me, “you never told me your name.” Seconds pass, and there’s no response.

I’m about to walk away when I hear from behind me, “Azriel.”

I turn to find him standing feet away from me on the path, “Azriel,” I repeat.

“Yes?”

Why are you watching me?” I take a step toward him.

“What’s in the basket?” he asks, avoiding the question and my eyes.

“Cookies for my grandmother. They're her favorite. Chocolate chip. Do you want one?” I ask the last bit, sticking my hand into the basket and pulling out a cookie, walking closer to him. I lift the cookie to his lips and watch as he takes a bite. His lips graze my fingers as he bites into the cookie.

“Delicious,” he says, grabbing my wrist, pulling it toward my lips. He stares into my eyes as he takes another bite. I swallow and try to calm myself down. When he finishes the cookie, I pull my gaze away from his face. I try, at least, but there's chocolate on his lip. Instinctively, I brush my thumb over his lip and pick up the chocolate. He sucks my thumb into his mouth, licking up all the chocolate, then releases it with a pop.

I’m faintly aware of the squeaky noise I make at his actions and the wobbling of my legs, but I just continue looking into his eyes.

“The sun’s about to set,” he says, “You probably should get home.”

And so I start walking home, and he walks by my side. When we’re mere feet from the house, again, he disappears into the sky.

This continues for many more weeks. Moments after I enter the forest, Azriel is standing next to me. Occasionally we talk, but most days, we walk in silence. And after dreaming of it plenty, and probably not thinking it through enough. I lean over and kiss him before he flys away. I had only intended to kiss his cheek, but he had been turning toward me, so the kiss had been placed on the corner of his mouth. When I skipped the few more feet to the house, I felt his eyes on my back, and a grin plastered my face.

The day following, Azriel, it seemed, decided to follow my lead. When he met me in the woods and walked me home, he stopped further from the house, this time. I turned to him, and he leaned down, placing his lips to mine. They were soft and warm. I leaned into the kiss, and when I did, his tongue darted out to lick the seam of my lips. I moan, opening my mouth for him.

His tongue swept into my mouth and gently caressed my own. The kiss was slow and gentle except where Az’s teeth nipped at my lips. My hands held onto him tightly at his shoulders while he gripped my thighs, pulling me up to him. I had never been kissed quite like this before. It was soft and hard at the same time. I felt encased in the kiss. I never wanted my lips to part from his. The way his lips, tongue, and teeth moved with mine had me moaning and wanting more.

After some time, however, Azriel pulls back. We’re both gasping for breath, foreheads pressed together, and Azriel sets me on my feet. He takes a step back, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, without looking directly at me, lips pulling up at the corners.

“I-” I try to respond, but he’s already pushed into the air. I walk the rest of the way home, grinning wildly, and collapse into bed that night thinking of our kiss.

The weeks that follow are similar. Some days we walk. Some we talk. And other days, we find ourselves rolling through the brush tangled in each other’s arms.

One evening Azriel does not show himself, which isn’t unusual. What is strange, however, is arriving home to find men in my house. They’re speaking to my gran and when I arrive point their questions at me.

Have you seen a fae male? Spoken to him? Fraternized with him?

“You know our laws about the fae, don’t you deary?” The man in charge asked when I’d denied all his accusatory questions.

I did, of course. My village didn’t allow any relations with the fae. And the law wasn’t just against the fae, but the people too. Since the wall fell, the village leaders made rules about interacting with fae. Anyone thought to be aiding or supporting a faerie was considered a fae fraternizer and sentenced to death. The children of the blessed didn’t dare come near our village, they’d be killed on sight.

“Yes. I’m aware. I haven’t had any relations with any fae. I’ve never even seen one.” I say as steadily as I can manage. I glance at my gran and fear I: revealed everything with the look in my eyes.

“Are you sure? There have been reports of a winged man in the area. People say they’ve seen him near this cottage. With a woman. Though no one is sure if the woman is human or not, I think she is.” He looks at me pointedly, and I want to correct his misuse of pronouns. Azriel is no mere ‘man’. I hold my tongue, though.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The man’s face lights up, and he pulls a dagger from his belt. Then a quiet voice says next to me, “it was me,” my face falls, and I look to my gran in horror. The man turns the dagger toward gran, “I met the male in the woods while picking berries. He didn’t seem to care about my wrinkled age; he’s quite old himself. I’ve-” She didn’t get to finish the sentence, though, as he struck her.

I immediately was pulled from my shock and shouted as I lunged at the man. The other men simply pulled me away. I fought at every turn, and they beat me relentlessly. They only stopped when I was bloody on the ground. Unable to move. The leader of the group knelt where my grandmother sat, crouched on the floor, weeping for me, and plunged the knife into her chest. A choked cry left my throat. The men left us lying on the floor after swearing threats. I didn’t hear any of it, though. My attention was focused on the lifeless body of my gran, inches from me. I struggled to breathe and reached out my hand for hers. She was cold, and I realized it was hours later. Then darkness came and swept me away.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fic #azriel imagine #acotar fic #acotar imagine #a court of thorns and roses #acotar

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poutyhannie · 4 years

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warnings: tsundere!minho, boxer!minho, fem!reader, mentions of d*ath, bl**d, kn*ves, violence, smut, fluff, angst :), dark cold minho finds a soft spot in y/n :))))

word count: +8k

The blisters on your hands burn as you placed the cash register on the shiny white counter. Finally, your life’s goal to begin a small cafe in town was complete, but this was only the beginning. Even the ache in your feet and back from the boxes and produce you carried in last night couldn’t shake the beaming smile you greet the empty store with. Golden light streams in from the freshly washed windows, bouncing off the racks of freshly baked breads and pastries. These beams of light must be the physical representation of the heavenly aroma of baking goods and you fill your lungs with it, content and elated at the prospect of a new chapter.

Among the normal baked goods, everyday items were placed around the counter, such as umbrellas and first aid kits. It was a small tactic to make a bit more profit or a thoughtful gesture, just in case customers needed something other than coffee and a croissant.

If you didn’t close the door soon, the cold morning gusts of wind would stale and harden the goods, but this display of openness was necessary to garner new customers so you quickly hopped from behind the counter to cover the goods with glass domes which served as lids.

The people of your city had been relatively friendly, spreading the word of your grand opening. Thanks to this, streams of customers filled your lavender-themed shop before the morning and evening rush. When the sun’s golden shine began to dissipate to cold blue, the goods were dwindling on the shelves, prepared to be restocked for tomorrow.

The front of your lavender purple apron was streaked with flour, chocolate, and jam as you wiped the counters of the same substances. The giddy excitement in your bones contradicted the cheerfully ticking clock on the wall that told you it was late into the night. When did the day spin away from you so quickly? Would all the days at your shop be this enjoyable? Sighing contently, you settle on one of the comfortable white chairs, finally feeling the pinching ache in your feet. You’d have to get employees once you made enough revenue, you were bound to only get more customers from here on out. Maybe you’d hire cleaners once a month to do a deep clean?

Thoughts prospective of your future and the future of your shop were interrupted when the door swung open—you were concerned the force would shatter the glass door itself. In stalked a darkly clad man, his back was turned to you as he quickly scanned the shelves and displays of your shop. He’d ignored the ‘closed’ sign. Still, one more customer couldn’t hurt. “Welcome,” you greeted warmly, feet aching as you walked back behind the counter. The customer gruffly rolled your word off.

The gloves on his hands didn’t have fingers and when he placed a small first aid kit and sandwich on the counter, you could see the beds of his nails were bleeding. However, when you saw his face, you realized his wounded fingers were not priority. A blistering red patch scored his cheek under his dark eyes. There was a fresh cut on his left cheekbone that matched his bust eyebrow and lip. At the state of his lip you quickly reached over to add a tube of chapstick to his order. “Don’t need it,” he grunted but made no move to put it back. “Its on me,” you explained, ringing him up, ignoring the roll of his eyes. Though his hoodie was pulled down, the sweaty strands of black hair were still visible, slightly blocking his vision. “Take care,” you offered him, placing the bag into his hand. The empty night was louder than him as he exited your store.

A month in and you’ve managed to perfect the flower-shaped croissants, exploiting the layers of dough and butter croissants naturally proved to achieve petal-like flares. Proudly, you arrange them on a baby blue decorative plate, fixing the eyebrow raising price tag in front of it. People would have to accept that baking was another type of art and that your croissants tasted as good as they look. Many customers have become regulars, your yellow post it note stuck on the cash register denotes what they usually get, just a courtesy. New people enter your store everyday, sometimes stopping to pose for pictures in front of the arguably aesthetic display case filled with your best work. A swell of pride always elates you and you remind them to tag the cafe in their social media posts.

Its because your shop has a softer, pretty theme that you’re surprised when you find yourself writing down what the bruised man from before would always order. Though you formally close at seven, you leave the light on as you close down for him because he usually enters at nine. At the end of every week, he replenishes his first aid kit, sporting nasty red, brown, and purple wounds on his face every day. His placement of the bandaids and salves are sloppy at best and as the daughter of a doctor, you can’t help but stop him before he disappears into the inky night once again. The accusative glare he shoots at you leaves you stuttering. “What do you want?” His words and tone almost have you denying that you even called him in the first place but you wonder why he’s always beat up and why he’s so cranky. “You’re not putting on the bandages correctly.” “What would you know about it?” “My dad was a doctor—here, just let me fix it for you.” You’re released from his heavy glare as he thinks over your proposal, eyes flitting around your shop before landing back on you. “Just make it quick.”

He’s never sat in one of your shop’s white chairs and he shifts on plush cushion, you across from him, preparing the first aid kit. No sound escapes him as he rips off his existing bandaids, though just watching him makes you want to wince. The used bandages are shoved into his pockets and he slouches in front of you. The wounds this time congregate around his jaw, a nasty blue-green bruise spreading from his chin to the end of his jaw. Cuts and rug burn-like patches are scattered around his face and you can’t picture what he’d look like without a black eye.

In the name of being prepared, you keep an extensive first aid kit under your counter. You gingerly smear the bruise with the respective salve before dousing the cuts with alcohol. All the while, the damaged man in front of you says nothing, but glares at you through his shaggy bangs. Though scared to anger him him, you softly push back his hair to reveal another bruise above his left eyebrow.

The tense silence tears at you and you blurt out, “Have you not met any left handed people? They’re always on your left side.”

“More like they haven’t met me.”

“You’re left handed?”

“Ambidextrous but they still never see it coming,” is his gruff reply.

Slowly, as you spread salve on his cuts you put two and two together. “You’re a fighter.”

“Boxer.” Though his uncomfortable silence had previously left you at a loss for words, you quickly get back into your old habits, “You’re a boxer? That’s why you’re always beat up. You must not be very good if you’re always getting hurt. Are you paid to fight other people or is it based on bets? You’re really young to be boxi—”

The coldness in his eyes as they snap up to you has your words choking in your throat. “I let my opponents have a semblance of victory before I beat them. Its based on bets so I get more profit if viewers place more bets against me.”

He rises and you follow him to the door. “I-if you…when you get injured, just come here. It’ll heal faster if I tend to it.”

A nod is all you get but its more than the silence you’ve been struck with by him before so you’re not complaining.

He holds you on your offer, coming in every night from nine to midnight. You don’t mind lingering at your shop longer because his scuffed boots find their way into your store every night. You learn that his name is Minho and that his boxing nickname is Lee Know. The air between you has melted from cold tension to quiet casualty. Though your heart clenches in wariness every time his battered face shows up, it also pangs in empathy for him. Empathy that he refuses to accept.

The glint in his eyes that he regards you with every night informs you that he scowls upon your empathy, the pout on your lips as you concentrate to clean his wounds and the worried laced in your voice as you ask him about his upcoming matches. “I’ve been preparing for the season to start. If it goes well, I can progress past my current bracket,” he explains and though his voice has been exclusively monotone, if you strain your ears hard enough, there’s a trace of hope and anticipation there.

“You haven’t been doing matches this entire time?” You exclaim, dumbfounded that this amount of damage has been from practices and preparation for the real thing.

For a passing second, everything in his demeanor except his voice calls you an idiot before he softens, realizing you know nothing about his underground life. “If we had matches all year, we’d kill each other in no time. No,” he laughs humorlessly, shaking his hair out. Its grown a bit longer than his eyes but you’ve secured it back, clearing his face up with a pink fluffy headband he scoffed at. “The lower division guys have up to 40 matches but the really good ones only have two or three.”

In the beginning of your late night first aid sessions, you’d timidly ask Minho small talk questions and he’d gruffly respond with a word or two, but never a full sentence. Now, you ask him because you’re genuinely curious about his profession. “How many do you have? Do you know who you’ll go against?”

“Twelve. Edging on the more professional bracket but still not there yet. Opponents are rolling; I don’t know until a few days before and even then, it’s not necessarily helpful. Just need to touch up on their weaknesses.”

“What’s your weakness?” You ask him, dabbing some burn salve on the glove burn stretching over his cheekbone. At the silence stretching across the two of you, you hope your tone came across as light and playful, not offensive. Though you were acquaintances with the boxer, you couldn’t yet bring yourself relax around his dark gaze.

“You’ll have to figure it out.” A giggle rises in your throat, maybe a nervous habit or maybe because you found him interesting.

An exhale eases out of your lungs as your legs give out, throwing yourself on your bed. The soft blue glow of your bedside lamp washes the room in a calming light but exhaustion refuses to let you bask in it. Soon, your eyelids are drooping and back is pressing into the sheets.

Danishes.

A harsh, ringing voice rips through your head; you bolt up, pulling your neck at the speed and abruptness. Gasping, you fling your shoes on, realizing that you left the dough proofing. If it were any other dough, you’d roll over and shrug off the loss of a batch, but this dough was made with premium French artisan flour that a kind customer had gifted you. Somehow, the panic in your throat wards off drowsiness and you speed down the empty streets. Bursting into your store, you rush to remove the dough from the bowl and knead them into small loaves.

Based on how the dough smells, you don’t believe it over proofed so the worry loosens your throat allowing you to inhale a yawn, sliding dough into the warm oven.

The chairs in your cafe are plush but nothing compared to your bed. It’s making you slowly regret coming back tonight.

A loud bang rings through the silent air and immediately fear grips your heart which is thrumming in your throat. Maybe its your drowsy state that has you flinging into panic at the noise. The rubber soles of your shoes slowly squeak over the tile as you move over to grab a knife you use to score the bread. Its size won’t scare anyone off, but its sharpness is one to be reckoned with. From your fuzzy, sleepy memory, the sound came from the small storage room so with white knuckles gripping the knife, you creep over. In your rush, had the door been carelessly left open? The storage room door is ajar but you can’t see anything inside. Relaxing the slightest bit, you nudge the door open slowly, entering on tip toe. Though dimly lit, you can see that the small room is empty and relief floods you, though not completely ridding you of the former panic—your heartbeat is still in your throat.

When you return to the main room with the counter, tables, and register, cold, blinding panic returns tenfold. There’s three dark figures in your shop, crouching next to the counter, quickly stuffing their bags with the money stashed away. In a flurry, you press your back to the storage room door, cursing yourself for leaving it in there and at the front door which you left wide open.

Your mind whirls, trembling with fear and apprehension. Where was your phone? You couldn’t possibly stop these men but would the cops come in time?

“What the fuck are you bastards?” A voice rings out. Harsh. Cold. You don’t dare turn the corner to look.

A muffled cry pierces the tense air, strained grunts, and sounds of impact following in succession. There’s a loud cracking sound and a wail that raises your goosebumps and you slink back further into the shadow, hoping that whatever is happening behind the wall will leave you alone. Breathy curses and threats are thrown before visceral, bodily squelches and groans silence them. Digging your fingernails into your palms to get your hands from shaking, you tremble in the corner, even after the sounds have been reduced to low, pained moans and a pair of footsteps. They wander around, heavy and assured before edging closer to where you’re hiding. You don’t dare breath, but you don’t think breath would come even if you asked it to.

“Y/n?” At the sound of your name, your eyes grow wide, though you’re still frozen in place. The footsteps round the corner and you’re met with scuffed black boots and ripped black jeans. Squeezing your eyes shut, your mind whirls as you remember staring at those boots, tending to wounds. His wounds.

When your eyes fly open again, he’s crouching in front of you, face significantly less wounded than you’ve seen it. The sound of your knife clattering on the tile startles you into flying into his arms. He makes uncomfortable, awkward noises above you, hands floating above your back as his butt smarts from the force you knocked him over with. “Did you beat them up?” You voice is shaking and you’re either on the verge of tears or already crying into his black hoodie, filling your mind with his deep sweaty musk, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Yeah, its not that big of a deal though. Just call the police,” he pushes you off of him with surprising gentleness, seeing that his hands are stained with the blood of those three men. On his feet in a flash, he drops a bag onto your lap. “Here is your money.”

There’s no proper reason why your hand shoots out to pull him from leaving. Maybe it’s because the would be thieves are still laying in your store, maybe its because you want to keep inhaling the warm scent he exudes, maybe it’s because the thought of being without him tonight scares you. “The police won’t believe that I did this,” you whisper, hoping that that will ward off his need to leave. It’s impossible to interpret what the dark look in his eyes are—you can never seem to read his thoughts.

Only his verbal confirmation has relief flooding your chest, “Fine.”

After tying up the perpetrators, Minho settles half an arms distance away from you, a waft of his musk filling your nose as you think you hear the piercing screech of sirens. “Were you just gonna let them take your cash?”

You were wrong. His eyes can deliver something other than blank darkness: incredulous accusation. The disbelief and an audible scoff in his question has you curling up tighter, burning with the implications he poses. You’d let these men reap the fruits of your labor; you wouldn’t try to stop them.

“Y-yeah,” you attempt, trying to concoct a reasonable excuse that would get his disapproving stare from burning off the side of your face. “There were three of them, so of course I’d let them go.”

A scoff rips from his throat, clawing at the back of your neck. “This won’t do. You know,” he turns to you, one eyebrow raised, “this’ll just be the beginning. Are you gonna be prepared to defend this shop, bub?”

You bristle at his know-it-all attitude and the patronizing nickname, “Why do you care? And why were you even here this late at night?” The pale yellow suggestions of sun peak from the inky black sky as you’re reminded that you’ve gotten no sleep. Ignoring your questions, he rises, adjusting his jeans and walking over to the policemen now at the glass door of your cafe.

Even after the robbers were detained and police left, he remains, his dark scent permeating the air around you. “Listen,” he starts, hands shoved into his pockets and the regular scowl on his face, “I was just walking back from practice and saw them in here. And you need to get protection around here.”

“And how would you suggest that?” You throw back, fueled with remaining sass. A shrug. He turns away, walking to the door. Habit says he’ll ignore you, disappearing into the lightening city horizon, but he stops, hand resting on the glass door. You slap his hand off of it, but his hand’s grimy residue clouds a part of the door already.

His shoulders drop in annoyance before he grunts, “I could teach you how to defend yourself.” Mouth agape and eyes wide, you repeat his words, “You’d teach me how to defend myself? Isn’t your season starting up soon?”

His gaze drops, you think he’s taken aback at your remembering the dates of his season. “Coach doesn’t want me sparring. Get healed or some shit. Don’t get me wrong, I’m offering because it’ll be good for me to refresh on the basics and the next shop is twenty minutes away. I’ll be inconvenienced if this shop closes anytime soon.” The thought of Minho scowling down at you as a personal defense teacher scares you, but the vivid memory as you clutched the knife terrifies you.

“When are you free?”

“No, widen your feet; squat more, bub,” Minho lets out an exasperated sigh and slips behind you, hands on your hips to adjust your stance in front of the punching bag. The yellow lights overhead and the pale wash of moonlight are the only things illuminating your ‘self defense’ classes. With as much punching as you’re doing, you think it’s more of a boxing lesson than self defense.

“One.”

Your left glove strikes the bag.

“Two.”

Right hand.

Minho repeats these instructions, the two words seemingly molding together into a mash of sounds. As his cold voice continues to command you, the burning in your lungs intensifies and your thighs, arms, and stomach ache, screaming at you to stop. _Give up. _ A voice lures you, reminding you of how your knees shake and eyes sting from sweat. “I can’t,” you whimper, hands retracting as you meet Minho’s disapproving stare. It makes you avert your gaze, the burning in your cheeks from something other than physical exertion.

“I’m heading home then.” Scoffing, Minho slings his bag over his shoulder, nodding back to you, “see you tomorrow.”

Dejected, you fumble with the straps of the boxing gloves Minho gave you, unable to grasp them when both your hands are cocooned. The usual mocking sarcastic glint in Minho’s eyes were replaced with disappointment and his abrupt departure burns your chest. Maybe you should have pushed yourself more? Maybe he shouldn’t have.

