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hoshifighting · 7 months ago

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rival fashion designer!minghao

— synopsis: where minghao flexes his fashion awards whenever your brand competes against him during fashion week. — WC: 3k — WARNINGS: explicit language, smut, reader uses a transparent clothing (just like rihanna in oscar x swarovski), oral (f. receiving) ENORMOUS DICK!MINGHAO, slight face slap, mentions of choking on a cock, penetrative sex—or trying to.

look, you weren’t trying to start beef with minghao. you don’t even know why the dude hates you so much. okay, maybe you said one thing about his fall line looking like it got snatched off the clearance rack at an IKEA. but that was a year ago. and also? you were drunk and kinda bitter ‘cause your show got bumped for his stupid avant-garde puff-sleeve renaissance clowncore shit.

but now, every fashion week is like a personal vendetta for him to humble you. you’ll be vibin’, sipping your overpriced latte in the designer lounge, and this man will just stroll in, decked out in some vintage runway piece that costs more than your annual budget, flashing that “i won best emerging designer again” smirk like it’s a fucking weapon. and then he’ll throw some casual shit like:

“oh, y/n, is that your collection over there? i thought they were setting up for the kid’s line showcase.”

[...]

so this year, you swore you wouldn’t let him get in your head. you’d play it cool, professional, unbothered. except you walk into your studio late one night, the day before your big runway debut, and this man is just there. sitting on your worktable. wearing a pearl-studded harness and leather pants so tight it should be a crime.

you freeze, halfway through the door, holding the iced coffee you begged your intern to grab five minutes before starbucks closed. “what the fuck are you doing here?”

minghao barely glances up from his phone. “your assistant let me in.”

traitor.

“why?” you slam the coffee on the counter, praying your voice doesn’t shake. the audacity of him just existing in your space is enough to make your blood boil.

he stands, slow as hell, like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s tall—annoyingly tall—so when he steps close, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. but you refuse to back down.

“just wanted to check out the competition,” he says, eyes flicking lazily over the chaos of fabric swatches and half-finished sketches strewn across the room. “cute line. very... simple.”

“fuck you, hao,” you snap, crossing your arms. “it’s called ‘minimalism.’ not that you’d know anything about taste.”

he laughs, soft and low, the kind of sound that creeps under your skin and lingers there. “oh, i have plenty of taste. i just don’t need to keep it basic to get attention.”

and here’s the thing: you hate how much he gets to you. he’s a smug asshole with an overinflated ego, but he’s also stupidly talented, and you can’t ignore the fact that his lines always sell out in under a day. or how his press coverage makes yours look like a local craft fair feature.

but what really gets you is how hot he looks right now, with his ridiculous cheekbones and the glint of that tiny silver chain peeking out from under his collar. it’s disgusting. you hate it.

you’re about to throw a cutting remark his way, something about how he’s overcompensating with all that jewelry, but he beats you to it.

“you know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “you’d look good in my designs.”

your brain short-circuits. “excuse me?”

“if you ever want to elevate your style...” he trails off, dragging his gaze down the length of your body like it’s a runway.

“you are so full of shit,” you hiss, but there’s no heat behind it, because your stupid traitorous brain is suddenly imagining what it’d feel like to have his hands on you.

he smirks, all teeth and danger, leaning in so close you can smell his expensive cologne. “maybe. but you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer.

[...]

the next morning, you’re running on zero sleep, fueled by pure spite and caffeine, but your runway show? flawless. models everywhere, hair spray choking the air, seamstresses practically sewing on skin ‘cause the deadlines were that tight. and you were doing a thousand fucking things at once.

fixing a hemline here, shouting at a makeup artist there—“no, not clean girl aesthetic, we’re going full grunge today, wake up!”—all while struggling to get yourself into the swarovskied transparent gown you planned to wear for the night.

no bra, because tits were the least controversial thing in fashion. and the way the crystals draped over your skin looking likew pure art. nipples out and proud, paired with modern curls swirled to perfection and makeup that screamed chaos-but-make-it-glam.

by the time your collection hit the runway, your nerves were shredded. but watching the models strut, each piece shining under the lights... fucking worth it.

and then, the finale: your dress sweeping dramatically across the stage as you closed the parade. you bowed to the crowd, letting the cameras and whispers soak in every inch of you, and as you turned to leave, you felt it.

minghao’s sharp eyes.

you caught his eyes just as they traveled the length of you—from the swirl of your hair, to the unapologetic sharpness of your nipples under the crystals, to the shimmer of your dress, down to the towering heels on your feet.

you just smirked to yourself as you headed backstage, knowing full well your collection didn’t just crawl under his skin this time. it slithered under his flesh, wrapped tight around his ribs, and squeezed.