“One, two. Don’t lean into it. One, two. Rotate your wrists. One, two. Guard your jaw, he’s gonna knock you out.

“Keep going, Y/n,” interrupts the usual ‘one, two’ and your teeth grit, pulling your elbows in and snapping your punches. Minho’s lips lift from the corner of your eye and this spurs you on, extracting energy from a place you didn’t know existed. Fueled with anger—anger at yourself for having given up last session, anger at Minho for pushing you—you pummel the punching bag, breathing harshly as the sound of slapping synthetic leather fills the musky room.

“Okay, break.” The ground collides with your body as your legs give out under you. Your breathing must have been uneven, because there’s white patches in front of your vision. After blinking them away, you’re met with Minho’s outstretched hand offering a water bottle. His face is turned away from you, but his cheeks rise, insinuating a smile. With a breathing ‘thanks’, you practically inhale the water.

“Slow down, bub. You’re gonna puke.”

Laying a hand over your spazzing heart, you give him the best glare you can muster, “No thanks to you, Lee Know.” He smirks at your use of his boxer nickname, sprawling on the ground next to you.

“Y’know,” you gasp in between breaths, “I don’t think this is self defense, this is just offense.”

Minho’s head tilts in acceptance, tongue poking out to swipe at his bottom lip. “No, what you’re doing is not boxing if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Oh yeah?” You tease, pulling a face at Minho, “I’m in boxing gloves, attacking a poor boxing bag.”

The veins in his forearms strain as he leans back onto his hands, “I could show you real boxing, bub. I have a match next week. I can get you in.” Your heart clenches at the thought of seeing the blood and gore you’ve seen on Minho’s face being made. He senses your uneasiness and leans forward, hand brushing over your knee almost…timidly? “You don’t have to come, but you can. I’ll text you the details,” he shrugs, “show up or don’t.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn a pastel purple skirt to a boxing match but it’s too late to turn around and change. At least you had the sense to wear safety shorts and sturdy combat boots. Yelling can be heard in the distance and while you’d usually flee from sounds like that, you find the GPS on your phone leading you right to it.

The barbaric shouts are deafening as you stand in front of a grey building. A man, who’s arms are the size of your shoulders guards the door. “You lost, little girl?” He asks gruffly, but he doesn’t seem sarcastic.

“I-I um,” you clear your throat, “Lee Know has a match here?” Your statement comes off more as a question and you wince at how weak your voice sounds.

The bearded guard nods, his black shirt straining as he crosses his tree trunk forearms in front of him. “So you’re the lady he’s been babbling on ‘bout.” A blue tattoo stretches on his forearm as he opens the door, a wave of stench, heat, and yells ramming into you. Thanking the man quietly, you slip through the door. It’s an arena, like a football stadium but scaled down significantly. Burly and wiry men alike fill the seats, howling like dogs. You pull your sweater closer to you and your skirt down. The lights and sounds whirl in front of you as you try to spot Minho in the crowd. Further up, closer to the boxing ring, there’s a familiar head of black hair and broad shoulders. You hope it’s him as you squeeze past the admittedly scary crowd of men.

Tapping his shoulder, you breathe in his musky scent. It almost cancels out the stale rotting stench around you. When he turns, his eyes are dangerous and dark—you almost stumble back—but when he sees you his eyebrows shoot up. “Didn’t think you’d come,” he shouts over the chaos, “here,” he pulls your shoulders into his chest, shielding you in his arms as he begins to weave through the crowd, “my match is in a little bit so I was gonna head to the back.”

The screams are muffled now as Minho closes the door to a small, empty room. He slouches on a chair, gesturing you to do the same. “It’s always so fucking chaotic out there. I can never focus before a match. I can never think,” he mutters, mostly to himself, so you freeze, not wishing to distract him, “My mind is always somewhere else and I can’t remember anything. It’s like nothing else but my nerves exist.”

Only after a beat of silence, after Minho turns his wide eyes up to look at you, do you realize he was talking to you. “But you’re so good. You’ve been training all year,” you blurt out, not pausing to think about your words, taken aback at how innocent and lost his eyes look, “isn’t it like muscle memory?”

He groans, you worry you’ve said the wrong thing, “Yeah, I know but it’s just so fucking frustrating, bub.”

Smiling widely, you tease him with a nudge on his shoulder, “You’re gonna be great. Plus, you’ll have me cheering you on.” Awkwardly, you make punching movements, “I’ll take your opponent down if you can’t.”

That’s the first time you hear Minho laugh. A genuine, hearty laugh. Not a scoff or a mocking tease. It’s warm and sweet and surprisingly high. His eyes crinkle, still smiling at you when he stands, “Okay sounds like a plan.”

Seeing the dark glare Minho holds his opponent with as they circle the ring, you understand why Minho sports the look so often. It takes you off guard; you feel like you haven’t seen these dark eyes in a while. A strong swallow of spit tightens your throat. You blink, his opponent strikes, mitt slapping against Minho’s blocking forearm. Gasping a breath, you freeze in apprehension as the crowd around you roars to life. The sharply muscled, bald man circling Minho does not lack in speed; the blurring blue of his mitt once again slams against Minho’s forearm. The bald man tenses, charging at Minho with a flurry of attacks. Desperation clenches your throat as you will Minho to do something. He ducks his head behind his forearms, abdomen clenching at every blow inflicted to him. Soon mutters calling Minho a ‘punching bag’ and a ‘free win’ crawl into your ears. Anger flares in your chest—you know how good Minho is at fighting. Why isn’t he doing anything? However, Minho’s wiry muscled, grey haired coach standing beside you is stoic, a stark contrast to the screaming audience, hurling saliva with every abusive word they target at Minho.

“Why isn’t he doing anything?” You whisper to yourself, too engrossed in the match to care about the raw vulnerability in your voice. The bald opponent retreats, panting as Minho continues to circle him.

Minho’s coach growls, a smirk breaking his expressionless wall, “It’s over now.” Wide eyed, you turn back to the match, taking in the sweaty, hunched—you’d daresay weary—shoulders of the bald man, heaving with pants. A relief spreads a smile across your face. Minho had been doing something. The red boulder of Minho’s mitt slams into the side of the man’s head, jerking his neck awkwardly, hurling him into stumbling, expression blank shock. An electric wave of excitement shoots through you. Minho is merciless, unwilling to let his staggering opponent recover, pummeling him with firmly resounding attacks. You recognize some basic moves he’s taught you, only now do you realize capabilities of those punches put into action.

The red of Minho’s mitt is soon darkened with the seeping blood of his opponent and the fickle crowd now screams Minho’s name, invigorating him, causing his blows to land harder, until the bald man is thrown onto the blood spattered floor. The referee slams the ground thrice and the crowd erupts into a cacophony of cheers and groans.

A satisfied smirk cuts across Minho’s barely harmed face as he unfurls his sweaty arms in victory, bathing in the cheers of those who bet on him and the cries of those who bet against him alike. His coach turns to you, a satisfied twist to his lips, a wad of cash already in his clutched, calloused hand, “This is why he wasn’t doing anything, sweetheart,” he says, shaking the money, “Minho’s a tough kid but he’s also a smart kid.” After a pause, his coach shifts, frowning in, “You’re the first person Minho’s brought to a match. Nobody else. Take care of him,” he warns.

Minho’s panting presence behind you raises goosebumps on your neck. You turn to see his glistening bare abdomen as he towels himself off with a sweat rag. Bruises bloom on his forearm and but he ignores them, receiving the majority of the cash from his coach.

“Let’s get out of here before some ass crack takes his faulty betting out on me,” he says, resting a hot hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the back exit, ignoring jeering crowd members. The empty night greets you and he nods to a black car, gruffly explaining, “You walked here, right bub?”

“Yes, also,” you gush, “that was pretty cool."

He looks away, deflecting with, “Yeah, get in.”

“Why do you do it?” You ask, strapping your seatbelt on and retrieving the makeshift first aid kit from your purse.

The car murmurs to life and Minho’s voice is surprisingly quiet and soft, “I got into a lot of fights up to high school so coach came up to me and asked me if I wanted to make it a profession,” a pause and Minho murmurs, “he took me in, taught me how to channel the joy I got from fighting. Turn it into something better. Focused.”

“He seems really proud of you,” you observe, leaning over to rub a salve onto his shallowly cut lip. “You should put on more chapstick, Minho. Where’s the one I gave you?”

Under flash of passing yellow streetlights, you can almost make out a dusting of pink on Minho’s cheeks. “I lost it,” he admits, tilting his head slightly to give you better access to his lip.

Sighing, you settle back onto the carseat. “I can take better care of you when we get there.” Minho’s eyes are wide, looking back from the road to you, “Where?”

A clench of nervousness holds your gut, but you shrug, “Yours, mine, I don’t care.”

It’s Minho’s turn to be flustered; he nods quickly.

Minho’s apartment is bare, only cluttered with various trophies and medals, a ground table, a tv, and a small couch. You set down his bag, you insisted you carried it and Minho opens a cabinet, retrieving the first aid kit. He settles on the couch, legs crossed tightly underneath him. For some reason, its stupidly endearing. The alcohol on his cut stings and Minho’s eyebrow furrows in pain. “Y’know, you don’t have to be tough around me, Minho.”

His eyes are blank, “What do you mean?”

“You barely let yourself feel pain, you’re always glaring at something, and you never open up about anything. You don’t have to be like that around me, Minho.”

An eyebrow lifts and he tilts his head to the side slightly, “I told you about coach,” he offers.

You nod slowly, “Yeah, that’s true. I guess, I just like seeing you smile,” you shrug, “that’s all.”

Suddenly bashful, Minho looks down, biting his lip to repress a smile.

“That’s what I mean!” You exclaim, placing your hands on his cheeks to cradle his face, forcing him to look up at you, your heart in your throat. He groans, an endeared smile finally breaking out, “Quit being so fucking cute and maybe I could think enough to talk properly to you, bub.”

Burning excitement fills your chest and you pose with a peace sign, “You think I’m cute?”

An exasperated roll of his eyes is all the answer you need. “Well,” you say, patting his head, “you’re very cute too.”

This time, his scoff is soft, “I’m a boxer.”

You press a bandaid over his cut, “Yes, a very adorable boxer who needs to smile more.” He breaks out into laughs, filling you with bubbly warmth, gazing down at you with eyes that are anything but dark and dangerous. It’s warm and tender. He is. Sobering up, Minho tilts his head slightly, his eyes traveling down to your lips.

Anticipation fills your chest and your mind whirls, not knowing what to do so you blurt out, “Oh yeah! Chapstick,” leaning over, you retrieve a tube, “Here.” Minho, however is unfazed by your awkwardness and cocks an eyebrow, suddenly confident, nodding to the chapstick, “Put it on for me.”

Its your turn to blush, but you do still, not realizing that this isn’t clear chapstick. Its only when you pull away do you realize his lips are painted a pretty shade of pink. Clapping in joy you shove your phone camera in his face. “You’re so pretty!”

Stuttering in surprise, his eyes bug out but he doesn’t make any move to wipe it off, “The fuck?”

“So pretty!” You exclaim, holding his face to put more on, laughing at his shocked expression. Minho pulls back, tumbling you with him until you’re staring down and all your laughter has been swallowed. Silently, his hand travels up to the back of your head, gently pulling you towards his freshly moisturized lips. Smiling because of nerves, you don’t need his hand to guide you.

His lips are surprisingly soft but perfectly sticky with your pink chapstick. Almost timidly, his tongue caresses your bottom lip and you whimper as he eases your lips apart. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth and your arm cramps from holding yourself up over him but he’s so gentle and careful with the kiss you don’t want to stop. Your arm gives out and you press against Minho, snaking your fingers into his slightly sweaty hair. Panting, Minho pulls back as he gazes up at you, his eyes wide and sparkling. “I don’t want to go too fast, Y/n,” he whispers, thumb gently caressing your cheekbone.

Brazen with unfound confidence, you pout at him, “No. Be mine now.” Minho smirks, laughing softly as his eyes crinkle up, “Okay, okay,” he reassures you, pulling you down to lay on his chest, “I’ll be yours.”

“Don’t you dare do that, Y/n. I’ll sue you,” Minho threatens, eyes wide but voice joking.

Giggling, you ignore him, continuing to create a new dessert of your own design called the ‘Minho Mochi’. It’s a soft peach mochi covered with waffle cone. “No, I take inspiration from you and plus,” you mention, “you said yourself that the juxtaposition of the soft sweet mochi and the shell of the waffle cone was good.”

“Yeah,” he groans, plucking a mochi ball from the counter and popping into his mouth, “but that was before you decided to use my name for it, bub.”

Reaching up to clean the potato starch residue on his lip you correct, “I made the mochi with you in mind first, not the other way around.” Minho mumbles half heartedly, turning away to smile but you tug his arm. He’s blushing and grinning softly; your heart clenches in adoration.

“I can make you one for every match you have, would that make you feel better?”

Minho laughs, bringing your potato starch and rice flour covered hand to nuzzle his cheek, “Fine, I guess this is what I get for having girlfriend that owns a purple bakery.”

“Hey!” You deny, pulling back, “This is lavender, not just purple.”

“Yes, yes,” he agrees quickly, tugging you into him. “I’m covered in flour,” you protest into his chest, his deep musk a relieving break from the sweet scent of mochi. You feel him press kisses to the top of your head as his arms tighten around you so you relax into him, circling his waist with your arms.

“You should really decorate this place, Min,” you comment, gesturing at his bare apartment. You’re comfortably draped across his shoulders from the couch as he sits on the floor. He looks back from the TV, eyes wide and a puppy-like pout graces his now well moisturized lips, “What do you mean? I have my trophies as decoration.”

Groaning you protest, “No, those are trophies. You need proper deco here, it’s just sad.”

A familiar, flirty smile spreads across his face and he winks at you, “You’re prettier than any other decorations I can get.”

Though you feel your face burning, you roll your eyes at him, trying to suppress the smile bubbling in your chest. He gets up to sit next to you on the couch. Still smiling, he pats his lap, making your stomach jump in excitement. Settling down on his thighs, you play with the collar of his shirt, avoiding his stare. He ducks his head, forcing you to look at him. “Why you shy, bub?”

“I really love you, Min.”

His eyes are soft and you don’t expect him to say it back. You’re just content that he knows.

“I love you too, bub.”

You’re at Minho’s apartment basically every day for the past year and today’s no different. The soft beating of his heart resounds in your ear while the other listens to the calming voice of the audio book you guys are working through. The plot follows a personified kitten who tries to find her place in the world that is too cruel for her. Despite the objectively morbid theme, this part of the story is hopeful—the kitten has found friends and feels at home.

When the narrator concludes the end of the chapter, Minho reaches over to turn the recording off. You take the opportunity to crane your neck up and plant a kiss on his lips. He smiles softly, grabbing your waist so that you’re straddling his hips. One hand travels up to gently tug on your chin, deepening the kiss. His tongue is hot and lavishes against yours, a juxtaposition between his hand, methodically stroking your hair. Your fingers dance across his face, stroking his cheekbones, tracing his jawline and neck.

Soon, your fingers are replaced by your mouth and Minho’s Adam’s apple bobs with the groan he lets out. The fire in your chest and the beginning aching in your core has you tugging at the hem of his soft black tee shirt. His breath is shaky on your cheek as you pull the shirt over his head, softly dropping it next to the bed. Sitting back on his hips, you gaze down at his bare chest, wonder and admiration filling your heart as your hands travel across his toned torso. The lightest breeze of pink blush blows across his cheeks so you lean down to reattach your open mouth to his. The whirling in your mind rids your thoughts of everything except how he feels under you. His wet lips against yours, rising of his chest against yours, his hips pressing against yours.

So his tense voice catches you off guard, “Y/n, are you sure?” He’s pulled back and his eyebrows are furrowed softly, his pretty lips red and swollen but glossy with your spit.

Your gaze drops, hands fumbling to play with his hair. “I want to but if you wanna still take it slow, I’m fine wit—”

“I want you too, Y/n,” he whispers. Hungrily, he pulls off your shirt, sitting up to cradle you in his arms as he nuzzles your breasts, pressing hot kisses against your skin. Sighing contently, you unclip your bra and try not to blush at the dumb, awestruck look on Minho’s face. His rough hands come up to gently fondle them and you press kisses to his forehead and cheeks.

“You’re beautiful, Y/n,” he breathes, his hands firm against your bare waist as he gingerly turns you over so your back is pressed against the cool sheets. “We can take it slow.” Nervousness tightens your stomach and you’re sure he can feel the thrumming of your pulse as he slowly drags down your pants, maintaining eye contact. An endearing toothy smile spreads across his face and he hides it by kissing your tummy, trailing down to your pantie covered core. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable or wanna stop, okay?”

You smile softly, “Okay, you too.” Minho nods, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, Y/n,” he murmurs, reaching to tug off your underwear. Being completely bare underneath someone would make anyone ashamed or uncomfortable and your face burns as his glossy eyes take your most vulnerable state in. His lips are parted slightly and the soft glow of the lamp casts shadows of his eyelashes onto his red cheeks. A harsh swallow has his Adam’s apple bobbing. “God, you’re dripping, Y/n” He whispers, eyes shining, “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready, Minho,” you confirm. He slides his finger into your hot, aching core, his lip caught in his teeth as he watches his digit being sucked in. Slowly, Minho pushes his finger deeper into you, gaze dancing from your face to your core.

“M-more please,” you whimper, consumed by the unfamiliar feeling of your velvety walls around something. When he adds another finger deep inside you, you gasp, a hand traveling down to clutch his free one. His thumb strokes the back of your hand as his other continues, scissoring into you as wet sounds fill his bedroom. When his fingers curl up, hot white pleasure shoots through you and Minho smiles proudly, working at that spot.

“H-holy fuck,” you moan, head rolling from shoulder to shoulder at the unfamiliar pleasure.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you curse, bub,” Minho muses, releasing your hand to push himself up the bed so that your faces are close together.

“I-its because of you, Minho.”

That triggers something in him and his eyes turn dark, but rather than scaring you, it makes the coil in the pit of your stomach tighten. When Minho removes his fingers from you, it unwinds slowly but clenches at the sight of his now solid length being pulled out of his sweats. His eyelashes flutter closed on his cheeks as he strokes himself with his fingers, still slick from your juices as he retrieves a condom from the bedstand and rolls it on, hissing at the friction. “Are you ready, Y/n?” He pants softly, eyes hooded as he stares down at you, hand still moving up and down his red glistening cock in a way that has your pussy throbbing and mouth salivating. You respond by hooking your legs around his hips, smiling as he leans down to kiss your lips softly. His tip pokes at your hot core and you sling your arms around his shoulders.

Minho’s eyes are piercing as he gazes darkly at you, searching for the slightest trace of hesitance on your part. Painstakingly slowly, he slides into you. Maybe the foreplay did help to prepare you, but the stretch has tears pooling at the corners of your eyes and he’s not even all the way in you. Shakily, Minho exhales, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to hold back from pistoning into you. His lips press into the tears forming and spilling over at your eyes and he nuzzles your cheek with his nose softly, staying still until you reassure him, “Okay, you can keep going.”

His teeth and tongue travel over your neck as he fully enters you, but his soft hiss has you unintentionally tightening around him. “Ah, Y/n don’t,” he groans, lifting his head from looking at the place you two are connected at to to smile at you. “Can I start?”

You nod, hooking your ankles around his hips, “Yeah, just go slow for now.” Minho starts thrusting deep into you, angling his hips and going slow enough to feel the drag of your soaking walls rub against his throbbing cock. “You feel so good,” he moans, reaching to hold your hand as his hips continue to rock against you.

“I-I feel so full,” you whisper, squeezing his hand and he smiles softly at you, eyes crinkling up. “C-can you go faster?”

His tongue pokes out to wet his lips and he snaps his hips into yours, groaning. The lustful and loving sounds of skin slapping resounds in the room, mixing with both of your moans to create a beautiful sound you tuck away in your mind. Minho pulls out till the tip before slamming into you, sweat forming at his forehead. With his free hand, Minho reaches down to rub your clit in tempo with his powerful thrusts. Moaning loudly, you whimper, “P-please, Min I-I think I’m gonna,” your words get swallowed by another moan when Minho’s hips increase their pace, his stamina through the roof.

“Me too, Y/n,” he pants, “Cum for me.”

The hot coil tightens and you squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed at the sensation until white, electric pleasure crashes through you and you release around Minho’s length. He moans loudly, quickly chasing his high. His face twists in pleasure as he reaches his high and your fuzzy brain is left awestruck at his beauty. Minho collapses next to you, removing the condom, chest heaving in deep pants as he stares into your eyes, smiling like an idiot.