[...]

minghao’s models stormed the runway like it was their goddamn birthright. and of course, you watched. no designer worth their silk ignored the competition, and minghao wasn’t just competition, he was a walking masterclass in making everyone feel like second place.

he closed his show with his usual flare, stepping out like he already knew the applause was his. fast-forward two designers later, and the nominations for the fashion academy awards started rolling in. you didn’t have to look to know minghao had already claimed half the early awards.

you watched him backstage through narrowed eyes as he balanced four trophies—two tucked in his arms, two in his hands—posing for a picture with that smug-ass smile. you knew that pic was already blowing up on his Instagram. your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as the last nominations were announced.

and then, plot twist of the year:

your name came up five times.

designer of the year: you.

new vision in fashion: you.

collection of the year: your brand.

runway innovation: your brand.

showstopper of the year: your brand.

walking out with those five heavy-ass awards in your arms? victory tasted better than champagne. your models and team practically swarmed you, hyping you up ‘cause they knew how much blood, sweat, and tears went into this collection.

but what you really wanted... minghao. definitely minghao. minghao, in your line of sight. because after all the times he flaunted his wins like a smug bastard, you wanted him to feel this.

and lucky for you, fate delivered.

you spotted him in the back hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. clearly, he hadn’t heard the last nominees. his head snapped up when your heels echoed through the space.

“oh, hey, hao,” you called out, voice sweet as honey but sharp as glass. you stopped just short of him, shifting the five trophies in your arms so they pressed against your chest. the weight of them pushed your tits up just enough to catch his eyes.

“looks like I’ve got... a plus one on you this year.” you smirked, shaking the awards a little for good measure, the motion making the crystals on your dress catch the dim hallway light.

his eyes flicked down—brief, subtle, but not subtle enough—and then back up, his expression neutral, but you could feel the shift in his ego.

“congrats,” he said, the word clipped like it physically hurt him.

“thanks, babe,” you purred, turning on your heel with a sway of your hips. “see you next season. maybe.”

and with that, you left, letting the click of your heels carry the weight of your victory.

[...]

days later, you were lounging in minghao’s big leather chair, legs crossed up on his table, showing the expensive ass high heels you always wore. his assistant had let you in with barely a question, and you weren’t one to waste an opportunity.

when he finally walked in, his eyes narrowed immediately. “what the hell are you doing here?”

“relax,” you drawled, leaning back like his office was a spa. “your assistant said I could wait. guess they like me more than you.”

he folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “didn’t think you’d show your face here after the other night. thought you’d be busy polishing all those trophies.”

you grinned, slow and smug. “oh, i polished them. just thought i’d stop by to see how you’re doing. must be hard, you know—losing.”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. instead, he stepped closer, looming over you. “you done?”

“not even close,” you said, standing up to match his energy. you stopped just shy of his chest, tipping your chin up. “but don’t worry, hao. i’ll let you borrow a trophy sometime if you really need the validation.” you patted his shoulder.

he scoffed, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “you know, i like your attitude.”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah? you must, considering how much you stalk me every season.”

“maybe that’s why we should work together.”

you laughed, loud and sharp, tossing your head back. “oh, that’s rich. you? work with me? what, so you can take credit for my ideas and call it a ‘collaboration’?”

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “i’m serious. we’d be unstoppable.”

for a second, you almost believed him. “unstoppable, huh? what makes you think i’d even want to work with you?”

“because you like the challenge... admit it. you love it when i push you.”

“you’re intolerable.”

“and yet,” he murmured, stepping so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, “you haven’t left yet.”

your laugh came out breathy this time, your pulse quickening as his hand grazed the curve of your hip. “you think I’m staying here for you? please. your assistant let me in, remember?”

“sure,” he said. his thumb traced slow circles against your side, almost lazy. “but you’re still here.”

you were about to snap back with something cutting, something to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, but then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze locked on yours like a predator sizing up prey.

“stop thinking,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for your lips to almost touch. “you might actually enjoy yourself.”

his lips were soft and plump, moving against yours so fucking good that felt unfair. his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped.

your hands found his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm under your fingertips as you pushed him slightly, breaking the kiss with a smirk. “you’re bold, i’ll give you that.”

“you’re still thinking,” he teased, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back.

your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping just enough to feel the flex of his muscles. you threatened to sit on his table.

his eyes widened slighty, his hands immediately grabbing your ass to lift you up, making you yelp. “don’t!”

“what? scared i’ll break it?” you teased, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he places the needles that were spread lazily on the table, inside of a box. he turned, his grip firm as he carried you a few steps and sat you on a nearby armchair.

“there were needles on that table, genius,” he scolded, his tone sulky but his fingers tracing slow lines along your thighs. “you’d be bleeding before I even got started.”

“aww,” you cooed, dragging your nails down his neck. “you worried about me, hao?”