“How was that, Y/n?” He asks, arms circling your shoulder, pulling you close.

You giggle into his chest, fingers tracing imaginary doodles, “That was fucking crazy, Min.”

Minho’s chest bubbles with laughter and he boops your nose, scrunching his own nose up, “That’s great cause I was kinda worried about giving you a bad experience and all.”

Looking up and tapping your chin with a finger in mock thinking you smile, “I loved it, but I want you to call me cute names, Min.”

“I call you bub. But you mean like princess? Babygirl?” he says, an eyebrow raised.

You roll your eyes, “Bub is not a cute name but yes, the others are okay.” “Okay,” Minho laughs, gently rubbing his nose against yours, “You’re my princess, you’re my babygirl, and you’re always my bub.”

Minho shuffles in the sheets, turning to face you, an excited smile on his face, “Just move in with me. You’re already here more than your own place and it’s unsafe there.” Still after loving him for so long, your stomach churns with nervousness, but you laugh softly, scooting closer so that you can bury your nose into his bare chest to breathe his scent in deeply. “This apartment building is safer than mine?” His arms find their way around you and he hold you close, his chest rumbling against your face with every word, “It’s safer because I’m here.” Laughing you pull back, supporting your weight with one arm as you gaze down at him. He lifts an eyebrow, stretching his arms towards you and you can’t help but collapse into them. “Okay, I’ll move in with you.”

A shining smile breaks out across Minho’s face and he nuzzles his nose into your hair softly, gently stroking your bare back.

529 notes · View notes

hungryflowers · 3 years

Text

You’re Different Backstage

Title: You’re Different Backstage

Rating: Explicit (NSFW)

Continuity/Fandom: Balan Wonderworld

Character Relationship(s): “Balance” Balan/Lance

Character(s): Balan, Lance

A/N: This is going to be my FIRST NSFW submission for this fandom. Do not come at me with the torches, pitch forks, knives or shotguns. I, very recently, sent myself down the rabbit hole of Balance (Balan/Lance) and kept wondering: how nice would it be to see some good ol’ fashion sexy time with the two of them? Since no one has done it yet, I thought, why don’t I? What’s stopping me? Who can stop me? NOBODY!!! So I did this. And it took me 10 days to do, so please accept my thing!! Also, also, this will probably be the longest porn w/o plot I’ve ever written. Hence why it took nearly ten days. The editing alone was bananas!! Another thing, I’d like to apologize in advance if I offend anyone here who is Non-Binary or go by They/Them pronouns. Since Lance is canonically non-binary, I tried to keep it as close to the orientation as possible. This was real hard as I usually default to male pronouns for both of them.

However, I didn’t do the same for Balan, as he does tend to go by more male pronouns than Lance does even though they are also androgynous in appearance. Maestro is a more masculine term even if neither of them actually are. Another big thing: Balan’s genitals here. Since they don’t have actual default genitalia, I like to think that he has the ability to oscillate his genitals. He can have male and female parts just not at the same time. With that out of the way, please indulge in this steamy lil’ fan fic. And yes, I take criticism.

Other/Warning(s): Massive smut warning!! Penetrative sex, Oral and Cunnilingus, Some minor swearing, graphic depictions of sexual situations as well as multiple orgasms.

Lance didn’t enjoy setting the ‘mood’ as others had assumed it. They weren’t deeply inclined to romantic, or sappy gestures like the better half of themselves had been. Balan seemed better at the sentimental side of affirmations of love and adoration. Or of praises and well-wishes that devolved into lasting conversations of love and happiness.

No. No such things came out of Lance. They never gave in the way Balan would crave it. All they have ever wished for in turn was the physical catharsis of those suppressed feelings. Lance never called it love. Far be it from them to say what it wasn’t, but call it what it is. For them, it was just sex. The debasing art form of it too; bed-rocking, sloppy and wet, body tingling sex. That kind one would have as a means to purge the physical, mental garbage of the day and get back to work. The sex that revolved around more the need to take and not deal in the emotional ramifications. Lance’s fangs would draw in a wicked grin, the idea of that perfect, lasting till the morning time sex rarely sounding so bad. They had raptured, fantasized of the feel of Balan’s more delicate, tender frame mashed into theirs as he was ridden to a mind-blowing high that could leave them both speechless for a long while.

They would languish in these thoughts. The perverse nature of them driving him to do insane things in search of the release from the monstrous, bone-rattling ache. For now, Lance busied themselves to look away... their thoughts hazy and muddled with the resurfacing gnaw of pursuing pleasure. Their mouth ducked into their tattered caplet, hiding the baring growl that prickled at those lips. Soft, ocean-colored eyes hardened with shock, and some surprise as they locked with Balan’s. They must’ve been so entranced with the inner turmoil, Lance never registered the glance the maestro was giving them. The Maestro of Wonderworld’s presence did things to Lance. Things they acknowledged and didn’t like. Gods, who decided to torment them so by making this being so damned beautiful and siren-like? How dare he sit with an air so casual, it appeared nothing ever bothered him? Damn him. Damn his soft, luscious and devilish curves; feminine in some ways while masculine in others. But moreover, damn those goddamn large and intelligent yellow eyes.

Golden pools shimmered deliciously in the lamplight of the slow evening. The theater was always quiet at night. It was period of reflection, relaxation. Or maybe a time to finish some old project. Maybe begin anew. For Balan tonight however, it was his time to catch up on a few good reads. He hadn’t picked up a good novel in some time. Usually the only papers he read were his rough drafts of scripts and plans. But he loved to read. When he didn’t harass Lance with trivial tasks, or for the nuisance of conversation, Balan read. If not that, he wrote. He was a maestro of the craft; short stories, full-lengths, prompts and scenarios, or sometimes just a journal entry. On this night he didn’t busy himself with putting quill to parchment.

Balan's mouth opened, a sound coming out but no words. He wasn’t entirely sure how to ask about Lance’s wellbeing with being snapped at. The other appearing to be in a dour mood tonight. Placing the book on the small, rounded oak table Balan unfolded his legs to stand. He stretched idly, rubbing at the back of his top hat before pulling it off his head to fluff out his bouncy mint-colored dreads. Humming a little tune, Balan rummaged through his showman jacket, pulling out a golden rubber band to tie his long dreads back. The tendrils folded down his shoulders neatly once they were out of the way, exposing the intricately made heart marking atop his dark forehead.

His eyes fanned over the negati’s hidden features before he walked over to the bar on the far side of the room. Opening one of the cabinets, he pulled out an aged bottle of wine; the label slightly tarnished and dusty read in calligraphic silver “Caraveét”. He grabbed gold-rimmed chalices, pouring the shimmering iris colored wine into each of the glasses. He grinned, smelling the sweet and tart flavors. He took a slow sip from his glass before tapping the bar table with his gloved fingers, the racketing bring Lance out of their stupor.

“Did you want some?”, He inquired, hoping the swirling liquid would ease the storm that ravaged the negati, “You seem a bit broody tonight. Perhaps, a couple of glasses should ease both our minds.” The maestro chuckled giddily raising his glass as it gleamed in the low light.

Lance regarded the glass, then the maestro as he walked over to them. The tentacles on their back lashed so abruptly, Lance had to do a non-verbal apology when they knocked over a few chairs by accident. They weren’t brooding. Not even mad, but they were feeling something. Just not sure how to find the words for it.

Balan’s eyes drifted to Lance’s, regarding them. Waiting for them to answer the question they most likely didn’t hear in the first place.

“What?” The tone was not to be a biting, agitated type yet Lance couldn’t make themselves look at Balan, knowing full well the turmoil they were in.

“Nothing... I was just asking if you would like a glass of wine? You are more the brooding lot than usual. Drink with me.” Balan’s playful baritone voice felt like velvet as it caressed their ears. That voice caused Lance to sulk further more, hiding their face inside the caplet as the thoughts, seeming to feel more like whispers of temptation, dominated their rational thinking.

He took the offered glass yet chose not to drink of any of it. Instead he loomed over the rim as Balan took a long swig of his.

Lance licked at their lips, unknowing of the gesture. They would give more than anything to kiss the taste off of Balan’s lips. Or just to kiss them at all. They had wondered what it would be like to feel the maestro’s lips tentatively licking, caressing theirs in a heated lip-lock. The maddening thoughts came back tenfold, causing the other in audible snarl, attempting to shut them away.

“Lance... are you okay?” They heard Balan on the bridge of their conscious, the other’s voice like a muddling hum as they stood up quickly to move in front of Balan. The other, not knowing how to judge the move, backed into the bar, his glass still in hand while he searched the eyes of Lance. They appeared to be wild, nearly frantic with an energy Lance never expressed.

Lance leered at the other silently before pushing himself right into the maestro’s form; trapping him in front of the wood lacquer. Balan’s fleeing gaze made Lance smile. Not grin... smile. His mouth perking with something that could not be said as his hands went to Balan’s cravat, pulling the other slowly toward him.

“No...”, Lance confessed, eyes lulling closed dreamily, “I am not okay. And you are to blame.” That smile showed off the fangs, the points flitting in the soft lamplight.

Balan could not fully process what was going on before Lance leaned in fully to capture the other’s lips. Night after night, they had dreamt up this moment and even now they cannot believe they had gotten this far. It was far better than any dream or wish; light blue eyes sliding closed as a slender tongue went past the maestro’s parted, stunned mouth. That moment caused a ripple of shock to seize Balan, contents of his glass spilling onto the floor, no doubt leaving a stain that’ll have to be dealt with. He didn’t even have the knowledge of dropping it, yellow eyes staring at Lance’s softened face before he willed himself to kiss back. His hands, once frozen indecisively, pulled Lance in close.

Neither were sure how it had come to this, but Balan didn’t have the heart in him to make Lance stop. A small purr rumbled the kiss as Lance began to pull off. They disconnected breathlessly, only the small tail of spittle between them. Their breaths were heavy and hot, burning like steam with each exhale. It took the maestro to gather his bearings before his mouth was able to work again.

“W-Why am I to blame?? Lance what’s happened to you?” Balan felt as if he knew what was about to happen, and tried his best to make it all make sense. He was normally in a lot more control in surprise like situations; yet here... he was unable to predict the sheer tumbling force that Lance was portraying.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Lance whispered, deftly kissing down Balan’s neck, inky-black hair brushing amethyst sparkled cheeks, “I’ll make you understand.” They said louder with a growl that exposed fangs.

Purrs rumble through Lance as they fumbled with anything that would be able to get Balan’s ensemble off. Instantly they are met with resistance as Balan shoves at them, hands going to the sharp shoulders defensively.

“Lance! What do you think you’re doing?!” Balan exclaimed, standing his ground before Lance doubles their efforts to expose the maestro. They are only slimly successful when get to expose Balan’s upper shoulder; the tear just big enough to reveal swirling lines of golden runes, “Have you lost your mind?!”

The other refuses to answer him, bringing themselves flush against Balan to kiss down the exposed markings.

Had they managed to lose their mind? Lance would have to give that some thought later on. In the afterglow. But first, they’d have to get down from the tantalizing high that has them under a spell. Their lips brushed softly down the exposed skin, running lightly over the maestro’s clothed arm. Gods, both of them just had on too many layers. Lance flared up, frustrated by the inability to firmly feel the decadent skin.

“Lance, let me go!” Balan demanded, the command in his voice barely swaying Lance to push off him. He was losing control of the situation. And the scary part of it was that was what he wanted. Balan would have been lying to himself if he said that he didn’t want this. Yet to get it from Lance this way was never a part of the plan.

“You don’t want me to let you go.” Lance stated, eyes twinkling with more than just mischief behind them.

“Yes I do!” Balan choked out, his act and bravado beginning to fail him.

“Then why are you pulling yourself into me?” Lance chuckled, allowing their hands to wander down Balan’s waist.

“I’m-” He stammered not expecting to see or know that he had been pulling Lance closer the entire time. Forbid it all, he wanted this negati more than anything right now. And he was showing how badly. Damn his body for this. He was normally in better control of his reactions, this lapse should not have been tolerated.

His be-speckled face shown with the brewing embarrassment of being caught before shoving himself a bit harder, finally escaping Lance’s grasp. The poor thing looked a fright; face flushing a deep violet, hair askew as it rolled down his shoulders and back, teeth clenched in discomfort as he attempted to steady his breathing. His chest must’ve rattled from the urge to scream at Lance. Instead he stamped off, refusing to let Lance see how flustered he became. He’ll have to be in his room for a while to work out the steam that began to build.

He didn’t get far as a few tendrils of inky black wrapped around the other’s waist. He could hardly make a verbal protest while being pulled back into the other’s form. Large claws going up his neck, arresting Balan’s smooth belly as the tendrils dipped further. The tentacles moved lively, squeezing and pulling on the other as Lance’s hands swept and groomed over the maestro’s suit. When one hand dipped between Balan’s legs, he seized up.

Yellow eyes dilated, Lance’s touch freezing his mind. The groan that escaped him was not intended yet was enough to make Lance’s groin ache. He was going to force those sounds out of Balan. In one way or the other. Their night was going to be fulled with these delicious noises. The tendrils smoothed over him, probing the other perversely.

“Lance...please.” Balan became unaware of what he was begging for. He wanted this to stop, but he also felt like he’d regret refusing. This Lance... was much different than the one he’d encountered previously. The change felt real jarring; since they never made moves into his personal space. For anything. Least of all... This! He wanted to see where this could go. How much better it could get.

His own hands skimmed over Lance’s suit, prompting the other to loosen their grip as Balan slid away from the tendrils. Balan took one coil in between his fingers, golden eyes gazing into the blue ones. The heat behind the other’s eyes made Lance shudder, a harsh sigh coming from his mouth as Balan took the tip of Lance’s tendril into his. The look stayed as the tendril came from Balan’s mouth, his tongue connecting it. The appendage darted out to swipe at the excess spittle left behind, the maestro’s eyes still glowing with a renewed heat.

The action prompted a sneer from Lance’s features, their hand waving for a portal to open up behind Balan. The maestro gasped, turning to the hazy violet-colored portal. The shout of shock was to be expected as he was shoved right through it, the residual tethers of Lance’s self control snapping audibly as it receded.

The overwhelmed, unknowing audience of Tims sat, wiggled, waddled and creeped up to sit in the place both beings had been.

______________________________

It was not the fall that left him breathless as he landed on the massive expanse of what felt like a lavish bed. It wasn’t the deep contrasting colors of purple and gold accents that were illuminated by rainbow-esque runes and paintings of Negati markings throughout the immense, intimate space. Nor was it the pulsating rivets of scarlet that blended salaciously with the black and purple blankets and amassing of huge, plumy pillows.

Lance himself left him utter breathless; transfixing him, mesmerizing him with the oscillating negati runes that gleamed in the room. Lance had never done this display before. Their runes barely pulsed or shined vibrantly whenever they were around each other. Evermore rarer when he was alone. The runes gave him an ethereal hue that the nighttime sky couldn’t rival. He brushed that thought away as Lance struggled out of their wardrobe, hardly mindful of seams, buttons or zippers as the top half of his shorn cloak was disposed of somewhere in the low lit room. Balan flinched yet shuddered at the ferocity Lance had showcased in removing his own tunic and darker colored vest from underneath. With his chest exposed; the tapestry of rune lines and fuchsia gleaming in the violet backdrop of the room, he was on Balan.

The maestro’s bright color scheme contrasted a great deal with the whole room, snow white wrapped in gold and scarlet with the fettering of navy with his undershirt. The colors screamed obnoxiously in comparison, and Lance wanted them all off. Balan looked on, dazed by the negati while Lance’s -no longer gloved, dark- fingers delved to pull apart the top of the collar, effortlessly tearing it asunder, a low suffering sound coming from the maestro but not much else. He would figure that Lance would be like this. There was no such thing as intimacy or care with the negati. Everything he touched broke in his hands. Balan knows well that this time will be no different.

Those warmed hands skimmed over the prone body, fingers probing through the opened seams of the tattered clothings. They tickled him, a warm and fuzzy sensation spreading throughout the squirming frame. Balan felt lips on his chest, hands assisting in the pleasing endeavor while the other arched and shook. His mouth opened in an exhalation of steaming desire. When Lance pinched a nipple, Balan shot upwards in heated rebellion, forcing Lance to restrain him with his tendrils.

He was about to demand that Lance release him yet was cowed into silence by a startling growl, “This ends if you keep moving.” That voice, their voice had done something to the maestro. In other instances, Balan would have fought Lance until the other relented control, but during this... he went oddly still, placate as Lance continued to trace a trail of kisses down his chest. He brought his hips forward and up as the negati began kissing down his belly, stopping shy of the seam of his pants. Warm hands went into the other’s pants, the kindled heat coming off of Balan’s genitals enough to make Lance purr.

The maestro struggled against the hold as Lance pulled his pants down, heeled boots joining them as pile on the floor; kissing trails down his waist and down his legs. When the teeth pricked his skin, Balan thrashed. His face aglow with purplish speckles that brightened with his flush. He sparkled everywhere; cheeks, chest, hips and down the markings of his illuminated, swirling markings. Even the tendrils of his hair began to glow a slight with the forbidden heat. The hold on the restraints doubled.

“What did I just say?” Lance growled, the reverberating making Balan tense.

“L-Lance! Lance...”, Balan was calling to him yet couldn’t reach him as the negati roughly rid him of his clothing. Nearly naked, Balan shivered in the cool of the room as well as under the heated gaze of the negati, whom crawled up his frame to, again, kiss and lick at his newly glowing speckles, “Please... don’t stop! Please, Lance.” The maestro whispered pleas were a shock to the negati’s ears. He still wanted to punish him for fighting but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was becoming so lost to the feelings.

“Save your voice, pet...”, Lance whispered as his fingers slipped past the maestro’s brightly colored panties, feeling him for the first time, “It is too premature for you to be screaming for me now.” He chuckled more as his folds became reactive to the fingers smoothing them over, luscious wetness forming inside the panties.

Balan’s eyes widened, the shock of Lance’s finger boldly touching him made him to squirm, his own palm moving atop the negati’s. Much to Lance’s surprise, he didn’t hinder him yet chose to guide his fingers even closer, near enough for them to breach the delectable, delicate walls. Sun-yellow eyes rolled back once he felt one fingertip push its way inside, stopping short of sinking in completely. The maestro’s moan was unabashedly loud, body rolling in venture of more fingers. Lance marveled with fascination at the other’s willingness; form softening as he shook his head to and fro in delirium. He couldn’t stop shaking, lithe body aroused as the finger came from his wet sex. He smelt utterly delicious, dripping the natural nectar like a perfectly ripe fruit. His tongue slipped out to have a taste of it... and it had been everything he had hoped for.

The aroma of the finest wine with the scintillating notes of vanilla and lavender. His cock pulsed in his own pants, over eager for its own taste.

In horny glee, Lance yanked off the maestro’s panties, tossing the last piece of clothing into the darkness of his chambers in order to marvel at the most succulent sight in between the other’s rune spiraled legs. The plump lips of the vulva were just perfect enough to kiss, the natural wetness dribbling onto the blankets, glittering a soft purple as it did. The negati locked eyes with the heated, glazed expression before moving to take Balan’s mouth in a heated, soft kiss. The other kissed back with more fervor than before, free hand going behind Lance’s head to drag him down.

They pulled away with a long, loud sigh. The other scoring hot in contrast to the sheets beneath. Balan splayed his legs more, allowing for more room.

Lance grabbed up his thighs roughly, pulling him to the end of the bed to comfortably rest on their knees. Without much warning, Lance dipped his mouth right onto the humming lips of his vulva. That tongue went right to work at lapping up the sticky juices in and around those lips, a soft chuckle coming out of Lance as Balan shouted in lewd desire. His giant hands went right to Lance’s head, twining his fingers in the other’s hair as he shook and shimmied to the lapping tongue, hips arching to bring those lips closer to his pussy.

Lance focused on the luscious flavor of his cunt, dragging Balan closer to them as the maestro attempted to pull back. Their grasp got tighter the harder Balan fought against the hold. He felt the other’s grip in his hair, the tugging just enough to keep Lance deep. He lost his mind to Lance’s teeth grazing the top of his clit before sucking hard on his folds.

“Gods! Uhh, huh, L-L-Lance!”, Balan stammered, the corner of his eyes prickling with unshed tears while he fought and screamed into Lance’s lips. He was in heaven, but damn him if he’d admit that to the Negati. Balan flailed his head, mint-colored dreads going all over as he lost all semblance of control, “Dear gods Lance! Please! I cannot take...!” Balan pleaded for him to stop, to show any mercy on him as an intense rush of savage, carnal desire shot through him. When the other didn’t heed him, he wept. A startled sob ripped from his gasping maw as he arched into Lance’s rippling tongue.