“no,” he muttered, kneeling, dipping his head to kiss along your jawline, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch towards him. “just don’t want to ruin my night with a trip to the hospital.”

your laugh turned into a soft moan as his lips found the spot just below your ear. “guess you’re not as heartless as you act.”

he pulled back slightly, his smirk sharper than ever. “you talk too much.”

you pulled him in for another kiss, your tongues colliding this time. when you tried to take control, tilting your head for a deeper angle, he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.

minghao’s hands were firm on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin like he wasn’t about to wreck you in the middle of his office. his eyes dragged down, lingering on the way your skirt was pushed up, the space between your legs bare and unapologetic.

he clicked his tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “no panties, huh?” he said. “came here like this?”

“what can I say?” you shot back, shifting slightly so his hands pressed harder against your skin. “i had a feeling you’d end up on your knees.”

his smirk deepened, his fingers tightening slightly as he leaned in, close enough for you to feel his breath. he pressed your legs further onto the armrests, spreading you wider, his hands splayed like he wanted to leave imprints.

his tongue flicked out, close enough to make you tense—but he didn’t touch you. instead, he pulled back, his eyes locking with yours as a smirk tugged at his lips.

he leaned in again, his tongue brushing so close you could feel the warmth from his breath, but once again, he pulled back just as you tilted your hips forward.

“hao..” you warned.

“what?” he teased, his lips hovering over your folds.

your hands gripped the armrests as you glared down at him. “if you don’t stop playing, i swear—”

he cut you off with a broad, strong lick, dragging his tongue from your entrance, through your folds, and up to your clit in one unbroken suck. your head fell back as a gasp tore from your lips.

“that shut you up,” he muttered, his voice muffled as he dipped lower, his tongue swirling around your entrance before moving back up. “needy much?”

“shut up and do it again,” you shot back, your voice sharper than the way your thighs trembled under his grip.

and he did the same. your clit throbbing at the rough skin of his tongue, making you melt on his armchair, he smiled at the sight, he knew how a good head felt after months dealing with needles and sparkly cloths.

his lips latched onto your folds, sucking them into his mouth before he pulls back just slightly, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, teasing strokes. you let out a pornographic moan, before your clap a hand on your mouth, remembering the team outside the office. he chuckled darkly, his hands tightening on your thighs to hold you still. his lips wrapping around your clit again. this time, he sucked it fully into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it as his eyes flicked up to yours.

“you’re so good at this, hmm—fuuuck!” you said, your nails drowning in the leather of the armchair. “you must’ve practiced on a lot of other girls, huh?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, and his teeth grazed your clit just enough to make you wwhimper. “jealous?” he asked, his voice smug, though he didn’t stop the relentless motion of his tongue.

“please,” you shot back, though the way your breath hitched betrayed you as he did a zig-zag on your bud with the tip of his otngue. “you’re better when you’re silent.”

he smirked against you, his lips curving as he pulled back just enough to speak. “then shut me up.”

your fingers tangled in minghao’s hair, tugging him closer, harder, until his face was buried against your pussy. his groan vibrated through you, desperate, and his hands clamped down on your thighs to steady himself as you rolled your hips against his mouth.

“that’s it... mhmm, just like that...”

he obeyed, his head bobbing as his tongue slid against you in broad, wet strokes, his lips sealing around your clit every few seconds to suck, deep and rhythmic. the wet, obscene sounds filled the room, and your nails scraped lightly against his scalp as you held him there, guiding him exactly how you wanted.

the heat in your core coiled tighter, and you barely had time to register your orgasm hit.

your back arched, your mouth falling open as moans spilled out shamelessly. your hips rolled against his face as you came, and minghao didn’t stop—not for a second. he worked you through it, sucking and licking as though he felt your climax before you did.

he only pulled back when you began to squirm, your breath coming in sharp gasps as overstimulation took hold. his lips and chin were slick as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting as he looked up at you.

“had fun?” he asked, sarcastically.

you gave a breathless laugh, your chest heaving as you leaned back in the chair. “you talk too much for someone who just spent five minutes swallowing my pussy.”

his smirk widened, and he stood, his hands braced on the armrests as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “and you talk too much for someone who’s about to beg me to fuck her.”

your gaze flicked to his lips, and then lower—to the bulge straining against his pants. “big words,” you said. “let’s see if you can back them up.”

his hands slid to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walked you back toward the desk—no needles this time. you didn't even had time to register what was happening before your skirt was pushed higher, his fingers brushing over your thighs as he settled you on the edge.

his hand worked his belt, the clink of the buckle making you clench around nothing.

“this isn’t gonna be quick,” he said as he freed himself, the sheer size of him making your breath catch. it was big both in length and girth.

you swallowed hard.

“relax... mhmm”

he teased your entrance with the tip, sliding it slowly against you, and the stretch was immediate, even as he slightly pressed in. your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as he pushed forward, achingly slow, giving you time to adjust.

“ngh—fuck!” you gasped, your voice breaking as he filled you inch by hard inch.

“breathe,” he murmured, his tone gentle despite the tension in his body. mouth glued on yours to make sure he feels your puffs of air.

“trying”

he paused, his hands tightening on your hips as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re okay,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you hiccuped, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as your body struggled to adjust.

“there you go,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he waited “good girl. just like that.”

you exhaled slowly, your body relaxing slightly helping him to slid in further, the fullness stealing the air from your lungs.

your hands gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin as he finally bottomed out, his body pressed flush against yours.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as he buried his face in your neck. “you’re—so fucking tight.”

you swallowed hard, your head tilting back as you tried to catch your breath. “you’re—so fucking big.”

he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours as a smirk tugged at his lips. “think you can take it?”

your breath hitched, and you nodded, your hands sliding to his back as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “try me.”

minghao hips pulls back just an inch before thrusting forward experimentally. the sound that left your lips was somewhere between a moan and a strangled gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders as your body clenched around him.

he paused, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to the side, his eyes flicking over your face. “yeah, knew that’d happen.”

“don’t—” your breath hitched as he moved just slightly, a tiny shift that made you clutch at him even harder. “don’t fucking smile like that.”

his laugh was quiet, he leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours. “why not? you’re almost cummin already.”

“i’m not—” the words caught in your throat as he slid just a little deeper, your body trying desperately to adjust to his size.

“not what?” he asked, his tone playful as he stilled again, waiting for you to catch your breath.

“not—cumming” you managed, though your voice shook with the effort of speaking.

“hmm.” his thumb grazed your clit, circling it trying to soothe your nerves. “then why are you holding on to me likethat?”

you glared at him, though the effect was probably ruined by the way your mouth fell open with a gasp as his thumb pressed down just slightly harder.

your body tensed as he began to move again, sliding in slowly, each inch dragging against you in a way that made your head fall back. the wet squelch of your body adjusting to his girth filled the room, obscenelly.

“shit,” he muttered, his voice tight as he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you steady. “you’re so—tight. feels like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“maybe i am.”

he laughed softly “you’re all talk,” he murmured, his thumb still circling your clit. “that pussy is begging for me.”

“hao,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his arms as your legs tightened around his waist. “i—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said softly, his lips moving against your neck. “breathe for me, baby. you’ve got this.”

you exhaled shakily, your chest rising and falling against his as you tried to relax, tried to let the tension in your body melt away. his thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, insistent, coaxing pleasure to override the discomfort.

“that’s it,” he murmured, his voice soft as his arm tightened around your waist. “just like that. let me in.”

your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut as he finally slid deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. the sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you.

“you okay?”

you nodded weakly, your hands sliding up to grip his hair as you whispered, “move.”

he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “not yet.”

your eyes snapped open, frustration bubbling in your chest as you glared at him. “hao—”

“relax,” he murmured, his thumb circling your clit again, making you cry out slyly. “i’m not gonna ruin you all at once. gotta make sure you can take it.”

“i can,”

“we’ll see,” he said, his tone smug as he finally, finally pulled back, his cock dragging against you.

“hao, just—fuck me already.”

his laugh was quiet. “you’re not ready for that yet, look—” he roll his hips, making you hiccup again. “but don’t worry—I’ll get you there.”

“how about you?” you ask, feeling your orgasm building up as he circled the thumb faster, your hips rolling slightly, weak, like the cock inside you was to heavy to make you roll them freely.

“i can get off just by looking at this pretty face...” he slaps your cheek weakly, twice, making you squeeze around him. “listen to what i'm telling you… you're still going to model for my brand.” he chuckles.

“i’d rather choke to death than work with your brand.”

“why don’t you choke on something else, then?”

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meleeyz · 7 months ago

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┈﹒ ꒰ 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗨𝗧𝗙𝗜𝗧𝗦 ꒱

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ It's the first oneshot I've written here and in English, enjoy and let me know your opinion ;)

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Ekko’s workshop was always buzzing with a quiet, electric energy, a space where ideas sparked as easily as bolts from his tools. Today, though, the hum of his work seemed charged with something more, something new.

You were perched comfortably on his worktable, your gaze fixed on him as he knelt beside his half-dismantled hoverboard, hands busy replacing a cracked circuit. You’d shown up in a new outfit, something more “work-appropriate,” as Zeri had put it. She’d insisted on it, practically yanking you to her favorite underground tailor that morning, saying you needed “a proper look if you’re gonna hang around the Firelights.”

The end result, strangely enough, looked like it could’ve been handpicked from Ekko’s own wardrobe—a mix of utility and edge, sturdy but stylish enough to blend in with Zaun’s streets. Though it was obvious that Zeri had chosen the style, the whole look had an uncanny resemblance to Ekko’s own favorite fit, down to the last detail. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d done it on purpose.