Lance backed off in order to awe at the loss of self control Balan was beginning to display. He took in the panting, shaking mess of a maestro before his very eyes; mouth hanging open as he greedily swallowed gulps of air, body aquiver with mind melting lust, hands holding his head like a vice as those sinful thighs wrapped around him. The sight of him made the negati moan unintentionally, tongue plundering the maestro. The vibrations of it caused Balan to clench on him and scream, both hands abandoning Lance’s hair to slide against the cooler sheets.

“Oh! Oh gods, please, please...” The maestro whimpered, body relishing in that feeling while his mind boiled in intensity.

Lance, accounting for Balan’s behavior, moaned louder and longer against the lips of Balan’s clit, as well as kept their tongue inside with the intent to find his G-spot. They kept at it for sometime, their tongue buried deep as their hands massaged over Balan’s heated, dark thighs. They kept the maestro as close as they could as they tongued the bundle of nerves located far up the other’s pelvis.

“Wait! Wait! Lance please... don’t...please-” He hardly could finish the plea as instant rapture shot through his frame, causing him to clench on Lance’s tongue in a spine-melting orgasm. His mouth hung open in a room-rocking cry as his body snapped rigid, arms behind him as he grasped tight on the sheets. His chest thudded rapidly to his erratic breathing. His flesh clenching and tingling around Lance’s tongue the climax continued through him. There would be no reprieve however as he became rigged again, legs snapping around Lance’s head suddenly with another powerful orgasm.

Lance had not stopped even through the second climax. Not even with Balan wailing in what could be felt as pain. The silky walls gushed with his essence, the liquid sex simmering on the negati’s tongue as they drank it. A pleasured laugh rippled through them as they pressed hard kisses to the top of Balan’s pussy. Kissing it several more times as Balan screamed at them in another language. They still didn’t stop as he felt the other kicking at them with feverish intent. When he almost clambered away, Lance reinforced their hold to plunge their tongue into him again.

“For gods sake Lance! I can’t take anymore! Stop, please! I beg of you!” He wailed as tears streamed down his face.

An empathetic grimace came to Lance’s face as they finally relinquished his hold on the thoroughly ruined maestro. Their lips were deliciously wet with the slick of the other’s sex, the taste even better than the wine he captured on Balan’s lips only moments ago. He watched him roll on the sheets, finding some balance of his overheated body and the cold contrast of the dark sheets. Deliriously, he crooned and purred as he came down from the high. It took him about five minutes total to calm himself. And then he smacked Lance’s shoulder. Hard.

“Bastard! I told you to stop! What in the hell would it have taken for you to listen to me?!” He hissed, eyes narrowing darkly as he sat up. He seemed the opposite of pleased at the moment. A contrast that Lance felt prepared to deal with. Can’t please some people. The sentiment literal in Balan’s case.

“You were fine with me not a few minutes ago.” Lance jabbed as they groaned at the pressing of that erection against their tight pants. The glare Balan shot at Lance made the other’s ears pin low.

“That was before I had two orgasms in a row, heathen! You should have more respect for me. And be more receptive Lance. This isn’t just about you!!” He snapped. Nope. None too pleased at all.

Lance blinked, “This... wasn’t about me. Trust that if it were; I would’ve fucked you through this bed. The only reason I didn’t do that is because I want to see you cum. I’ve only ever heard that-”

“Wait, wait a minute. You’ve heard me climax?” Balan started, a touch confused.

“In your bedroom, when you think you’re alone. True, there are no visitors around but someone was always in the theater,” Lance purred as soft as a breeze. The negati smiled at the brightening embarrassment on Balan’s face, wishing now he had his hat to hide it. It softened them so seeing the normally composed, bombastic maestro reduced to a shivering, blushing mess. Gingerly as allowed, Lance caught Balan’s face, causing the other to look at them, “I guess I just wanted to put the face to the voice. And I am not disappointed.”

Lance leaned over to kiss the still warm cheek of the maestro as the other side-eyed him, the smallest smile forming.

“I’m... not used to this side of you. You’re normally so far away from me. In fact doing you’re very best to stay out of my sight. Even when I want you there. You know...”, A slow pause before Balan finished the thought, “You are different... too bad we both have to be backstage to see it.”

“I’m different backstage?!”, Lance’s long ears perked at the comment, not ever having someone feel or compare the sentiment, “I’ll remember that then. Do you want me to continue then? Or would you rather sulk about how I never know about your needs and cues?” Lance’s eyes sparkled with a mischief that could rival Balan’s.

“Yes, damn you. That...was a genuine experience.” He giggled, the noise a delight to Lance’s ears, leaning back on the plushy pillows, tendrils sprawling out comfortably behind him. With a singular exhale Balan relaxed against the sheets, hands going in his hair, fiddling with and tossing a singular white sliver of his tendrils. Only... it wasn’t his hair, Lance noticed and then raised an unseen brow in suspicion.

“Is that... an ear?” They breathed a laugh as Balan hid it in his hair again. When he sat up, it confirmed everything that Lance thought prior; he had the same ears as they did, a slight longer, floppier and appeared to be super soft. The negati’s eyes sparkled as they pulled out the hidden appendages, wondering why they hadn’t noticed them until now.

“I-I-I never liked them. They’re long, cumbersome and don’t fit under my hat properly. So I just have been tying them back along with my dreadlocks. Wha? Why are you pulling them?!” Balan shrieked, his sensitive membranes folding as Lance fiddled with them. The stark white with the hue of light green made the ears stand out, the occasional flap picking up the slightest noise.

“Why hide them? I think they’re absolutely wonderful.” Lance emphasized as they waggled their own long, dark ears. Their ears sat higher than the maestro’s and didn’t bend as much. He crawled over to the negati, aligning his hips in between the others legs with care. Their pulsing erection awoke his deepest desires, causing Lance to grind their clothed crotch into Balan’s exposed one. He gasps weakly, feeling the outline of the negati’s cock against his sensitive folds, gloved hands moving up Lance’s arms to bring them in for a deep kiss.

Consumed by more the kiss than the passion behind it Lance drove their tongue deep into Balan’s mouth, tasting the other’s breath and intermingling the taste of his fluid sex. Balan’s tongue stuck out as Lance’s lips engulfed them, teeth grazing over the appendage while Balan groaned hotly. He brought his head higher, the expert work of that tongue making him drunker than any alcohol. The longer it went, the more impatient the maestro became; his hands going from Lance’s arms to dip into their pants to rip out the other’s cock.

Lance’s eyes flew open as hands peeled off their pants and pulled out their cock, the member free from the strain at last. They’d never lie to themselves about not feeling relieved. The darker phallus was impressive at best; thick in girth and longer than Balan’s, some negati rune marks trailed on either sides of their crotch and lower hips, and the tip looked spire like yet appeared to be soft to the touch. Balan would find out soon enough.

“I get it. This is moving too slow. But I thought that you’d appreciate it.” Lance inquired, chest rippling in steady laughter. It felt like a punishment for forcing Balan to ride out his first orgasms.

Balan didn’t speak as he shoved Lance over, raising himself atop the other. Seated on their lap Balan took in the sight of his paramour, and just how dazzling they appeared. Chest rising and falling with softened breaths, the runes coming to life again in a brief flashes of multicolored lights, but he couldn’t stop looking at the other’s face. The heart marking atop his forehead blazing almost vermillion instead of the darker pink it usually was, their small fangs bared, glittering in the soft purple hue of the bed chambers.

He leant down, kissing the long neck, chest, pressing his lips hard onto his ribs and trailed a heated kiss down their pelvis; stopping just short of that maleness. He spared them a coy heated glance before kissing the drooling tip, eyes going to Lance to see their reaction. The other tensed, mewling the moment they felt those lips, tip swelling on demand.

“I’m going to suck the soul out of you. Just as you had did to me.” The heat in those words made it more fact than statement and Lance couldn’t wait long enough. They could have never imagined having the current maestro of Wonderworld’s mouth on their dick. To be honest, they could not imagine any of this happening right now. There was something so decadent and sinful about the way Balan talked dirty. Such things were just never heard from such an angelic mouth.

He stopped thinking altogether as Balan removed his gloves, throwing them onto one bedside table to fist his thickness roughly, stroking the lengthy girth. Thumbing over the head, he gauged how steady Lance was, the swelling member making the maestro’s mouth drip with unshed spittle. From the way he opened his mouth and sucked in them in deeply, Lance could have sworn that he had done this before yet can never remember a time this would ever happen.

“Ohhh yes! Balan...” Lance’s lungs stopped working the second Balan’s tongue encircled the head and bobbled repeatedly, his saliva silkening his hot length. Lance shuddered, moaning deeply as the tendrils on their back came back to life and spread across Balan’s pussy, massaging the outer vulva instead of the velvet walls. The sensation caused the maestro to moan around the dick in his mouth, a chain reactive shiver from Lance followed.

Balan slowly rocked on the tentacles that fondled on his folds as he swallowed down more of Lance, lips almost resting on their crotch before pulling off. Soon the maestro began working his hands with his tongue, hands pulling at the medium sized balls as the underside of the long cock was stroked by Balan’s tongue.

The tentacles worked Balan harder, the other groaning loudly with the near penetration on one tendril. The movement caused Lance to swear, hands digging into his hair, pushing the mint colored coils out of his face.

“Don’t stop Balan! Please don’t stop!”, Lance cried as they got closer to an explosive release. The vision of seeing cum painting the maestro’s immaculate, lovely face caused a shudder to surge out unconsciously. The tentacles groped the silky vulva with an intensity that caused Balan to pull off the other’s cock to choke out a cry.

“Lance!,” Balan called, drippings of drool falling onto the sheets as he shivered on the tentacles that never penetrated. He growled low as he pushed himself back on the largest of the tentacles, the bulb going right into his pussy, slicked with the welcomed wetness, “Ha, oh yess.” He crooned before stuffing the throbbing cock back into his mouth, pumping and sucking with the same vigor as the tentacle inside.

Lance mumbled something in a different language, thrusting into Balan’s warm mouth, along with the tentacle slipping through the sticky mess seeping from his tightening walls. They could barely muster the maestro’s name as a ringing sound flushed through their ears, body going tight as a bow while Balan swallowed down the cock fully. Their hands dug into the other’s hair making sure Balan was close enough to swallow all of the rich, violet colored seed as it splashed down his throat. The tentacle widened inside of his pussy, pushing on the clit with the vibration of its master’s climax.

They thrashed in zeal as Balan continued to suck them dry, not worried about the veiny tentacle that fucked him deep. He was determined to live up to his statement; soft, warm hands smoothing over Lance’s sharp hips as he swallowed him down more, moaning and whimpering as the length sputtered more seed. When the tentacle pushed more into the G-spot, Balan cried out, forcing his hips down to rock with his new orgasm. He had to get the cock out of his mouth in order breathe a bit proper as his walls vibrated with the climax.

The room became blanketed in a contented silence as they both came from their highs; Lance’s chest heaving air as Balan sat on their hips to find his mind. He purred with fervor as the tentacle slipped out of his cunt.

“That was good, yes?” Balan inquired, eyes wide and soft, body just as soft and pliant as he awaited a reply. The poor darling was self-conscious. A trait he never displayed when performing for anyone, nor anything.

Lance’s laugh brightened the maestro’s be-speckled face, ears twitching with the tenor of sound.

“That was the best head I’ve ever gotten, my lune-light. And you did what you said you would do.” Lance spoke breathlessly while they leant up to brush their forehead against Balan’s. The feathery kiss, as well as the compliment, drove the other to keen delightedly, ears flapping in exuberance.

“Your... ears. They flap whenever you’re excited or praised don’t they?” Oh, Lance was about to be so evil now. The sly grin invited as much.

Balan nodded his head, not even knowing he was acknowledging the question, smiling and flushing like mad as he did.

“Look at you. Flushed, heated and so devilishly handsome. A most salacious siren you turned into,” Lance growled as they pulled himself up but kept Balan in his lap, “A gorgeous being like you deserves to be drenched in the most opulent of pleasures. The thickest form of desire. Do you want me to worship you?” That damning voice caused Balan to shudder and grasp them in desperation.

“Yes! Worship me, worship my very body, revere it!”, He shouted, no longer bringing himself to care about anything other than the euphoria, “I want to feel you in me, on me, all over me!” Heat basked from his body as his ears flapped, mouth open in heavy pants. His naked cunt rocked on Lance’s cock, not sinking in fully. The movement caused Lance to spur into action, going on their knees to better to better position Balan, the maestro spreading his thighs eagerly on Lance’s lap.

Lance’s fingers intertwined with Balan’s, his hands warm and only touch wet. They pressed their teeth into the skin, reveling in the dark wrists that glowed subtly with golden accents and swirling patterns. Lance repeated the motion, tongue lapping at both wrists, palms and fingers. Lance felt the smoothness of the maestro’s beautiful hands. Their eyes shimmering in reverence as they pressed sweet kisses to each fingertip slowly. Their own hands felt up his palms; still so warm and just as silky soft. That tongue continued to trace the long golden lines, taking his time to press his lips into his wrists.

“Balan...” There weren’t enough words for Lance to say, or piece together for the time spent with each other. Nothing could prepare either of them for the sheer intensity of this new emotion. Melding of carnal lusts neither have the ability to describe. So for the first time tonight... Lance stopped talking. Letting only their bodies say so much more.

Steadying him, Lance brought Balan down on the hard thickness slowly, agonizing slow. The maestro’s glint was hot and heady, hands going to Lance’s shoulders as support. Lance heaved a hot moan, aligning the next thrust directly into the maestro. There wasn’t a need to test if the other was ready for it or not; his tightness giving way subtly with each small piston. The fiery gaze of Balan soften into kindled embers once he was fully seated on the other’s cock. He was starting to perspire, a reaction that Balan never had to anything in his life. Rushing sweat beaded down his neck, his chest and around his waist glazing him in a hue of condensation that began to make his body slippery.

They stayed in each other’s laps for a second before Lance thrust upwards, igniting Balan’s tongue again. He cried out in another language, most likely a swear considering the dialect. He groaned weakly, his body submitting to the roughness Lance invited with each movement. The moment Lance had worked out the rhythm the thrusts became harsher, more precise, pinpointing the exact spot to hammer him into a delectable frenzy. Lance’s breaths got rougher, louder, more of their teeth becoming exposed as they snarled in ecstasy.

Balan could barely hold on. Literally. His grip on Lance’s shoulders loosened each time the negati impaled him, the motions making him too sensitive, body on fire. Though barely cognitive, Balan did his best to rock up to meet with his thorough pounding. Moving his hips at an angle, Balan caught the ribs of Lance’s spired phallus, screaming out as it stabbed him.

The maestro’s screams did something primal to Lance, the sex-fueled fire warping and corrupting their licentious mind.

“You like it?”, The negati spoke deeply, the baritone voice smokey and laced like a honey-tipped whiskey glass, “Look at yourself. Becoming undone with just my cock. You cannot comprehend how fucking devilish you are! Siren!” Lance dragged Balan down, further stabbing him with the rigged member. They were so close yet weren’t about to go if Balan didn’t first. They were going to see the maestro climax on his dick. There would be nothing to stop it now. Astoundingly, Balan replied to the question, voice much like Lance’s yet tremulous in its form.

“Yes! I love it, I love you!,” His gaze meets the others in an embrace that Lance cannot escape from, “I love you so much, don’t stop please.” The plea is whispered as the remainder of Balan’s self control is pounded out of him. His lanky legs surrounding the negati, forcing them to stay the course as his cunt devours them hungrily.

It becomes too much for Lance; the fucking, the confession... just the sounds of Balan’s voice as they fuck. They snap forward hard, cock slamming the maestro’s pelvis as they climax, taking Balan right with them. The guttural snarl that surges from Lance actually scares Balan, those golden eyes wide with an erotic fear of the other before it fades with a deep-bodied orgasm that reverberates through his soul. He wails out, the pleasure so cavernous it eats him alive, body stiffening to the point of pain, absolution and exultation drowning him in high waves. His clit sucks Lance of everything; reason, sense, the will to stop. He trembles at the feeling of the other’s seed shooting inside of him, viscous ropes of cum shoot forth as Lance loses the rhythm of their own thrusts.

They stop fully when Balan’s cunt loosens its hold, the negati falling forward atop the messy sheets. Balan makes a cry of something between pain and pleasure when he is flopped on his back with Lance atop him. Lance’s member has yet to soften inside the other’s creamy walls, the spired tip rubbing on Balan’s g-spot.

The room falls silent again, save for the heavy pants and breathless laughs from the two. Neither recovering fast enough as the euphoria drains all other sensations from their bones. Lance’s spine is dexterous as wet spaghetti, mouth open in loud gulps of air. Balan fares no better, legs twitching uncontrollably. Bare chest dripping with sweat, golden markings along his arms and stomach gleaming and flickering in the contrasting violet lights. His coils are drenched as well, pouring over his eyes and messily over his face. Speckled markings aglow with the shades of amethyst make him look pulchritudinous.

Lance raise themselves up, both of their hands going on either side of the exhausted maestro’s supine form, loins still burning from the near volcanic heat from their fucking. They readjust their position, body flush to the other, seeming to never be close enough. They smile softly as Balan smiled chastely at them.

“That was fantastic... honestly the best sex I’ve ever had.” Balan complimented, his eyes not as glazed from before.

“Good to know, but I hope you didn’t start thinking it was over?” Lance drawled, the tone eerily lustful.

Balan stares quizzically. How could anyone want another go after that?

“You want to go again?”

“Just one more?,” Lance breathily laughed as their hips rock gently, phallus a touch harder than prior, “If it helps, you can lie on your back and I’ll handle the rest.” They lean over Balan, kissing his cheeks and the heart on his forehead.

Balan rolled his eyes. He wasn’t complaining about another time, but his body sure was. He internally decided one more bout wouldn’t cause too much strain.

“Lancelot, the insatiable one. Who knew you’d be addicted to my cunt?” Balan chuckled; the nickname still an endearment to Lance. It would be rude to lie about how the name made them warm on the inside. And hearing that sugared voice utter it with a playful air softened the negati.

“Not just your cunt... but you as well. I love you too.” The words came out before Lance knew. Their lips moved yet didn’t have any prior knowledge of it until seeing the way Balan stiffened, long ears swaying upwards at the words.

Both of their chests fluttered; Lance never expected to say those words during sex. This...this was not supposed to be about love. And yet, it was all Lance had on their mind. They had Balan now. All they would have to do is love him. In more than this way. With all of this joy they had felt in the confession, the familiar ick of something tar-like bubbled to the surface. Lance’s mind honed in on all the deprecating things the voice said.

‘What? You can love? Oh Lance... it will be ruined by you so soon.’

‘You once loved...and look at what it turned you into!’

‘This is sex Lance... that’s all it will. ever. be.’

‘He can only feel pity for loving a monster like you’.

The voices began to make Lance physically sick. No matter how hard Lance tried, they wouldn’t be willed quiet. They began to tremble uselessly, a sob retching from the negati as those thoughts and words; their own words swallowed them.

The maestro lunged forward, planting a kiss on the other’s lips. The cathartic heat that came from it brought Lance out of their head, focusing on the other below them. They both stayed lip-locked for a moment, Balan kissing as if Lance were about to drown any minute. The kiss saving them from themselves for a moment like this. The voices dissipated, barely a hum coming from the back of Lance’s mind. They didn’t matter. Only Balan did. The kiss ending when Balan pressed those lips to the fuchsia colored heart atop Lance’s brow.

The touch was so gentle. So tender that it made Lance’s heart swell.

They looked down at Balan, who smiled pleasantly back at them. The look of love so much more than it could ever be. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay’ is what those golden pools spoke even if Lance didn’t hear it aloud. There wouldn’t be a need to.

In spite of how small it was; Lance smiled. The motion felt real. He hadn’t had a genuine smile in over a thousand years. Gods, when was the last time he felt pure happiness unfold in his heart? There’d be a time and place to think on that later as they shifted Balan’s hips more, grinding forward, hips shifting to reawaken his long erection. The stings of pleasure rode through Balan, arms going behind his head to grab for the jumbled mess of velvet purple blankets. A small whine went past his lips as Lance’s midline bumped against Balan’s pelvis again, causing a flare of scorching desire to arise. The maestro never subdued, or otherwise suppressed his moans. He would allow Lance the ability to hear how he felt for him.

The negati gripped Balan beneath his thighs, pulling his legs away so they could splay open. The new position allowed Balan to relax instead of trying to readjust too often.