Maybe he wasn’t as subtle about his hints as he thought he’d been.

You noticed him watching you, his brown eyes lingering a moment longer than he probably meant them to. You fought back a small smile and threw a comment his way, something light and sarcastic about the “coincidental” matching outfits, pretending not to see the faint flush that rose to his cheeks in response.

“Zeri did say it was supposed to be work-appropriate,” you said, crossing your arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “But I didn’t think she meant this close to the Firelights’ dress code. You got a hand in that, Ekko?”

He looked up, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, though he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he returned to his work, tugging at a stubborn bolt and muttering something unintelligible about “stupid circuitry.” But you noticed the twitch in his lips, the way he was holding back. As he worked, you found your gaze drifting over his features. The concentrated furrow of his brow, the way his hands moved with practiced ease, the quiet intensity that settled over him whenever he was focused on a task—it was captivating in a way you hadn’t quite expected.

Ekko could feel your eyes on him, too, and the idea that you were watching him—really watching him—sent an electric thrill down his spine. He didn’t want to say anything and risk breaking the moment, but it made his hands feel almost clumsy as he tried to focus on the hoverboard.

“Enjoying the view?” he teased, raising an eyebrow without looking up. His voice was casual, but he was anything but.

Caught off guard, you huffed and rolled your eyes, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible.

“Not really. I was just wondering how long it would take you to fix a single circuit board.”

Ekko laughed under his breath, stealing a quick glance up at you.

“Good one,” he said, tightening the last bolt with a playful shake of his head. “You might look the part, but I think you still got a ways to go before you understand how delicate this stuff actually is.”

“Oh, I understand delicate,” you replied, leaning forward with a slight smirk. “I just thought you were faster than this, Little Man.”

At that, he finally set down his tools, crossing his arms as he straightened up and fixed you with a challenging gaze. “Careful with that nickname,” he warned, though his tone was light. “Only certain people get away with that.”

You raised an eyebrow, shrugging as if it were no big deal, but you couldn’t hide the amusement in your eyes.

“Good thing I’m not just ‘certain people,’ huh?”

A brief silence settled over the room, and the air thick.. Ekko glanced down at your matching outfits, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t resist saying it now.

“Guess we look pretty good together, don’t we?” he mused, looking back at you with a glint in his eye. He tilted his head, inspecting the outfit with mock seriousness. “I mean, not that I had anything to do with it or anything…”

You narrowed your eyes at him, sensing there was something he wasn’t telling you.

“Uh-huh. Right. Because I just happened to show up looking like your twin by pure chance.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault if you’ve got good taste,” he shot back, raising his hands in defense. But there was a glimmer in his eyes that gave him away, the faintest hint of guilt wrapped in a smile. He shifted under your gaze, hands back at the hoverboard, suddenly finding the bolts extremely interesting.

“Ekko,” you said, leaning forward with a grin. “Just admit it—you told Zeri, didn’t you?”

He bit his lip, trying to hide the grin that threatened to break free.

“What? No. Me? Tell her to match you with me? Why would I… I mean, I don’t need to do that, obviously. I just… maybe gave her a few hints, that’s all.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away.

You tilted your head, your expression amused but curious.

“A few hints?”

“Alright, maybe more than a few,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I may have… strongly suggested that she’d do me a solid. Told her you needed something sturdy, something that says ‘ready for action.’”

“And something that conveniently matches your look?”

“Hey,” he said, flashing a grin, “it’s all part of team spirit, right?”

You laughed, and the sound filled the small workshop, bringing a warmth that had little to do with the stuffy, cramped room. Ekko looked at you, his face softening as he watched the way the corners of your mouth lifted, the easy way you teased him. In that moment, he felt a surge of pride mixed with something he couldn’t quite put into words.

The tension between you shifted, settling into something quieter, more comfortable. He hesitated, caught between the impulse to say more and the safety of holding back. But he found himself taking a small step closer, his eyes serious now as they met yours.

“You know,” he said softly, the bravado slipping from his voice, “I just… thought you’d look cool. Like you belonged here. Not that you need clothes for that or anything,” he added quickly, fumbling over his words, “but… it helps.”

For a brief moment, you forgot how to speak, his words catching you off guard in a way that left you momentarily stunned. When you finally found your voice, it was softer, more genuine.

“Well, I guess I should thank you, then,” you said, a gentle smile spreading across your face. “I could get used to this look. Guess I owe Zeri, too.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, but the laughter quickly faded into a thoughtful silence. He looked down, suddenly unsure of himself, as if he hadn’t just been wearing a confident smile a moment before.

“You know, I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly. “I don’t say it much, but… it’s cool having someone like you around.”

The words hung in the air, raw and honest, laced with all the things he hadn’t yet dared to put into words. You felt your heart skip a beat, your usual sarcasm and wit replaced by something softer, something fragile.

Before you could respond, he tapped the board, testing its balance with a nudge.

“Alright, give me a hand with this?” he asked, a little too quickly, holding it out towards you. “The stabilizer’s acting up again.”

Grateful for the distraction, you hopped down from the table, moving to stand beside him. You watched as he leaned over the board, pointing out the issue, but you could hardly focus on the gadget. Instead, your gaze wandered, noticing the fine details in his hands, the deftness of his movements, the way his focus was so intense.

Together, you both adjusted the stabilizer, a comfortable silence settling over the workshop, punctuated only by the occasional click and buzz of Ekko’s tools. When he was satisfied, he gave the board a final spin, and it hummed to life, hovering slightly above the ground with a soft glow. He grinned, proud of your combined handiwork.

“Not bad,” he said, his voice warm with pride. He turned to you, his eyes bright. “Almost feels like I’ve got a new partner-in-crime. Think you could handle it?”

You rolled your eyes with a smirk.

“You think I can’t handle a little trouble?”

“Fair point,” he replied, a laugh bubbling out as he nudged your shoulder. He stepped back, reaching out his hand toward you with a grin. “Hop on. You can test it out, see if my handiwork holds up.”

You took his hand and he put his arm around you, playfully saying that you would fall or something, whatever, you didn't really pay attention to him but instead all your concentration was on his hand holding your waist, and with a push you both left the workshop, the tree outside was as beautiful as ever, the cool breeze hitting your face and you could swear there was a strange feeling in your stomach thanks to the height.

Yeah, it was probably the height…

After a few loops, he brought the board to a slow stop, both of you leaning on each other for balance. He stepped off first, offering his hand to help you down.

“Guess it works pretty well,” he said, giving you a satisfied nod. “Must be the matching outfits. Makes everything run smoother.”

“Must be,” you replied, smiling as you gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Maybe we should make this a regular thing.”

His eyes held yours for a moment longer, his expression softening as he considered your words. “Yeah, maybe we should,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

As you climbed the stairs in the tree to re-enter the workshop, you two began to chat calmly again, pretending that everything was exactly the same as before. But now you couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of happiness. Ekko’s touch, his words, and the way he’d gone out of his way to match outfits with you—it all felt like a secret shared only between the two of you.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

#ekko x reader #arcane x reader #ekkoxfemreader

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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 8 months ago

Text

Inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you struggle coming up with new designs for the Nine, and the Lord of Gifts helps you overcome your creative block

Warnings: smut (p in v, cockwarming, tease and denial, dom!Annatar vibes), reader hesitates at first because she’s surprised by Annatar’s advances but she’s on board with it, manipulation cause she doesn’t know Annatar is Sauron, small discrepancies with the canon timeline for the sake of the fic’s (very little) plot, unrealistic(?) method of solving artistic blocks (the irony is that I wrote this fic to get out of writer’s block with another one and it worked😆)

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

“How fares your progress?”

Lord Annatar’s voice nearly startles you when you see him approach. You thought you were alone in the forge room, with nothing but your thoughts and the unfinished Ring designs currently staring in defiance up at you from a piece of paper.

“Well enough,” you say, reflexively. Then sigh, letting your pencil fall on the table. “Well, in fact... it is slow,” you confess, glancing at Annatar as he walks towards you. You wince internally when he looks over your shoulder at your sketches. “My skills are no match for Lord Celebrimbor’s, and even he has had difficulty finding the right designs.”

“And yet he chose you alone to carry on with the efforts in his absence,” he argues, even when faced with what you deem to be your far-less-than-satisfactory attempts. Looking up, you find him offering you a sympathetic smile. “You sell yourself short, my friend. It is a real pity.”

You avert your gaze, attempting yet surely failing to conceal your fluster. His compliments, however small, always have a sincerity about them that touches you deeply.

Lord Celebrimbor had, quite literally, worked himself into oblivion after one too many failed attempts at crafting the Nine, and more hours without rest than even an Elf could endure. He had refused to retire to his chamber for some much needed sleep until he had fainted upon his own worktable, and even then, he had refused for anyone but you to even attempt to create new designs for future tries in his absence. He had been odd, of late, mistrusting and, dare you say, even irresponsible at times. But you were his oldest and most trusted apprentice, and that seemed to earn you some of the good will he still had left.

Not that you feel he has made you much of a favour, leaving you to labour alone on such an intricate task. You are not exactly freshly rested yourself, and you have seen so many Ring designs in the past few weeks, you seem to have been drained of the ability to come up with any fresh ones.