A surprised gasp from the maestro made Lance look at his face; the beatific expression of this dazzling, bewitching and downright mesmeric creature spurring Lance to pump into him harder. The be-speckled maestro had his eyes closed, turning out the warm, shimmering pools of the richest gold many would never see.

“Please lune-light, open your eyes for me.” The reciprocal adulation of love Lance gave could break someone’s heart and warm another’s but it was his tone that made Balan’s eyes open; aroused and so husky. When he looked upon the negati, a form of ardor seeped through him. A shy smile graced his features as he nuzzled into Lance’s chest.

“Ohhh, say that again. Call me that again,” He whispered as his body arched with the deeper, slower thrusts, “I need to hear it again, Lance.” He began pining for the sound of the other’s voice, chest heaving in irregular patterns. Long ears flicked up, picking up the sounds of Lance’s exertions as they grounded each other closer to climax.

“Lune-light...my lovely lune-light, you are so stunning.” Lance cooed, eyes warm as they watched Balan’s ears flap in jubilance. They fucked into him harder, faster when Balan’s hands went from the sheets to cling to Lance’s arms in order to steady himself. He was succumbing again, mind lost as avaricious lust ensnared his visage.

Lance repositioned one hand to grab the maestro’s tight waist and underneath his back, slowing their thrusts first in order to shift a portion of their weight to sink in deeper. They kissed the inner thigh of Balan’s left leg as the other hand grabbed there and held him tight. The new position brought Balan’s ass up from the bed, both legs hanging on either side of Lance as they brought their pelvis’s together. The negati had to get to their knees for the next part to become effective, sprawling their hips a little. When they had gotten in position, they leant over to press another reverent kiss to Balan’s forehead, the friction causing the maestro to growl.

“Move. Lance, I beg you.” Balan’s resistance melted a long time ago as his hands tightened around Lance’s upper arms.

When they move, Balan’s equilibrium gets flipped upside down. The position had the maestro screaming so loud, Lance tipped their ears down to block out the sound. The reaction was instant, the gorgeous being’s mouth flying open as he threw his head back with each stroke. His hands scrambled for purchase of the negati as he began thrusting back on the other’s cock. Body spasming at the rippling sensations.

The change in position did wonders for Lance as well; they were able to take in all of the other’s grace, elegance and succulent desire. The screams of pure ecstasy powered Lance onward, eyes half-lidding as they aimed their thrusts. Lance felt the maestro’s bruising grasp loosen, the body tightening from the exertion. He looked as if he was going to lose his mind again; assuming he had ever found it after the first few times.

“Look at this.... look at you,” Lance growled, hands leaving Balan’s waist to drag the other further down, “This is what I have been wishing for. I’ve have been waiting for you and this! Gods, now that I have you, I’m not letting you go.” The negati enunciated a portion of their words with alternating thrusts that caused Balan to spasm around them erratically, the maestro’s head swaying, more mooring, like a boat on torrential waters.

Balan tried to stutter something in response. There could not be any words he could be able to use in a circumstance like this. The euphoria blanketing his headspace, only the want for this to never end on Balan’s mind. He wished he could stay like this forever; being loved in between his legs the way that Lance was loving him. Tears welled up but were blinked back. That familiar entrapment, that build was upon him now. A spring ready for release as Balan angled himself to meet a harsher thrust from Lance. He didn’t know what to do with his hands so he tugged on the negati for some leverage. And he tugged at him desperately.

“I-I-I can’t-- hold it back much! Lance, I need this! I can’t hold back! Oh my gods!” Balan’s pleasured whimpers were music to the other, the noise causing Lance to pulsate inside those divine walls. He was about to let it all go. Neither of them capable of denying their animalistic need for a blissful finish.

“Do not hold back my lune-light! I want us to be in climax together. I’m ready, just like you are. Lock me inside your heaven!” Lance yelled, throwing their head back unabashedly for the final few thrusts.

Something in the gravelly tone caused Balan to relent all self control at that moment, the high octane pressure rushing from his pelvis, seeping into his blood in a body rattling orgasm. He screamed, more belted out his release, muscles contracting and constricting in a severe, mind-numbing vice. He could no longer keep his eyes open, passion scalding his insides making his body heat unbearable.

He kept spasming, helpless as Lance roared one last time, pinning Balan’s softened frame to theirs in a rough, possessing manner. They dove off the pinnacle with as much fury and need as Balan did. Their fingers dug into the tender skin, maw wide with a roar that shook the room. The negati’s own form convulsing and seizing as Balan’s cunt squeezed their cock to the point where it ached. They shuddered with the intensity and rush of seed; feeling way too hot inside of the maestro, shooting deep inside, not stopping even as Lance humped Balan through their own climax.

When they were sure they had nothing left to give Lance let Balan go, the other’s spent body flopping atop the bedspread. The negati pushed back their inky dreads back from the sweat drenched face, eyes slightly glazed. They shook with the inglorious feeling of satisfaction before pulling out of Balan’s thoroughly ruined cunt, their cum drooling out in delectable, erotic ribbons. The scent of the intermingling sex made the cock twitch. Without a thought given, Lance’s pointer finger went past the swollen, beat-up lips of the maestro’s pussy; swiping the oversensitive folds for just a taste of the cream.

Balan yelled, overstimulated and a touch annoyed, kicking at Lance.

“Fucking stop! You’re going to kill me!” Balan cursed, his chest heaving. He was the perfect picture of the word ‘ruined’; mint-colored coils askew all over his face, sublime form thrumming with the residual orgasm.

“Would this have not been the best death to have?” Lance giggled sweetly, tongue slipping out to lap at the mixed cream of their sex. The taste was of it was so divine, it couldn’t be described. When their legs regained function Lance dipped into the conjoined bathroom. Balan barely registered the sound of water coming from a faucet. Though he wasn’t going to register anything for a while. His eyes slipped closed, breathing becoming more steady as the high simmered out of his frame. He didn’t hear Lance’s footfalls when the other returned into the room yet the feeling of the cold, damp cloth felt exquisite on his hypersensitive skin. He smiled happily as the cloth went over his face, chest, arms and even his back, swiping away as much sweat that wasn’t collected by the sullied bedsheets.

He winced as the cloth went between his legs, touches kept tender and dainty while the negati cleaned his clit. The movements were apologetic in the sense of the rough handling. With the remnants of their sex thoroughly cleaned, Lance threw the dirty cloth into a hamper nearby and crawled into bed. They felt the need to say something to Balan, yet was not prepared to see the other fully asleep. The smile remained on his face as he dreamt soundly. Safely.

The maestro rarely slept so seeing him do so, even in the other’s bed, was recherché. The moment a surprise to see with their own eyes. It warmed their heart in so many ways. Lance wondered inwardly if their heart could get any fuller. Carefully, as to not wake him, they slid Balan’s frame underneath the heavy blankets, keeping his head low to rest it against the larger puffy pillows.

As much as Lance tried, they couldn’t lie to themselves about how adorable and desirable this being was. Is... and still will be. They could make up some spun tale about how Balan lusted for the feeling of this sex. And yet, they wouldn’t. They weren’t going to deny the affirmations and litanies of love, passion and reverence he bestowed. In this way, Lance loved Balan. Balan had loved them too. This new feeling blossomed and flowed within them. It was all Lance cared about and would gift this love in kind to Balan tenfold. It was definitely what they both deserved.

For now, Lance snuggled into the maestro, a happy little smile playing on their cheeks whilst pressing their face into the other’s neck. The mint-colored coils of the other’s hair fell in a tangle on Lance’s face, making them wrinkle their nose.

“I...love you, lune-light...”, Lance whispered pressing a singular reverent kiss to the glowing heart on Balan’s forehead, the mark shimmering against the darkness. The negati nuzzled the sleeping being, arms crossing Balan’s chest to swaddle him close to their body, “I don’t know if you had heard me, but I just hope you know.”

Unknown to Lance, Balan had heard him. His own smile was genial and kind, taking the affirmation as it was. There was no need for Lance to explain themselves. Such things like this rarely, if ever, happened. So Balan accepted this. He had openly accepted that Lance is, and will remain, worthy of love.

“I love you.” The enamored statement was simple, sweet and soft-sounding. So such so that Balan wasn’t sure Lance heard him, the negati was already snoring before he could say anymore. With an exhale, Balan’s eyes slipped shut once more. His own hands went around to hold Lance’s closer to his body. Their combined warmth radiating soothingly as they slept throughout the rest of the night.

#balan wonderworld #balan #balan wonderworld lance #Lance #nsft #lemon

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tokoyamisstuff · 4 years

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Betrothred Ch. 2 - Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Chapter 2: Bonding

Summary: You’re slowly accomodating to living in your new household, but getting close to your partner is harder than expected.

Warnings: Self doubts, maybe.

Words: ~1600

Song used: Rise Against - Hero of War

Story Masterlist

The following weeks were uneventful, considering that you weren’t allowed to leave the Zoldyck property at all.

Since you were now considered a Zoldyck, a great deal of people would now see you as their target. An easy one too, because you weren’t even half as strong as the rest of the family.

Some would even go as far as to say you’re now Illumi’s weak spot - even though your husband was confident in his ability to protect you.

Anyway, you would need to spend your days on Kukuroo Mountain until the head of the family evaluated you to be strong enough to defend yourself even without Illumi at your side. Only then you’d be allowed to go on missions again.

Even though you had all comforts one could wish for, it was pretty boring in here with no one around except for this unsettling distanced family members. Most of the time they’d just mind their own business unless it’s about work.

There was also the crippling feeling of uselessness plagueing your mind. You tried to compensate for it through your efforts, though.

You and Illumi were living in the main residence, of course, yet had a wing completely build solely for the two of you. It was just like a small but luxury apartement, with a great bathroom, kitchen and whatever else one would need.

Especially the balconry was to your liking. You prefered to spend your time there, simply enjoying the sounds of nature.

It was a day like all the ones before, with you trying to pass time through educating yourself. Might be useful somehow.

You immediately heared a crack of the main door, jumping up from your seat to greet him.

Illumi had been away on a mission for three weeks already, and you just couldn’t wait to see him again. You stopped yourself in front of him, knowing close physical contact was discomforting to the man.

“Welcome home, master.” Just as you were about to take a bow, Illumi brought his hand to your chin and lifted it once again.

“No need to be so formal” he spoke, and you had to admit that the stoic sound of his voice had somehow become calming to you. “I’m your husband now. Just call me like you did before.”

“I missed you, Lumi.” You had just realized it yourself, yet had already blurted it out aloud. How embarassing...

“Oh? That’s good, I think.” He tapped his chin like he’d always do to muse aloud, trying to cover up that this much affection overstepped the limits of his emotional capability.

Trying to change the topic, you just now remembered the heavy storm that was raging outside. “You’re dripping wet!”

“So?” He tilted his head in confusion, still standing at the entrance as you wrapped a towel around his shoulders.

Hunger, cold, sleep deprivation, pain...

Even though none of these could hinder him from functioning, you assumed the feeling was still bothersome. The cold could still affect him that way.

For a second, you had to laugh at yourself. Worried, about him of all people? Ridiculous.

“Take your clothes off” you demanded, a warning finger swirling in the air. “I’ll run you a bath.”

In his free time, Illumi seemed even more like an empty shell. You could say he was pretty boring, even.

But it was fun to teach him all kinds of new stuff - things he was never able to experience or enjoy. Could he even feel something like that?

Since Illumi was raised to be absent of any hopes or desires, he obviously didn’t follow any hobbies either. Except for work, training and the well-being of his family, nothing seemed to be of real importance for him.

So he’d simply shrug it off, following your orders since he had nothing better to do anyway. “As you wish.”

When your husband stepped into the bathroom you had prepared for him, the air was scented with a floral fragrance. You even had lighted a few candles, enveloping the room in a dim light.

It was hard not to stare at the slender man, but you peeked a time or two: His porcellain skin was covered in several scars, and he was more muscular than you had imagined.

In an unconventionalway, he looked like a piece of art.

“Come on in!” you cheered, gesturing towards the perfectly warm water. As he sunk down into the tub, you chuckled at how stiffly he was sitting inside. “Lean backwards, like this!”

You adjusted yourself on a chair next to the bathtub, beginning to gently wash his hair. “Close your eyes” you cooed, gently massaging his neck before running your fingers along his shoulders.

And after a while, his rigid body slowly began to relax - a small feeling of achievement blooming in your chest.

Picking up a comb from the edge of the sink, you began to run it through his silky hair. It almost made you fuming again about how he once wanted to cut it off, because it was ‘a hindrance in battle’.

Yet you couldn’t help it, for the calming atmosphere made you start singing out of a whim:

“A hero of war Is that what they see Just medals and scars So damn proud of me And I brought home that flag Now it gathers dust But it's a flag that I love It's the only flag I trust”

Illumi’s eyes opened slowly, dark orbs pinning you as you detected some kind of wonder in them. “Y/N?”

“Y-Yes?!” The closeness you had craved so bad had you forget about who exactly you were trying to indulge.

“Why did you agree to marry me?” Now where did that question come from?!

"Huh? I- umm...” You began to stammer, frantically scanning your mind for an answer. “Because I like you, I guess.”

You didn’t dare to say love - not yet at least. Maybe someday...

“Mhh. I see.” Illumi turned his head away and closed his eyes again, almost as if zoning out. “I knew you were clinging to unnecessary sentiments, but I didn’t think they’d go this far.”

Was that a compliment or an insult? You didn’t know, but somehow felt offended.

"And why did you ask me to marry you in the first place?”

You just couldn’t help but pitying yourself right now. Of course you were sparring as much as your body could handle, yet at the moment all you could provide for your husband were kind gifts and actions.

“I thought I already made myself clear: You’re an extraordinary individual, and I thought you to be a fitting mate.”

Wow.

“You must be tired” you murmured as you softly rubbed his temples, trying to change the topic.

How stupid of you to think he was actually capable of feeling such a complex emotion - and yet you were disappointed.

“How odd” Illumi suddenly vocalized his cogitation, then falling silent again.

“What is it?” you inquired as you patiently encoated his hair with a towel.

“How very odd” he repeated once again, seemingly overchallenged.

No use in talking this over, huh...

“Let’s get you to bed” you chanted, still all friendly and he wondered why you’d bother yourself with things he could easily do himself.

Truth be spoken: Illumi Zoldyck would most likely forget to eat or clean himself way longer than necessary. Taking basic care for himself was just not present in his mind, and more than often he’d do it pretty sloppy just to get it over with quick.

Wrapping the heavy blanket over yourself, Illumi’s stiff posture was a huge contrast to the soft bed. Only looking at him made you uncomfortable.

And yet: Sharing this bed together, you were glad that he gave you the freedom to decide when you were ready to, well...take the next step.

There was no need to hurry, he once told you. Since you were now all his.

Even in the dark you could spot the emotionless black pit that was his orbs. But you saw something different: You liked to imagine the universe in them, and the brightw stars to be only hidden from plain sight.

“How do you feel?” you spoke softly, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a long time anyway.

“Indifferent.”

You didn’t expect anything else, to be honest. “Well, I’m grateful.”

“What for?” Sometimes it felt as if he’d only fake interest, but even that you were happy about - because it gave you hope that at least somehow, he was trying to make you feel home.

Maybe you were just imagining things, though.

“Oh” you started, giggling shyly. “Many things: That you stepped into my life, for example. Chosing me as your partner. Or simply for you coming home safely, and that you’ve let me spoil you a little.”

The absence of an answer made you think he already fell into a dreamless slumber, so you decided to give him some rest. He probably had a harsh mission and right afterwards you had clung on him, almost as if he was a social experiment.

This whole day probably was a little much for someone who had never felt a single pleasant bodily contact before.

Little did you know that your husband was still wide awake, yet deeply buried in thought.

Yes.

Your presence seemed to be beneficial in other ways than practical, he concluded.

But how exactly? He was unable to put it in words.

Yet the rest of the evening, his mind was fogged by your lingering touch and the memory of your soothing voice.

To Illumi, the power you had over him was more dangerous than Nen itself.

___

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#Illumi x Reader #Illumi Zoldyck #Illumi Zoldyck x Reader #HxH #Self Insert #Arranged Marriage AU #Zoldyck Family #Writing #Fanfiction

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ixellent · 2 years

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I know I reblog like every “help me get a job/cover letter/thank you templates/how to interview” post I come across and I hope that helps someone, but real talk: I don’t really do any of that shit well and I don’t want to and I think job application algorithms and interview etiquette and thank you letters and cold calls and all that are bullshit and I know that’s privileged but I hope I can be the sloppy interviewee that goes in before you and makes you look good if it’s that kind of job lol. I got two part time jobs by just noticing when local businesses I like are hiring and then being really cool and funny and mention excel spreadsheets during the interview, two weeks in I’m like “is it okay if I draw furry art when it’s slow because that’s my real job” and they’re like “yes.”

I’ve been self employed since I was 18 so it’s not new to me and I’d LOVE real healthcare but also it’s okay to just get enough part time jobs to pay your bills and shit sometimes. I’m so bad at playing those games with potential employers and I just don’t care anymore. I’m so tired and I’m disabled (but not THAT disabled etc etc) and it stresses me out so much to put in long applications and make sure I follow up with a bunch of assholes just to find out they’re worse than I thought during the interview. I’m not going to break my back to give myself more problems that don’t solve any of my current ones. I just wanted to say something for those of us out there that are like “Good tips, but I need to be on way more medication for that.” I’ve talked to a few other professionals about this and they’re like “You’ll find some places you fit BECAUSE you break that mold and because you challenge people, you just gotta keep looking for them!” and in the meantime do whatever the fuck. Try some weird jobs out. Get experience doing stuff you’ve never done and you’re curious about, because someone will train you to do it. See how much you can get paid to do the most boring stuff lol. I would like to try being a pizza delivery person at some point so I can work on my driving skills. There are a TON of sales jobs out there that will give you an uncanny knowledge. I applied to be a technical salesperson at a -car dealership- with NO prior experience in sales or cars and they wanted to hire me on the spot. I said no because their commissions were not the industry standard rate :)

And it’s okay to work really hard to get those Real Jobs too! More power to ya! Take their money! Get healthcare!

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

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Witcher of the Night (Chapter 16)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

UPDATES FOR WITCHER OF THE NIGHT WILL BE PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY NOW IN MY TIME (GMT +8)

CHAPTER 15.1

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: A horny and insecure witcher decided to talk what his mind has been keeping; making you see how much of a man he was that was worth to choose and be chosen.

Warnings: NSFW 18+. (Yep. Again. Love it while it lasts, bb’s. Hehehe.) Some witcher in a rut. Finger sucking. Cream pie. Smut. Size kink. (I meant Geralt’s body build. LMAO *I base this story on the show. Not the game or books.*) an irritated bard? Ahehehehe. Nakedness? Geralt being soft and honest? (*screams*)

A/N: I was drained from the last chapter and I’ve taken a break. I was supposed to not update today due to it. I hope you can lend at least a minute to reblog or give me feedback, ghost readers out there! 💟 There ain’t no moments like this anymore because the plot will take its place on the next chapters! ENJOY WHILE IT LASTS!

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue!

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi (GIF credits: littlechinesedoll)

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

GERALT OF RIVIA WAS IN A RUT.

You were sure he was after being fucked into oblivion by the witcher for countless of times already; taking a lot of orgasms in just about eight hours? He was lucky that he was a mutant. However, in your side? It was unfortunate because your stamina was weaker than his.

Your poor punani has been overworked and wrecked again. Lungs seem to be incapacitated, dangerously reaching the critical level for accepting Geralt's wishes; another round of ceaseless bliss in which you certainly didn't defy. Pants and wheezes were muddled against the mattress as you shoved your face on it, vigorously being burrowed from behind.

Here you thought; feeling mighty and confident that you could take and last for how long his enhanced self would.

Technically, you were wrong. Utterly wrong.

Was it round twenty-five already? Thirty? You may never know because every time Geralt finishes, his girth somehow magically becomes stone hard again like he never spilled himself inside you. If only he wasn't sterile, you were probably about to get pregnant with little witchers somehow based on how he always milks you in; like you were his pet, letting you take it good.

The white wolf's libido was overly developed as well. As you were told by the man, himself. He could go on for hours, days and even weeks, nailing you repeatedly until you have no energy to comprehend what was happening, and you were sure that his enhancement with the desires he had was a perk and also a disadvantage for your weak self who had her virginity taken just days ago.

Your sexual experiences are being expanded and learned by Geralt, not knowing before that you had a size kink of being choked in his own weight above yours, baptizing every nook and space in their home like animals in heat and being treated like you were such a fragile little thing before being corrupted; tainting your once chastised soul.

The witcher was a person who had given you a different outlook in life. Bringing you to a wonderland in the midst of being railed repeatedly; consistent with his rigorous, shameless pounding from the back. Brusque. Sharp. Perfect for the angle that hits the perfect spot, polishing your hole that has sent you ripples and waves of glory.

Geralt's moans were withdrawn, holding back those sounds of pleasure from ponderously watching his girth push and slither inside your heat. His mouth tightly shut and thick eyebrows scrunched in rapture. Aureate eyes intensely concentrated on his hard cock slowly drilling back, keeping his bulbous head in before slowly drawling back like he like watching you be filled with his girth; admiring how you were stretched around his hardened cock.

He'd felt your body intensely tremble beneath his.

Your knees were quivering with every plunge. Warm drizzles of your cunt leaking with a mixture of his fluid and yours together; like art combined with a color that creates a new one. The room smelled like sex and sweat with a scent of fresh grass because of how the windows were wide opened.

Nobody would see you both in such a debauched position, right? you've thought that when Geralt has lowered you down against the mattress, his weight crushing and pinning you down, quickly getting to his job; sticking his girth inside of you like he never would get tired of doing so after basically baptizing the hallway through the second floor.

Elbows began to feel sore. A desperate whine began to gurgle from your dry throat. Hand tightly grabbing onto one of his that laid on the curvatures of your hips, dragging you back to his swollen girth with every shove; filling you over and over like how you deserved because you've been a good girl. Every time he did, Geralt never misses the spot that could bring you into another restless, writhing orgasm.

The filthy sound of skin slapping on skin came with icherous slimy caresses of your nectar coating each other's carnal greed. Noise came with his bedpost hitting the wall like a maddened gorilla raging out of its cage, when all of a sudden; you've heard Kolby's strange bark that seem to come from the first floor, alarming you both that his family has already came back. Yet, here you were, splayed below the witcher and still getting driven to his extremes.

Geralt pulled his hand away from the bed post, leaving a print and a crack of his hand against the wood. His fingers slid through your dangling breasts, palms groping your teat as he began to knead onto it like a cat trying to suckle from his mother; claws out as he tweaked your sensitive nipple in one breast to the other. Simultaneously changing hands as he continued to reach you both to the edge of Nirvana.

Then, you've heard laughter and complaining downstairs.

"Geralt," you started with a mewl, your body being rocked from behind, the sheets thoroughly disheveled from your tiring day activities. His hand that fondled your teat trailed up your body; while the other glided down for what throbbing nub that was needed attention for another release.

His palm gently met your mouth when you've began to moan from his fingers touching your clit, rubbing and circling it the right, pleasuring way while he went on with his ceaseless ramming.

"Hnnng," you whimpered, voice muffled from his large, calloused hand that covered your mouth; hushing you from any noise that could echo out of the room.

The way he was manhandling you does it. From the moment he tried shushing you up, your heat began to clench around him. Your body squirming and thrashing under his skin. Weakened from the sudden action as it made you tremble; feeling the coil beginning to snap with just a few more jabs.

More thuds and unfathomable complaints echoed outside the room. With Jaskier finally knowing what caused the commotion that he somehow managed to be in. Geralt didn't seem to be bothered about the fact that their table has been wrecked; though, the bard might say otherwise.

His plowing slackened when you’ve felt him breath heavily from behind,

"Shhhh. Quiet down, midget." he clasped his palms tighter on your mewling mouth; hearing his breathless grunts above you was making you squirm in his hold. It didn't take you another lewd moan when Geralt's thick index and middle finger skid in between the pillows of your lips, an act of pacifying your noise down which has gotten an elicit of your juices flowing down your thighs, soaking you more than ever. But, you never did deliberate to suck on those fingers like how your mind has told you.

The smutty action was enough for him to briefly glance down at you, engrossed and captivated by a never expected bustles from his naive, greenhorn of a woman.

Another weakened moan was muffled beneath the palm that clasped your mouth. Your fingers trying to wrench his own away from slightly pinching on your sensitive clit, dragging you to where you wanted.

Neverland. Nirvana. Heaven. Where ever you could experience bliss.

Or basically Geralt's bed because you were currently being brought to the edge of the rainbows.

He was persistent and continued rubbing on your nub, his thick, long fingers thoroughly drenched from your arousal.

"Ugh---Hmm. fuck." the white haired witcher deeply grunted and moaned, his jutting hips bottoming out as he continued his desperate, urgent drives. Thrusts turning reckless. Panting breaths like dogs in heat; embracing every bit of his urgency to reach the floating clouds.

Your real name has slipped out of his tongue, sounding so lewd which has taken you over the edge. Knees began to shake as the high took over. Muscles clenching and also your cunt tightly choking his girth to spill his seed, urging him to thoroughly coat your insides. Another loud breathless grunt left his ajar lips; the sweat dripping down his temples as it also drenched his chest from all the activities. His heartbeat was running miles after miles, chasing to catch yours.

"G-Geralt, Geralt, Geralt!" you've salaciously cried out with every sloppy thrusts in the midst of having a muscle spasm; choking in the blast of euphoria when he'd took his hand off your mouth, grabbing onto yours which has been holding onto the headboards for dear life. Hence, as the witcher pulled your hand away; he'd done the unexpected.

Geralt of Rivia has sweetly peppered the back of your hands with honeyed kisses to soothe your convulsion; treating you like he wasn't fucking you to oblivion nor corrupting you from behind.

You've heard his breath hitch. The way he'd dropped his large hand on the mattress over your small ones, gripping onto it hard; you knew he came. He'd panted heavily above you, the new position being surrounded by his gigantic warmth. Your juices soaking your inner thighs as his load shot inside you. All warm and cozy; giving you a fuzzy feeling inside your chest that you couldn't explain.

He never pulled out until he was finished. You were so full of him, his seed dripping out of your cunt when his semi-flaccid cock dragged out of your overused pussy, telling him how he’d filled you more than he planned to. Your knees eventually buckled and lost its will to be useful for you; your face down on the pillow, running short of breath as you planted over the tousled sheets.

Geralt laid on the bed beside you, his large body built turned to you with an arm tucked below his head. Basking in all his glory and sweat with amber eyes solely worried for your weary form. You sounded like you were wheezing as he hovered over to pull the blankets over your waist, shielding you over the cold, crisp wind of the afternoon dew. Your whole body coated in the satiny sliver of your sweat combined with his and the witcher couldn't help but take in the view that he longed to be habituated once again before you came along.

Did he...actually break you while being drilled? he silently thought at the back of his tousled, half tied chalky white hair.

"Midget?" He softly muttered, using an elbow to peer down before you. Aureate eyes lingering a little bit longer. His fingers extending to graze along the line of sweat that covered your spine before reconsidering, hands ought to brush your disheveled hair away from your face, taking his time as he glided his fingers down through the side of your face.

He doted on the spent image of your sprawled body in the middle of his bed. Your heart turning more warmer than it ever could when you've felt him watching you over, the blankets glazing atop of your skin as you've closed your eyes, trying to steady back your breathing.

"I'm...fine. Just...spent. Let me...breathe," you breathlessly whispered.

"Hmm."

His faint, vibrating hum slowly calmed the fluttering butterflies flapping their wings inside your stomach. He earnestly cast his eyes over you. The thick pad of his fingers tracing along the hairs of your arm; giving you a shiver, padding down till the tips of yours before strikingly filling in the gaps of your fingers with his. Such a simple action making your heart feel snug with a hint of palpitation from the sudden, unusual gesture from the white wolf.

Well, he was certainly learning.

You've taken a peek from under the flat fuzz of your pillows; seeing amiable, tired, tender eyes. Rough, large palms delicately scraping through your soft ones, entwined amongst the unkempt silk of sheets from the result of your passionate tupping.

With your eyes still shut, a jaded admission was sent to the latter; assuming things from your negative state of mind. This always happens in the movies, right? the small voice in the back of your mind stated. After all the blissful moments, complication and problems tries to hinder over the blithe that wanted you to believe that this was a much of a miracle to happen.

It was subtly telling you that your presence in their world had a time limit because you didn't belong to their world in the first place. Salt came pinching down your heart at the sudden realization of that; getting a gist of feeling by choosing to live in their world forever, there were instances that would get you coming back from your dimension. Every felicitious moment feeling like it was all temporary and a fleeting scene in your mind.

The idea struck like a lightning. You didn't belong to their world; nor do you fit in.

Such a change of heart that you wanted to scurry home since the first day you've arrived; thinking that everything was just a dream or a nightmare that couldn't wake you up. But, in this exact moment; you felt like not wanting to go home.

"Why do I feel like you wouldn't come back after your hunt?" you weakly muttered; brushing off the infectious thought that could bring the felicity down; pulling yourself closer to him. You've tossed the bad shadows trying to lure you in as you've focused on the golden light that Geralt could let you see through. His warm breath fanned your face as you heavily sighed out the worry crippling out of your chest.

"You're overthinking." he deeply rasped, hearing him breath steady; sounding like his declaration had a double meaning. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles as he continued to reassure your troubled self, "---I never leave nor would I plan to. My family is my home,"

Geralt collected his thoughts, breaking through the spell you've always had to cast him in. Only your exquisite scent being the fire to thaw his walls down. It took him seconds before bluntly saying his next words, making you flutter your eyes open to see him softly smiling back at you. His tone warm, comforting and nesh for your sensitive, soft heart soul.

"---you are also my home. I'll always come back to you---always will find you,"

Those words that he stunningly said made your heart skip a beat. The cicatrix glowing beneath the sheets without you knowing, ecstatic of what has come out from his lips as a burst of bliss spread right through your chest.

You've felt the adrenaline rush from his sudden admission and change of aura; abruptly making you nail your elbows on the table, repeatedly blinking back at the witcher when you've felt the balmy cloud of warmth spread around your eyes; close enough for you to cry and you languidly leaned down to his very peaceful face to softly give him a kiss on the lips in which he gladly reciprocated.

No. This wasn't sweet nothings where he tries to win over your heart. His words was a declaration of breaking those walls down for you. It was a key for you to come hopping in, an invitation of seeing the real him; his vulnerable side that nobody ever sees.

Hence, this was the first time you've had someone showing you what it felt to be important, needed and cared for. A person with real intentions. Sensations which you never knew it existed or believed that you would ever get to experience such.

Nevertheless, it took you a trip to another dimension just to have it.

Your mouth left his with a euphonious twang. There was no rush to the kiss or any type of greed. Just a succulent sharing of what you wanted him to feel from your quiet response of what he said. It needed no words of approval or even a shedding of your tears; erasing the worries away if you started bawling your eyes out from his secrets that he whispered. His thick brows furrowed in a questionable expression, intently eyeing your dewy peepers staring back at him. Utterly fond. The witcher feeling as if there was profound affection deep within your eyes as you tried to shield them over with that twinkling gaze of yours.

He knew what he was seeing or feeling from you. But, he chose to ignore as of the moment.

"Jaskier's fond of you," he abruptly admitted, downright apathetic; his gravel tone expressing a mixture of interest and a little bit of doubt, not for you but for himself.

That simple display of what you've visibly felt made your heart soften a lot more than it ever could. Finding it hard to believe that this person slash mutant in front of you also had his own issues, sounding diffident with just conferring about this surprising fact he noticed from his friend who seemed to be catching feelings for you that certainly was quite difficult to believe.

You were biting the tips of your tongue from saying anything further more, pulling back from driving too fast that maybe Geralt was falling behind.

"Jaskier? Your Jaskier? The bard who always tries to ruin my day? you’re hallucinating, Geralt." you wanted to snort from his accusation.

Geralt has given you a dirty look, appearing to look like he has issues with you that he didn't want to expand as he kept his silence and continued to send a grimace. Was he hallucinating? Were he hallucinating when he'd read those words upon your lips hours ago? Was your endearment just a slip of your tongue? A simple caught up in the heat of the moment?

Was he also just hallucinating when you’ve called him ‘love’?

"Am I, really?" the witcher stated flat, sending a displeased hum as he subtly played with the softness of your fingers clutched to his bigger ones.

Your eyes turned wide from his deadpan, "What did I do? That banter sounded sarcastic, kitty!"

The latter slowly blinked, dragging a sigh as his baritone timbre turned stern and also meek no matter how hard he tried to cover it up from the roughness that he wanted it to sound like, you could read between the lines and sure enough, he was self-effacing from his friend who was also fond of you.

"Do...you like the bard?" he hesitatingly trailed off. The question ending with a pause as it sounded completely unforthright. You've given him a tender beam; child like and masking with nothing but innocence, affection and understanding, "Go on. I'm listening. Tell me what's on your mind," you started, seeing his tight lipped mouth shut. Those amber eyes briefly looking away from you,

"---Come on, please? Let me understand and see through the good heart that I've always believed in,"

Geralt gave it a moment. Exactly a minute as you've accepted the tranquil silence with him. Such silence that you have never imagined to be so comforting because back in your apartment, the stillness was eerie and cold; imagining hands trying to take your soul away from surviving a life by working in another country where you had no one but you.

"You're...significant to me." his glowing amber eyes turned heartfelt, shooting warmth through your skin and chest, "---you are a lot to handle. An unorthodox in my dimension. Yet, despite that, you're the havoc I didn't know I needed,"

"You're calling me chaotic. How sweet of you," you deadpanned, snorting from his metaphors that got you successfully rolling your eyes back at him.

"Your existence brought me sheer confusion about you. But, I'd rather have that befuddlement than to not be with you,"

Destiny brought you to him. Those assumptions he'd taken into consideration was now taken into account. Thus, destiny just needed this to not fuck it up. It shouldn't because he much rather not imagine how it would happen nor how he would be able to accept such fate laid before him.

"Jaskier's...a friend---he's important to me," he continued, feeling your other hand fall onto the side of his face; soft fingers tracing along the scar on his forehead and cheekbones with that glimmer in your eyes that make him want to give you another kiss; readable in your peepers was the acceptance he never knew he needed so badly, "---No matter how annoying he is. He's still my companion. A real...friend. I've seen how comfortable you are with him, saw how compatible you were with the bard,"

You've stopped brushing your fingers along his marks. Your free hand sluggishly propping below your chin as you've peered down. A small grin curling your lips, "When have you been a love guru? Does this version of you come up with a graphic chart that tells how many percentages do I seem to be compatible with Jaskier?"

He kept silent, staring straight into your eyes with a lukewarm expression; not understanding your references.

You've given him a faint raise of your brow, skeptically looking at him with an amused flicker of your peepers, "You've seen us that night. Explains why Jaskier was ranting about the door you've broken,"

Geralt kept his mouth tightly shut, shortly looking away before giving you a pensive response, "I've already fixed it---and you know it was not just about that,"

Pulling your closed fist under your chin, you've tilted your head to the side. Pleased by his tamed reaction as you've leaned closer to his face, adoring Geralt's sublime features that never fails to charm you everyday. His charisma totally knocking your wits out as you could finally see more of his true self.

You started, your words smoothly dancing per word; sounding utmost sincere and in wonder, "People in your world say witchers don't feel emotions," even being disregarded like they weren't humans, you silently added much more to yourself when you paused to talk, "---Well, my witcher is exactly the opposite because you're full of it even though you sound unenthusiastic all the time---comes with the mutations, I guess?"

The soft look in his eyes warmed your soul. Attentive of the stars that seem to float inside those amber pair; looking like he'd caught them for you. He stayed silent, never breaking his gaze away from you nor planning to move away from your body close to his.

"Do you want me to be with the bard?" your question caught him off guard, keenly reading through what your eyes wanted to say. The query sounding like it was just a quip.

"Will that make you happy?"

Geralt warily asked, completely earnest of what he said that made you bite the inner plump of your lips. There was a long amount of silence, contemplating what made him think that way, even considering the idea of never getting in the way when you'll choose another person than him. Was he even real?

Your smile fell a little at the question, swiftly unwrapping your hands entwined with his which ignited a tight frown from the witcher when he miscalculated the sudden gesture. But, those dreadful thoughts ceased when you've poked his muscular chest, the part where his heart loudly beat beneath the pad of your index finger.

"Will that make...YOU happy?" you slowly emphasized and returned the question, intently gazing above him. When he never answered and stayed quiet, it was the right time to say words that couldn't be kept to yourself. You've forgotten to bite your tongue from saying anything further less.

"---But, YOU make me happy, Geralt of Rivia. Isn't that enough reason to choose you?"

Keen golden eyes deeply gazed into yours, as genuine than it has ever been before; sucking you in and having no chance to escape from the resplendent color of his hues. Geralt moved beneath to help himself by using his elbow, his sudden elevation making you tilt your head back to see him deeply staring, mouth turning into a tight straight line as he rasped.

"Even if it takes for your life back in your world to be taken away from you---fuck." he abruptly stopped in the middle of his sentence, briskly taking a glimpse of the door behind you when he could hear stealthy padded footsteps hiking up the stairs.

Jaskier.

Geralt sharply sat his back on the headboard. His silvery, unkempt half-tied hair moving as he does so, the white sheets pooling just below his torso. He looked bedraggled and utterly sweaty which made it feel so fulfilling to have him in your presence looking like that. A miraculous snack. You could never have this opportunity back in earth.

You bit your lips from keeping yourself from grinning, curiously eyeing him as you mused. He deliberately scanned your exposed back, "What? What's happening?"

The latter took no questions and quickly pulled the covers over your shoulders as you laid on your front, slightly elevated with the help of your arms tucked under. He loudly sighed, sitting back on the wooden board. Recognizable footfall thumping louder and closer before a wind up bard barged in the room without knocking or announcing his presence.

"You two!" Jaskier exclaimed, ceasing midway in the middle of the room; looking lost and piqued. His pretty face morphed into a tight frown to find you and Geralt utterly rumpled under the sheets. You tossed a look over your shoulder to see the bard straight up crashing inside like there has been no lock or whatsoever.

Geralt motioned with his hands, palms on either side to show how taken aback he was from his friend who came trudging in like he owned the place. His face hinting with displeasure. Wordlessly gesturing towards the bard with a 'What the fuck?' face.

You skeptically hushed whispers beside the witcher, timidly pulling the covers over your wild head, looking stunned as you exclaimed, "I thought you locked the room? I told you to lock it!---What if it was Cirilla?!---Don't you know what a lock is, Geralt?!"

Despite of your panicking and embarrassed state, he was entirely the opposite as he sounded lackadaisical, going on by glaring at the bard who has his face scrunched in utmost displeasure, "I didn't expect them to arrive home this early." the witcher rolled his eyes from his galled self and sent a scowl towards the bard.

Jaskier raised his brow in disbelief, "Early? We've been gone for 8 hours, Geralt!"

"Well, I thought you'll be gone for at least a day and not barge in our room after we had a 'moment', Bard. A knock would’ve suffice."

Another set of padded footsteps, this time it sounded like this person was merrily hopping through the hallway. Until a ball of Ashen hair peeked through the opened doorway with a short Hirikka standing in the middle of the threshold.

"I'm here---woah!" Cirilla seemed to be knocked out of her boots when she saw you emerging from under the covers, bashfully covering your chest with the sheets, looking mortified by everyone seeing you in that kind of state. You were glaring at the witcher who tossed your off the side for a while as he dealt with his scandalous and crazy family.

"---I knew it!" the princess of Cintra loudly clapped and jumped on her feet. Her excitement immediately dying down when she noticed that you both weren't actually clothed beneath the white blankets. She firmly crossed her arms, her nose scrunching in disgust, "---Also, gross! Please do lock the doors next time!"

She whistled at the flabbergasted Hirikka who was sniffing the whole room in bewilderment; stout stopping before the bard as he sniffed him loudly enough for Jaskier to wave his face off away from his face. Cirilla whistled another, catching the beast's attention and making Geralt wince due to his heightened hearing, "Kolby, let's go! I'm giving you a nice warm bath!" before she shut the door closed behind them when he'd run off towards the princess.

Geralt and Jasker were giving each other stern glares; seeming to be in a challenge where one shouldn't back down despite of how mean it appeared to be like.

Jaskier was the first to talk, beginning his interrogation, "Who ruined the dining table?"

You swallowed the butterflies wanting to fly out of your throat, lifting a shaky finger to point at the witcher who was still as he sat on his side of the bed, "I’m definitely not the person who has superpowers here---It's him," but, Geralt seemed to answer in the same time with you.

"No one."

Jaskier didn't seem to want and take everyone's bullshit as he crossed his arms in front of you both. Geralt's clothes on one hand and yours in the other that made a blush go straight up your whole face, burning the dignity that was left. You wanted to yell from how irresponsible you were for leaving your clothes all around the house when you promised yourself that it'll be fixed after your activity.