There was only one idea you had that might help you, and you had risen from your seat and sat back down two or three times already, changing your mind about whether you should seek out Lord Annatar or not. Whether it would be appropriate. Now that he has come to you, however...

“I was wondering...” Your eyes wonder about the room, hesitating to meet his. “If it isn’t too bold to ask...”

“Be at ease,” Annatar intercedes with that same gentle smile, and it isn’t so difficult to look at him anymore. “My very purpose here is to aid you in your endeavours. You need not hesitate to ask for my help.”

All of a sudden, you feel quite silly for ever doubting you could speak with him openly. He has been most willing to share his knowledge as he worked closely with you these past few weeks. It’s just that now, he has taken on Celebrimbor’s duties as Lord of Eregion as well, and you hate to feel as though you are keeping him from more important matters simply because you cannot seem to handle your own given task.

“It’s just that I feel so... utterly uninspired,” you confess, casting a dismayed look to the sketch-filled papers in front of you. “The proportions, the aesthetics... I cannot seem to get all the elements right at the same time and the more I try, the farther I stray from the desired result.” You raise your gaze to Annatar’s. “Might you spare a moment to assist me, if only with one design? I’m sure it’ll be inspiration enough for me to finish the others whilst you tend to the affairs of the city.”

“Of course,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. With the other, he picks up the piece of paper, and you are now grateful that his attention is solely on the drawings, for the sudden contact has made you rather flustered. “You see,” Annatar says, contemplating the sketches, “sometimes the artist’s mind, though creative as ever, tends to... restrict itself, in the most frustrating way. So great is the desire for perfection in the end result, that it stifles the natural flow of the precious ideas without which no result may be reached at all.”

You resonate with the wise words, but you are not sure you understand the advice they carry.

“Are you suggesting I... draw whatever design I like first and worry about the practical aspects of it later?”

“I am suggesting,” he says, putting the paper down, “that you do not worry at all.” You frown. With that, you do not resonate at all. But your main focus now is that Annatar steps behind you, this time placing his hands on both your shoulders. Your heartbeat quickens as he speaks, at leisure, “That you do not even... think about the task at hand—not entirely—and that you simply... give in to your most natural instincts.”

“I am... not sure I understand,” you say quietly.

After a moment’s silence, Annatar asks, “May I show you?”

You knit your brow, unsure. You had expected him to help you by simply completing one of the sketches, or even just discussing some new ideas. These cryptic words, along with the physical contact, is all quite peculiar.

But you do trust him. You more than trust him, if you’re being honest. That is why the sudden closeness feels rather nice, though you do not wish to make a fool of yourself by showing it.

In the end, you give a small nod.

“Very well,” he says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice. “For that, you need only resume your work, and trust me.”

Failing at producing quality designs right before his eyes doesn’t sound exactly ideal, but you put your faith in his methods, whatever they are. You pick up the pencil once more, bring a fresh sheet of paper before you, and begin your fumbling attempts anew.

You note—how could you not?—that Annatar has yet to remove his hands from your shoulders. Because of that, you sit more upright than you usually do, but you doubt changing your posture is his sole purpose. Slowly, he begins to move, thumbs brushing your skin, then softly pressing down onto it in a languid rhythm.

You are grateful that he cannot see the wide-eyed surprise on your face as it dawns on you that the Lord of Gifts himself is giving you, a common Elf, a massage. His thumbs come to knead the flesh at the base of your neck on either side of your spine, and the slight pressure feels divine, especially when you have spent so many hours hunched over the table. You bite down an audible sigh, willing your hand not to waver while you work. You still do not feel particularly inspired, but if he meant to bring you relief from the constant stress of the past few weeks, his efforts are most certainly appreciated.

You mean to offer him a polite and rather bashful thank you, when one of his hands begins to stray. His fingers leave a tingling trail across your skin as he draws them up your neck, softly cupping your jaw from behind. You are quite stunned by the gesture, and find yourself retracing the same pencil line a few unnecessary times before you move on. His fingertips graze their slow way up your jaw, straying briefly through your hair before they reach your earlobe. It’s almost as though he is drawing his own intricate pattern along your skin, and your hand slows in its movements as your heart races in your chest.

Surely, he would not— oh, but if only he did—

And he does. His fingers take their sweet time tracing the shell of your ear, and finally, they reach the tip, where they catch the pointed bit of flesh between them, tugging ever so gently.

Your breath catches in your throat, shivers rain down your spine, and your hand freezes on the page. Because your kind do not touch one another’s ears in such a manner unless they are, or wish to be, courting. The simple reason is that, as you are now vividly reminded, those pointed tips are quite sensitive to touch, erogenous in nature for most Elves—including yourself.

You do not question Annatar’s wisdom or the grace with which he has assimilated into your ways of life, but perhaps he is somehow not aware of this particular intimacy-related aspect? Should you let him know, as courteously as possible? But then how would you explain that you had felt his intent, and despite having been given all the time in the world before his fingers had reached that most tender spot, you had done nothing at all to prevent such a caress?