You didn't expect Geralt to take eight hours---or you did?----and actually forgot what was needed to remember.

"Oh, no one, Geralt? I suppose this shirt is also owned by no one, considering how unclad you are right now? Hmm. Would this tunic come from the Hirikka then?" the toubadour raised his hand where Geralt's black under tunic has been balled up.

Jaskier dramatically puffed out a sigh, sounding like it was the end of the world for what has welcomed them when they came back from their weekly visit for Cuthbert. He held forth about your sudden shenanigans around the house like a father delivering a tirade.

"We leave for eight hours and this is what you both welcomed us in," pause. "---A broken bloody table where we dine!" Another pause as he threw Geralt's clothes at his face in which he caught it perfectly, "---your clothes everywhere in the house like snakes who shed their skins anywhere they go!"

Lastly, his foot fidgeted on the wooden floors, tapping in anxiety as he remembered that tiny scratch he had seen on his beloved musical instrument, entirely galled from the wound it received like it was his baby.

"---and also my lute---my beloved lute falling on the floors! You've hurt her!"

"We didn't touch your lute," Geralt's response was tepid, lazily blinking back at the enraged bard who stood in the middle of the room.

Jaskier's raised his hands to his hips, raising a finger and opening his mouth, expression wild and ready to send another harangue before back paddling inside his train of thoughts.

He briefly shut his mouth, tilting his head to the side as he wondered out loud, "Oh, maybe the air pushed it to fall. I remembered how I left the windows opened too. However---!"

Geralt cut his verbal onslaught, his gaze narrowing at Jaskier who also didn't back down at sending a nasty lour at the entertained witcher.

"I'll fix whatever is needed to fix, bard. Stop your whining," you've felt the bed squeak and bounce. Geralt slipped his legs out of the sheets, feet plopping down the floors as he heavily sighed. It needed power; manpower for Jaskier to leave the room and Geralt knew he wouldn't leave until he pushes him out of the threshold.

The witcher stood tall and firm, completely au naturel from head to foot like how he have been when he was a baby, stark naked without being moved by the idea that Jaskier was in the same room as you. His bare ass never shaking him off and so does the bard.

"Leave. Out of my chambers, Jaskier."

Geralt sauntered to where he is. Your eyebrows raising in amusement as you've marveled over the witcher in the nude. His beautiful, rugged bare back on show with that A+ rating of his derriere in which you freely tried to memorize inside your head.

Though, you couldn't help but take a glimpse of Jaskier who seemed unfazed by this whole nakedness he was seeing; like he was familiar of the whole thing and the white wolf's dangly bits hanging and it has peaked your curiosity.

Do they bathe together then?

The bard has seen your amused smile with a skeptical brow raised to what you were witnessing. Thus, he peeked around Geralt to acknowledge your curiosity; pointing at you with a roguish grin, "That face tells that you have been swimming deep inside the vast depths of the sea, wondering why I am not bothered by the witcher's nudity---"

"Jaskier," Geralt sent a tired warning and held his slim shoulders, forcefully turning him around as he pushed him forward, towards the door.

"---It's because I have rubbed chamomile onto his lovely bottom before! It was true! I never lied! It was a part of the rules in becoming the rightful travel companion until you came along and began rubbing it for himself! Though, I doubt you did it to join our adventures!---"

You couldn't help but stifle your tee-hee from his admission. Finding their friendship amazing to the point that he does it for Geralt; receiving nothing but his altruism and adventures that the witcher has shared together with him.

Geralt loudly closed the door behind Jaskier; his mouth running on and on about how such a change of habits it has been when you came in their life. He'd knock a lot of times, calling out for the both of you and trying to want and barge in your moment but your white wolf finally knew what a lock is and slid the wooden block over the hook to lock his chambers.

"He seriously rubs chamomile on your butt?"

The skyclad man turned on his heel, raising a skeptical brow as you tried to focus hard on his face and not his body that stood before you.

"I guess that silence means yes, then. Oof, such bromance! Don't you think I'm the one who's actually becoming a hindrance between your platonic relationship with your bard?"

"Ridiculous." He took several steps closer, making you turn your head from becoming too flustered over his glorious, scarred body that he certainly isn't afraid or diffident about his imperfections anymore after you've treated them like it was a part of him that you will always accept. Geralt sat on your side, reaching over the bedside table to look beneath the drawers.

The latter placed a small, transparent bottle on your hand. A clear yellowish tone of liquid inside as you stared at it, thoroughly intrigued, "What's this? Is it another one of your witcher potions?"

Geralt hummed in negation, lifting his calloused hand to take your chin in between his fingers, turning your head to look at his ardent, shining amber, "Eucalyptus Oil. Took it from Cirilla's chambers. For you---For later. Perhaps, our recent activities had you feeling utterly spent,"

You've blinked, taken aback from his plans for whatever it is he wanted. Though, it didn't take you to put two on two together to know where his plans would take you, "Why are you---Oh. I know. I definitely know what you want." pause. "---you are insatiable, Geralt."

Geralt gently nudged your chin, tilting it up to his advantage as he leaned down to press a soft buss to your lips. Once again, he'd took your breath away by how tender he was handling you. The mere opposite of what people see and expected from because they never had the chance to walk through him; they didn’t have the courage to know who he really was.

His thumb that rested upon your chin were easily replaced with his lips, kissing you on the spot before gliding the dimples of his nose to yours, subtly giving you an Eskimo kiss.

"My overly developed lechery certainly comes from the mutation,"

Geralt's mouth lifted into a small, unusual beam, fluttering his eyes closed as he concentrated on you and that specific comfort he found. Questions came hitting him like stones, breaking the mirthful bubble that he was brought in.

He didn't want you to go home anymore because he'd found home in you.

But, what if fate had move mountains and threw his happiness away again? Leaving him no choice but to watch you go?

Taglist for WOTN: (Strikethrough means I can’t tag you, bb’s! 💖) @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernatural @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer @marvelousell @kingniazx @angelias134 @tapismyforte @chook007 @covid-donotenter @winter-moons @cheesecakeisapie @silverkitten547 @angelofthor @carrieannewaywardson, @plantingmum, @stuckupstucky, @shesthelastjedi, @a--1--1--3, @gutfucks,

Overall witcher taglist: @pizza-eater-i-ate-the-pizza

General taglist for Henry: @agniavateira, @iloveyouyen, @rahdaleigh,

318 notes · View notes

amoosewritesfanfic · 4 years

Text

[+18]

[Dabi x Fem!Reader]

[Villain x Pro Hero]

[Warnings: drunk sex, aphrodisiac, drugging, mentions of alcohol, rough sex, lipstick marks, runny make up, kinda dub con, swearing, stalker kinda vibes]

[I have no clue what this is, but here ya go, while I'm still busy writing that other thing.]

[I own none of the characters or art! All credit goes to original creators. Edit and story is mine tho]

Another bust, Y/N had been working on this case for the past two months, a string of burnt corpses popping up all over the city, it was hard to I.D the bodies but they were apparently some low rate criminals that seemed to piss off the wrong person, this man was named Dabi, his distinctive feature was the burnt skin covering his body, but there was not much else about him that she could find.

But Dabi definitely found out about her, chatter could be heard from a few low rate villains who was starting to chase after him. When he saw Y/N for the first it it was like hos heart was set a flame not because he was in love, no... far from it. He thought;

'This is the one that I'm going to absolutely ruin~'

Usually Y/N would have said no, as usual, to any drinks or a night out but her boss happened to tell her to take a break and with a direct order like that she couldn't say no. Her friends were immediately excited to see her rock up in that tight black dress she loved to wear when she went out, the way it hugged her curves and showed off just the right amount of cleavage was pleasing to anyone that looked, of course she wasn't wearing a bra and anyone who would feel her up that night would know.

The black heels making her slightly taller than usual, her hair loose, framing her face. Her lips painted with a pretty black lipstick and somewhat of a smokey eye done giving her that real seductive look.

Y/N had no clue that the man she had been hunting was in this bar and he knew that she was hunting him, of course everyone was, but he had grown infatuated with her specifically. The way her body moved with her friends or the way she laughed with those flushed cheeks had the man eager to see... to feel more of her. He knew when she were about five shots in and a glass of gin and tonic she would be wonky and her perception of who or what was around wouldn't matter.

So that's when he made his move, after all she stood alone ordering what looked to be like another gin, when she wasn't looking a distraction which came from one of her friends he managed to slip something into her drink. A harmless little drug.

Five minutes in she was back on the dance floor having chugged down her gin and almost bouncing off the walls from how good her body felt. Dabi wasted no time in moving in, his eyes watching her now, Y/N noticed him now, not taking in his appearance under the low colourful lights. He moved in closer when he saw that cute little finger beckoning him to come closer to her and he did, he got in close, pulling her back up against him.

She didn't mind, no in fact she grinded her ass against him, her fingers tangled up in his hair as his hands trailed along her curves, giving a few gropes to her ass and breasts. He could hear those cute little moans fall from those pretty little lips grinding her ass more against his slowly hardening cock. He tilted her head slightly, capturing her lips against his, a pierced tongue slyly running along her bottom lip making her part her lips allowing him access to her mouth.

She couldn't help but moan in delight from the way the metal felt against her tongue. Soon he broke away from the kiss, his fingers dancing along the hem of her dress, a deep voice rumbling against her ear making her giddy. "You wanna fuck doll?~" the way his tongue tan over the edge of her ear made her almost moan again but she gave him an eager nod, her body felt far too hot to say no and honestly she felt like this man would give her the pleasure she desired.

With a small smirk against her skin he took her hand and led her to a back room, away from prying eyes. Seems as though her colleagues hadn't even noticed. When the door shut his hand immediately moved around her throat slamming her against the, a small smirk on his lips. He couldn't believe it, the hero that had been chasing him for the past two months was practically moaning for him to fuck her. "Look at you... you look so slutty, like a bitch in heat~" he teased as his free hand pulled down her dress, exposing those pretty breasts, a thumb trailing over the hardening nub.

His hand then dipped between her juicy thighs, running over her, panties, no... a g-string. "What a slutty bitch... and you're so fucking wet too~" he breathed against her ear, earning a quiet moan from her. "D-don't tease me...~" she whimpered as her hand kept his hand between her thighs, he didn't hesitate for a second as he dipped his finger between those slick folds earning an almost desperate moan from her. "Do you want me to fuck you doll face?~" his lips were still pressed against her ear, his hand tightening slightly around her throat, the other wiggling inside her sloppy wet hole.

"Gods yes... please... please fuck me~" she moaned as her fingers dug into his coat. His lips captured hers again before he shifted them again, he pulled his hands away from her body for a moment before he bent her over a nearby table, the room that they happened to be inside seemed to be an office of sorts? Who honestly knew, all that Y/N was thinking about was being plowed until she couldn't think straight.

'If this is how she acts on a simple aphrodisiac what will she act like on a stronger drug...?' He thought as his hand landed a firm smack on her exposed rear making the female yelp her hands gripping the table. "I hope you're on birth control dollface~" he hummed burning off the g-string. "There's no need for this~" he added on, the sound of his zipper being pulled down and that light smack against her ass had the hero whimper almost.

She didn't even need to look back to tell he was rather well endowed, but what really surprised her was the slight bumps she could feel, his hand wrapped around his shaft slowly gliding his tip to rub against, the groan that fell from his lips was drowned out by the moan that fell from her lips as he slid himself inside her, stretching out her walls making her moan in delight, the feeling of his piercings rubbing against her walls made her legs tense up and her back arch slightly.

"F-fuck~♡ you're so big~"

"And this pretty little pussy of yours is taking my cock so well~" he grunted, his hands gripping her hips before thrusting deep inside her, his tip pressing against her cervix making her moan. "Shit...~♡ you're gonna make me cum already~" she whined out. "You better hold it~" he grunted, his hand moving from her hip to her hair, gripping it as his hips started moving, the pace wasn't slow at all, it was rough, the sound of skin smacking against skin filled the room along with grunts and moans from the two of them.

"Oh gods... you're gonna make me cum... your cock is touching all the right spots~ I can't hold it" she whined, he leaned in keeping her head tilted so he could attack her neck as his hips didn't stop, even as her walls slowly tighten around his cock.

"Oi oi oi, you better not cum doll, I'll stop if you cum~" he breathed against her ear as his hand now wrapped around her throat making her gasp out, legs were shaking. "P-please let me cum... I want to cum..~" she managed to breath out, she was so close, she could feel herself slowly reaching that high as much as she tried to stop herself, but oh... she definitely couldn't hold back anymore, her love juices dripped all over his pierced cock, making him grunt slightly from how tight she had gotten, but his thrusting hadn't stopped no, in fact he picked up the pace.

His hips snapping back and forth into her sensitive cunt with his hand tightening around her throat. "W-wait... you're being to rough, if you... ah!"

SMACK!

A bright red hand print was left on her ass, the skin swelling up slightly from the harsh impact of his hand, tears building up from the harsh spank.

"Little sluts who don't listen shouldn't be treated nice, you can't even listen to simple orders I'll have to teach ya a lesson doll face~" he cooed into her ear, his hand easing over the swelling skin, making her wince slightly, his tongue running over the shell of her ear. His hips were pressed up against hers now, not moving at all.

"Now that you've cum don't you think you should make me cum? Hmm~? I think you should let me fuck that pretty little throat until its bruised..." he whispered into her ear, her hips grinded slightly back getting some form of friction from his cock still buried deep inside her. "Huh? Or should I fuck you here...?" His hand trailed over her ass spreading her asscheek slightly before slowly dipping his thumb into her puckered hole squeezing her throat a little tighter making her gasp out.

For him however it almost felt like her pussy walls tightened around his cock. "Oh? Well would ya' look at that doll face~ I just squeezed your throat slightly and your pussy tightened up so much~ or was it my thumb rubbing against your pretty little ass hole?~" he hummed it felt like his thumb heated up against your puckered hole making you gasp out, your back arching. "Are you a horny little masochist? Do you like being choked out and fucked? Nod if that's what ya' like~" he teased and she nodded almost eagerly, her make up seemed to be running down her face from the tears that spilt, but she didn't care...

"What a stupid little masochist..." he murmured.

His hand loosened around her throat before he pulled his cock out of her pussy, it looked like it was twitching but his focus was now on that puckered hole. Dabi let his cock sit between those sweet asscheeks, lubing it up with her pussy juices before he shifted his shaft, pressing the tip against the puckered hole. "W-wait... not so-..." he didn't slid himself into her tight little ass, inside he pulled her up and shoved her onto her knees.

"I'm gonna save it for when you really piss me off~" he hummed as his hand stroked her cheek softly making her look up at him.

"But that doesn't mean that you're let off the hook dollface~ I'm gonna mess up that pretty black lipstick all over that pretty little face of yours~" he hummed trailing a thumb over her bottom lip, forcing her to part her lips, his eyes watching her expression as she ran her tongue over his tip which earned a quiet grunt from him. "Open that pretty mouth doll..." he mumbled as his hand trailed through her hair before giving it a firm grip, her lips immediately parted for him, he wasted no time in sliding himself into her mouth, groaning at how her tongue immediately rubbed against his shaft as it slid into her mouth, he stopped for a moment to let her get use to his size, but slowly pulled back, grinning slightly at the sight of her lipstick already staining his cock, but

"Don't forget to breath."

Was all he said as his hips snapped forward, burying his cock down her throat, making her gag slightly, his grip being firm on her hair made it easier for him to start thrusting, heavy balls smacking against her chin, faint lipstick marks covering his balls and cocks when he pulled back. Cerulean hues watching her eyes tear up and the drool starting to drip from the corners of her lips down onto her breasts or on her thighs. He felt the way her throat tightened and the way her nails dug into the back of his thighs, it made him pick up the pace.

His thrusts were slowly becoming a bit more erratic, with a few more harsh thrusts she could feel him throbbing in her throat, with one last harsh thrust, he buried his cock deep down her throat, his that warm salty essence spurting down her pretty little throat.

Her hands were tapping at his thighs as an indication that she couldn't breath, she almost passed out but he pulled back, his cock falling from her lips as he examined her face.

Mascara running down her skin and her lipstick smudged with strings of salvia connecting from her lips to his cock.

He loosened his hold on her hair, threading his fingers through the slightly matted locks. "I can't wait to use you more... do you want that doll face?" His words were soft as his fingers played with her hair as some means of 'aftercare'

She gave a slow nod, she looked like a dog waiting for it's master to give an order...

And gods it would be so wrong for the villain not to use that to his hearts content.

"Good, cause this is far from over my cute little hero~" he taunted and Y/N let the words fly over her head, it wouldn't be until the next morning that she would find her hands cuffed to the bed, her pussy feeling oddly full and her legs feeling sore along with her throat, yet she felt she was on a soft bed...

How smashed did she get...?

"Oh, you're awake~" that slightly familiar voice teased out, she looked up towards the source, there was standing with his hands shoved into his pockets a smug smile on his face, the scars on his face confused her for a moment before everything clicked in place.

"Dabi..." she whispered.

"Oh you figured it out hero~ how adorable~" he cooed clapping his hands together. "I can't let you go." He said as he moved closer, "shame you can't use your quirk would of been more fun if you fought, but it was more entertaining to watch a hero fall in a pool of ecstasy last night. It was fuckin' cute the way you be-..." "Shut up." She blushed, looking away from him, but feeling of him gripping her face made her whimper and look up at him.

"I think it would be more fun to fuck you while you're sober, you'll break so easy because of how weak you are~" He hummed a thumb trailing over her bottom lip.

"Oh I can't wait to fuck you into submission~" the way he had said it had her body throb in... delight? No... it had to be disgust delight

[I still have no clue what this was but I hope you enjoyed it :3]

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #boku no hero x reader #smut #bnha smut #boku no hero academia smut #my hero academia smut #bnha #reader x my hero academia #dabi x reader #reader x dabi #league of villains smut

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patricia-von-arundel · 4 years

Text

A World on Its Side: Prologue - A Temporary Sanctuary; Strange Smiles

Art by @zaaschila

An anon sent this what-if: What if: Jeralt's mercenaries was in actuality not a mere mercenary group, but one with more organization and it has its own squad section that acted in the shadows like spies or infiltrator. What if: they received a request that ended up with them secretly raided the place where El and her siblings were experimented on? (I'll leave the number of survivors to you) What if: they rescued the kids and disguised them, raising them along with Byleth in the merc group?

I opted to keep Jeralt as a mercenary, and then, well...

Before I start the story, I’m going to explain some of my thought process in how I wrote it, and then of what I’m concerned about with it. I would really, really appreciate feedback as to whether this particular style seems to be working, or if I goofed it and should scrap it and start over using a more traditional story format. This is just part 1 - I didn’t intend for it to get this long (shocker, I know), and we’re just getting to where the action starts, despite the format being an attempt to keep it short and sweet. So, uh... yeah. Under the cut, some info/thoughts.

This was initially just going to be Edelgard being rescued through meeting Byleth and training as a mercenary, but then I wondered what would happen if they somehow eventually wound up at the monastery anyway (bear with me when I haven’t given the reasons for that chain of events yet - I do have a chain, I promise), and then it became... well, I don’t want to spoil everything, but there’s more. And then it was the usual “well, shit” moment of realizing I didn’t have a drabble, I had this whole, stupid story. With inconvenient nonsense like a plot.

...Bother.

So what I wanted to try to do, to keep it as short as possible (ha!), was write it in more a... well, not a comic-book format, obviously, but as if it was, or perhaps a serialized pulp kind of story, since the whole “what-if” thought came from my love of the Marvel “What If?” comics I read as a kid. Not a whole lot of introspection or exposition in here, just action and movement from one scene to the next. No room for lollygagging in the mind.

And I think that worked broadly, but what I’m concerned about is that it muzzled Edelgard. Especially since she doesn’t have a lot of chance to show her anger and her pain without introspection, because she almost never talks about it. She felt to me at risk of losing her bite - and of getting over what happened to her too quickly. And that’s the last thing I want, because without those parts of her, she’s no longer, following the canon scenario of her childhood, Edelgard. It can be argued that a certain degree of softness might be acceptable if she was in the hands of Jeralt after the experiments rather than (I assume?) Hubert and Thales/”Arundel,” but I still worry that it becomes too much. Or that when the darkness in her does surface here and there, it rings false, because nothing else in the text supports it. I shouldn’t rely on readers’ knowledge of that side of her. That’s sloppy writing and bad characterization.

I also doubt Edelgard was still being experimented on this late in her life, but I needed to make it late for the sake of that damned plot. That won’t change regardless of whether I decide to rewrite it. I could stretch out her time with Jeralt and Byleth a little bit more, I suppose, if it just seems too unlikely she was still there only a year before the events of the game start. (Again, I doubt it myself. But I needed it for the story.) You can probably tell at the beginning that, before the plot wormed its way in, she was initially written to seem younger than seventeen. I haven’t changed that (yet).

So... now what I have to decide is whether to complete the story in this choppy, scene-to-scene format, or scrap it and do more development in a longer story. Therefore, I will happily accept the most scathing criticism you can throw at me. (I mean, I would anyway, but for this, I’m asking for it! Please tell me if Edelgard is just... completely unrecognizable.)

This is also... well, you may see this story as choppy for other reasons. Personal reasons I will go into at a future time. Whether you like it or not, let’s say this story is something of a rebirth. And with birth comes starting anew. Never a quick and easy process. Shaky steps.

All that said, if it does work - I hope you enjoy. This is not my usual style of writing at all, so it was kind of fun to just write the exciting parts. Even if the real excitement won’t begin until later.

Part 1/?

Rating: TBD (this part is probably a T, just for the beginning)

She tensed at the sound of footsteps, biting back a whimper - even that would hurt. She was too weak to lift her head, time now a blur of slippery consciousness. The footsteps were the first thing she had heard in... in what seemed a very long time. She could no longer say how long. There was just herself - and the silence.

They’re all dead.

I’m dying, too. Then the rats will eat me.

The rats were gone, for now. Sated by the flesh of the others - the tortured, mutilated remains of those who had been her brothers and sisters, left to rot around her. She no longer opened her eyes. She told herself she had grown accustomed to the smell.

Perhaps she wanted to die. To be quiet and still, as they were - to feel no more pain. No more fighting the shackles. No more screaming beneath the needles, the knives, the magic. No more agony sent coursing through her with every frantic beat of her heart.

She lived, though. Whatever she might long for - she lived.

And they were coming for her again.

She hugged her arms around herself, curling up as small and tight as the chains would allow, despite the pain of movement - it was almost involuntary. She had begged, at the start. Begged them not to hurt her. Begged for the others to be alright. Begged for her father to save her. But it did nothing. So now, she lay silent, and still, and alone.

The steps were coming closer now, echoing in the stone corridor. But something curious about them - they seemed almost... hesitant?

Father?

Her breath caught, hope like a taper within her scarred, aching chest. But just as quickly, it was gone again: the voice she heard was not her father - nor any she had ever heard before.

“The lock,” it said - deep and rough, even in hardly more than a whisper. “Be quick about it. We don’t have much time.”

“I know, I know.” A woman’s voice now, but just as rough. It made her think of the kitchen girls gossiping under their breath, their accents so harsh it sometimes seemed almost a language of its own. “Shut up. Lemme work.”

The soft clattering of metal pushed slowly, carefully against metal - an even softer click - then the familiar scrape as the door separated from its thick iron base.

“Wait here,” the first voice said.

“You’re the boss.”

A candle - he had a candle. How long had it been since she’d seen natural light? The ones who kept them here used strange, glowing orbs, set high against the walls, casting only faint, greenish light to the floor below. She wanted to stare at that bright little flame, despite the pain against her eyes. But it was too much. She looked at the man instead.

It was hard to make out details of his features, candle or not, but there was clearly a harshness to them that matched his voice. Sharp eyes, scarred face.

Scars.

She opened her mouth, but no sound could force its way past the rough, swollen surface of her throat. She didn’t know him, but he wasn’t one of them, and that was enough to relight that taper, deep inside her.

Those tentative steps again - he held the candle out, casting it around the cavernous room, empty of all but chains... and corpses.

And her.

“What the hell?” He was breathing shallowly, through his mouth, and suddenly she was very aware that the stench was still there. A trickle of the nausea she had felt the first time she smelled it, realized what it was, once more twisted through her belly. Like her whimper, she fought it back - dry-heaving had more than once made her pass out from the pain. If she passed out, he might think she was dead, too. She would be left.

Please! But still, she could force out no words.

“They sure didn’t mention this...” the man said. She didn’t look down to see what he saw. She didn’t want to see, truly, what they had become: the sisters who had braided flowers into her hair and showed her how to knock apples from the trees. The brothers who had called her silly names and sometimes read her stories. That was not all there had been, but it seemed, now, all she could remember: the childhood things she had not known to treasure. Things that could never come again. Things that no matter how many times she told herself to forget, her mind seemed simply incapable.

“What is it?” the woman asked, sotto voce, from the doorway.

“Pretty sure it’s the Hresvelg kids. But they’re all long - wait.”

Sudden light, full in her eyes, and she gasped and shied back. Bolts of agony - in her head. In what remained of the rest of her.

When the opened her eyes again, he was crouching before her, holding the candle carefully aside. His own eyes were brown - and softer, friendlier, than any she had seen for a long, long time.

She felt her lip tremble, but resisted the urge to cry. Crying hurt, too. And besides - like begging, it did nothing at all.

“Hey,” the man said. “What’s your name?”

For the first time in days - weeks - months - she found her voice again:

“Edelgard.”

“What’ll you do with her, Jeralt?”

Jeralt - the first time she had learned the man’s name. They had made a makeshift sling for her across his back; she was too weak to walk, much less to ride, and so was strapped in a blanket like some swaddled infant. She might have cared more if all of her focus was not on staying conscious - even at a slow pace, every step the horse took sent nauseating agony pulsing through her.

The man - Jeralt - seemed to consider for awhile, then sighed heavily. “I was going to bring them back to Remire if they needed some patching up before I figured it all out, so I guess I’ll take her home with me. Maybe some company her own age will open the kid up a little bit.”

“If this one survives. She’s in pretty bad shape, Jeralt.”

“She can hear you, you know. Anyway - just another reason to keep her with me, at least for now. It might be hard to hide 11 children just reappearing, but one? Simple accident. Poison made to look like some common ailment. Anyone who kills 10 children - 10 Imperial children, no less - doesn’t seem likely to care about killing one more. I’ll figure out what to do when she’s gotten some of her strength back.”

It was night - Edelgard could see the outlines of trees against the sky, and the stars above them. The world smelled of wet leaves, the earth, a clean chill that spoke of autumn. Despite her discomfort, she couldn’t ignore it - couldn’t stop a frisson of... of almost hope.

“Still back there?”

“Yes,” she said.

At some point, she slept.

She woke to blue eyes, far too close to her own.

Her first instinct was to scramble away - but even attempting to push back with her arms brought a cry of pain she could do nothing to suppress. She hunched her shoulders and closed her eyes once more, breathing in harsh gasps, until the sharpest of the agony subsided, leaving the familiar, dull ache that she had come to know so well.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound particularly sorry.” The words out before she could stop them, somehow defensive of her own childish behavior - but it was true. She heard no apology in that voice.

“Huh?”

Edelgard finally forced her eyes open again. The others, thankfully, had retreated - instead of looming over her, they now watched from beside the bed. They belonged to a girl about her own age, perhaps a little older - though without a current date, Edelgard had long since lost track of how old she now was. The girl had messy hair that matched those blue eyes and well-patched clothing. She was still staring quite unabashedly.

“My father said he’d be back soon,” she said - as if already dismissing her attempt at an apology.

“Your father?”

“Jeralt. He said you might be thirsty when you woke up. No food yet. Are you thirsty?”

Non-sequiturs. It took Edelgard a moment - thinking was hard enough through the haze of pain. Was she thirsty? She had found herself, at times, lapping at puddles on the floor, desperate, telling herself it was moisture seeping through stone, and nothing more.

Silent, painful attempts to speak, the night of her rescue...

“Yes,” she said - trying to hide the sudden, urgent realization of need. “Please.”

“I have to be careful.” Another strange, contextless statement - then the girl was up and gone, right out the open door to the outside. Edelgard could see the grass there, and the dark trunks of trees just beyond.

For the first time, she wondered exactly where she was. She looked around - a small cottage, perhaps? No more than a cabin? There was a semblance of two rooms, but no complete wall or doorway between them. She seemed to be in the smaller of the two. There was little to see - rough, chinked-wood walls; beams across the low ceiling; one bed besides her own, and what looked like a pallet on the floor between them. The next room was only in partial view: a fireplace, a table and two chairs, cured meat and dried vegetables hanging from ropes strung across the walls.

She had never been anywhere like this. But it wasn’t the hell beneath the palace in Enbarr - sunlight streamed through the narrow window next to her bed, and across the threshold of the open door on the other side of the room. She could feel the warmth; hold one weak hand up and watch it cast a shadow across the quilt around her. That was what she must focus on.

Sunlight.

Freedom.

The strange girl returned, now with a bowl and a ladle. She stopped short of the bed, and seemed to consider for a moment, looking towards the other room. “Do you want a cup? I think at least one is clean.”

Edelgard shook her head. Best to try not to think about it all just now. Best just to pretend that of course she knew how to drink from a ladle. Best to ignore the protests of her swollen throat as she swallowed - and to ignore as well the water that spilled down her chin, her chest. It was cold.

“Slowly,” the girl said. If she noticed the mess Edelgard was making, she said nothing.

Cleaning her wounds was like yet another round on those tables, strapped down and screaming. Except... it wasn’t like that at all. Somehow. Despite the pain.

“Do I need to have her hold you down?” Jeralt asked, nodding his head towards the strange girl - Byleth. Her name was Byleth. “This is going to hurt like pure hell.”

“No!” Too frantic - Edelgard stuffed it back: the terror of it. Her wrists and ankles were still raw, where the chains had bitten and rubbed away the skin. “I... I can stay still.”

The washing wasn’t so bad - it hurt, and a lot, but he was careful and quick. She could finally see the full extent of what had been done to her: her legs, her arms, and most of all her chest were a tangled web of scars and puffy, red-and-purple half-healed incisions. She could hardly stand to even look at them.

No one here had asked what they meant. She wasn’t going to tell them. She might not ever tell anyone. Anyone who knew was already dead - or would be very soon.

Worse than the washing was the brown glass bottle - spirits. Strong ones; just the smell made her eyes water. “Sure you can stay still?” he asked the first time.

She nodded. She was not sure at all. But she would.

He took her hand, extending her arm out, over the floor. There was a tub there. His fingers were gentle, but held her firmly.

“Won’t take long,” he said.

She held her breath.

On her other side - another hand slid into hers. She looked over, startled.

Byleth. Her eyes met Edelgard’s. She was almost... smiling?

The alcohol was like acid against her swollen, abused skin. Her back arched, and she fought desperately the urge to twist away - and to scream. Still, her mouth opened, a silent cry, and she felt the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Each of her legs. Her other arm. A rag, wiping agony against her chest. By the end, she was shaking with voiceless sobs, her body trembling all over.

Byleth never let go, except to move to her other side, even after Jeralt said, “There we go, kid. I’m sorry about that.”

Edelgard kept her eyes closed, as if that did any good against the tears seeping from them. She felt scoured - flayed open, every nerve set ablaze.

“He does the same to me.” Byleth’s monotone voice - but did Edelgard imagine the hand around hers squeezed, just slightly? “When I get hurt on missions. I took a sword to the back of my shoulder last summer, and he did that twice a day for two months. He does it to himself, too. You should hear him curse.”

It was by far the most Edelgard had ever heard her say at one time. But what caught her attention was - “Missions?”

“Mercenary missions.”

“You’re... mercenaries? You are? I mean - you, not just your father?”

“Yeah. For... awhile. I don’t remember exactly how long. Do you want some soup? You can try having some food now. But only a little bit at a time.”

Even when Byleth’s hand left hers, Edelgard could feel the warmth of it against her palm.

A blur of weeks - she still slept often, and drank water almost ravenously. Food, even soup, was more difficult to reacquaint herself with; her stomach seemed to twist and clench, rejecting it.

“Take what you can,” Jeralt said. “Just take what you can.”

Her wounds were healing - leaving raised, jagged scars, tattoos she did not need, would never need, to remember the place from whence they came. But there were no more baths of spirits, at least; just water now, every morning. It almost felt good: to be clean. To be cared for.

As weeks became months, Jeralt encouraged her to begin walking again, to rebuild the muscle that had wasted away. Her legs and arms were so skeletal, fragile, she had almost grown afraid to even attempt to use them.

But Byleth said, “Here,” and held out an arm.

Edelgard hesitated - then placed a hand upon it.

She would have been embarrassed by how tightly she clung, if she wasn’t focusing the entirety of her attention on her trembling, stiff, knock-kneed legs. She understood than how a foal must feel, stumbling to its feet for the first time after birth.

Outside the window, she could see that winter had arrived: the trees bare, the sky low and grey. They must be well north of Enbarr - there was snow on the ground, more than she had seen since her time spent in the Kingdom. But nothing gave any greater clue as to where they might be. She hadn’t asked - she wasn’t sure she truly wanted to know. Not yet.

When walking grew easier, Jeralt had her lift books or small pieces of firewood, to strengthen her arms. Byleth did the same, though surely it wasn’t necessary - even so young, Byleth was already all lean, hard muscle. Edelgard found herself watching how it moved, though she couldn’t say why. Envy, perhaps?

She didn’t understand many of her emotions, now. She kept them to herself. But she liked Byleth’s company, curious as it was, and she liked that odd little almost-smile Byleth sometimes gave her.

She also watched, through the window, as Byleth trained at weapons: sometimes with Jeralt, more often alone. Jeralt was gone quite a lot - missions? - but Byleth stayed behind. She practiced most often with a sword, but occasionally with the axe used for cutting wood, or a long, sharpened stick in place of a proper lance.

As the snow melted and daffodils began to peek through the crust of frozen earth, Edelgard felt almost whole again - or as whole as she was now likely to ever be. She still ached sometimes, but it was dull - bearable. She went outside, and could walk the perimeter of the little cottage six or seven times before beginning to feel exhausted. She woke in the morning eager for breakfast, plain as the fare on offer truly was.

But with all of this came clearer mind - including the nagging reminder of the vow she had sworn, beneath the palace, as her family lay dying around her. A vow she would keep, even if it ultimately meant her death as well. The time had come - the time for true preparation to begin.

The first almost spring-like day, warm and breezy - that was when she finally asked Byleth, “Will you teach me how to use weapons, as you do?”

Byleth lowered the makeshift lance, for a moment looking almost confused. “Why?”

“Because... because I'd like to learn. And it would continue to... to build my strength up.” She should have prepared an excuse in advance, instead of stammering all over herself.

But Byleth, as usual, seemed not to notice. “Okay,” she said. “What would you like to start with?”

And so Edelgard began, slowly, to prepare for the future.

To prepare for vengeance.

It was late spring when she finally confessed. It was only two months until the Garland Moon, and her birthday seemed as appropriate a time as any to leave. She could not put this off any longer - it was time to accept that.

But she also could not stand the thought of leaving Byleth without warning. Especially since...

“Kid?” Jeralt’s voice, late in the night - soft, but Edelgard no longer slept deeply or soundly, and woke at the slightest noise. “Hey - this again?”

In the meager moonlight seeping between the closed curtains, Edelgard could see Jeralt standing beside the pallet where Byleth now slept, half-bent over her. Byleth was on the pallet, just as she should have been. But she was sitting up, and her eyes were open. Open wide. The meager moonlight seeping through the curtains seemed to catch in them, so that their deep blue appeared almost green.

It was not the first time it had happened - and if anything, the frequency of it was increasing. Each time, it lasted only a few minutes, then Byleth would begin to stir and murmur, as if waking from perfectly normal sleep. She saw a girl, she said - but never elaborated, and Jeralt did not ask, and Edelgard did not know if it was her place to do so, despite her curiosity... and her concern.

She liked Byleth. She liked Byleth... in ways, and for reasons, she did not understand. That hand holding hers. An arm to help her stand again. Strange, wordless smiles. For the better part of a year now, Byleth had been here, a constant companion, helping, serving, teaching.

And now, when Byleth might be the one in need, Edelgard was leaving. She had to. But she owed Byleth at least an attempt at explanation of why.

“I would like to show you something,” Edelgard finally said one morning, as they were finishing breakfast. Just the two of them, Jeralt gone again; Edelgard was not ready to face both of them, though she suspected Jeralt already knew much of what she was going to say.

“Okay.” Byleth cleared away the table, accepting the request as easily as always. “Where?”

“Outside.”

It felt almost like summer - hot, the air still and heavy. Perhaps that was why Edelgard could feel the sticky discomfort of perspiration against her hands as she lifted the now-familiar old axe they used for practice.

She had never allowed herself to do this before, yet she knew herself capable of it: gathering all the power now contained within her.

The power of two Crests.

She drew the axe back, and hurled it before she could second guess herself.

Capable. Yes - the strength they had whispered of with such hungry need...

The axe flew, a blur of silvery-blue, and sliced completely through the slender trunks of two young trees before stopping, with a reverberating thunk, deep inside another.

Edelgard left it there and turned to Byleth, speaking the words before she could fight them back: “I have to leave. And soon. There... there is something I must do.”

Byleth just stared at her for what seemed a long time, her expression almost... concerned? It was hard to say. It was always hard to say.

“I know who you are,” she finally said. “And I know where my father found you. That’s why we came here - because it was safe for the Hresvelg children, if they needed to be kept hidden. But you were the only one who lived.”

Edelgard looked down, afraid her expression would offer more than she was yet prepared to give. “Yes.” At least that part she wouldn’t have to try to explain. How long had Byleth known? “They were doing... experiments. They wanted...” She took a deep breath, and forced her head back up, her eyes meeting Byleth’s. “They wanted a weapon.”

She told it all: the experiments. The deaths. The dungeons. She told it before the begging voice in the back of her mind could gain control. By the end, she was looking down once more: at her arms, crossed tightly against her chest.

At the scars.

“Two months until you go looking for them?” Byleth asked, when Edelgard was finally silent once more.

“Yes. Two months and a bit.”

“Go get the axe.”

Edelgard looked up then, surprised - it sounded almost like an order. But Byleth stared right back - then turned and left. Walked into the house without another word.

Edelgard blinked.

Then, she did as told. It took three tries to jerk the axe from the tree. She didn’t want to use her Crests again. Even with no one watching, she felt self-conscious now. Vulnerable and exposed. She bit her lip and took a deep breath before turning back.

Byleth had gotten a charred remnant of log from the fireplace, and used it to draw a large X on a tree - a far bigger one than those Edelgard had severed, and far closer to the clearing where they trained.

“Can you hit that?”

Again, Edelgard was surprised. She looked at the tree, then back to Byleth. “I... I suppose so?”

But the axe flew far to the left of the target. Edelgard did her best to keep her expression neutral, but there was no way to hide the flush that rose in her cheeks. “I... perhaps I am tired. My apologies.”

Byleth cocked her head, considering, apparently, the untouched target. “That’s what we should focus on,” she said. “Before you leave. Your aim. We can do that in two months.”

But they didn’t have two months.

Edelgard was half-awake in bed, drowsy, blanket pulled to her face. Jeralt was packing to leave again, and quiet as he was, it had been enough to keep her from sleep. Byleth was in the other room, preparing food for his journey.

An ordinary evening - until came the desperate, frantic pounding at the door.

Edelgard sat bolt upright, sleep forgotten, her heart pounding at the sudden noise and the accompanying, baseless, terrified thought: They’ve found me. She pulled the blanket to her shoulders, like a child after a nightmare. Byleth was standing in the partition between the two rooms, and Edelgard tried to focus on her - bright, alert eyes. Her hands by her side... but one held a knife.

It was Jeralt who opened the door.

Edelgard tensed. Blood pounding in her ears - she could hardly understand what they were saying. Something about an attack...?

It’s just boys. Just three boys. Nothing dangerous about them. Dressed in uniform, though they did not appear to be military. Something familiar about it, though - had she seen such uniforms before? When she was younger, maybe?

One of them - the tallest among them, his unkempt blond hair falling across his face - was scanning the room, as the other two talked to Jeralt.

Jeralt sighed. “Guess I’ll have to leave a little later than planned. Kid, you -”

The blond boy pushed past him - his eyes had locked on Edelgard. She met his gaze, letting the blanket drop, and lifted her chin. A boy. Not dangerous.

Jeralt tried to grab his arm. Missed. “Hey -!”

Byleth had the knife up.

The boy ignored them. And now Edelgard could see the shock in his expression.

He stopped a few feet from the bed. His eyes were huge, his cheeks flushed.

He spoke one word - one word that chilled her more deeply than the coldest winter day.

“...El?”

#edelgard von hresvelg #byleth eisner #jeralt eisner #anyone else would be a spoiler and a half #what-if tales of the tiny emperor #tales of the tiny emperor #a world on its side

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