Before you can decide, his hand returns to your shoulder, any movement halted.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, concerned.

You cannot tell him. You simply cannot. In truth, you miss the touch already.

“No—” you clear your throat, willing the waver out of your voice. “No, my lord.”

“Then, why have you stopped?”

He sounds genuinely curious, as though he could not fathom what had affected you so. You give no answer, other than to put pencil to paper once more. The moment you resume your work, his hands resume theirs—massaging, caressing. He does not touch your ears again, though his fingers do come dangerously close to doing so as he runs them through your hair, and you berate yourself for hoping each time that they would find those sensitive peaks again, catch them in their delicious hold.

So distracted you are by the prospect of it and the images you strive to continue creating, you do not even sense Annatar leaning down. Not until you catch a glimpse of long, blonde hair at the periphery of your vision, and then there is the soft graze of his lips over your neck. You draw in a sharp breath as your skin is set alight, and the pencil slips from your fingers.

“My lord!” you gasp, chest heaving as you whip around to fix him with a most alarmed look. There is no misinterpreting the intent behind that particular gesture, and he knows it very well.

But he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as he stands to his full height, seeming to you more majestic in appearance than ever as you look up at him.

“Keep drawing,” he instructs calmly. “Unless you wish for me to stop.”

Your brow furrows even further, your confusion growing, and then—

It all clicks in your mind.

The rules he has demonstrated thus far are simple enough: you stop, he stops. It’s both a condition and a reassurance. You do not have to outright refuse him. You need only refuse to continue drawing, and he shall leave you be, and all will return to the way it was before. But if you do pick up the pencil, it would be tantamount to confessing to the desire you have held secret within your heart for weeks, and that would change everything. Not to mention it would be unprofessional. Most inappropriate.

Your skin still sings where he has touched it.

Be it courage or folly, you turn away from him, pick up the pencil, and draw.

You think you can feel a smile on his lips as they return to your neck. This time, you close your eyes, finally able to savour the sensation—only for a moment, though, for the blissful touch depends on your ability to keep forming shapes on the paper, so you open your eyes and do your best to conjure some semblance of a coherent design as Annatar peppers your skin with unrushed, tender kisses. His lips are even softer than you had imagined, and you tilt your head lightly to offer every inch of skin within his reach. Now that the door has been opened, there is no more use pretending like you do not crave his affections.

Before long, his fingers ghost along the neckline of your dress, then his hand ventures below, to the swell of your breast. You do not make the slightest move to stop him. In fact, you pray to the Valar for the ability to keep your hand drawing at least somewhat relevant lines on the page. For you keep reminding yourself that if you stopped, so would he, and you cannot fathom the loss of his delicate grasp of your soft flesh. He easily finds a stiff nipple, peaking through the fabric of your dress, and tugs it between his thumb and forefinger. You shudder, holding back a whimper—but to your embarrassment, the beginning of one does escape you when his hands and lips suddenly leave you.

“Do you need a respite?” he says with a tinge of admonishment. You’ve abandoned your efforts on the paper without even realizing. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, wishing for nothing more than to feel his touch again, and resume scribbling lines on paper.

“Very well,” he says, and his hands return to you.

It’s increasingly challenging to keep drawing through each graze of lips, each brush of your ears, each tease of your nipples through your dress. It’s already so much, so fast, and yet it only makes you long for so much more. You’ve given up biting back the soft moans in your throat, lacking the power of concentration to spare for that purpose as well. And you certainly cannot help how your thighs press together in a futile attempt to ease the ache growing between your legs.

The sketch of one Ring is already finished, but you don’t even stop to consider whether it’s satisfactory before you begin another. His method shall be most efficient in increasing the quantity of your work, if not the quality. Would he do this with any other smith, you wonder, simply as a means of encouragement? Is this what he has been doing to Lord Celebrimbor on the late nights when the other smiths have gone to sleep, and they alone remain to carry on working in the forge? The thought stings, but the only question on which you can truly focus at the moment is how much further will he go with you, right here and now? As if in answer, his hand begins a most tantalizing descent, over your stomach, down to your navel, and you desperately repeat to yourself to do not stop drawing, no matter what, as you part your legs to receive him without shame.

When he cups you intimately through the fabric of your dress, you truly do not know by what force you are able to keep the pencil on the page, let alone keep wielding it. But thanks to the muscle memory acquired over many years of training, you do, even as you whimper and rock your hips into Annatar’s hand, even as he massages the throbbing bud which had longed for his touch on the shamefully many nights you had stroked it yourself while thinking of him. You wonder if he can feel how wet you have grown for him even through the fabric of your dress, wantonly hope that he does—

He stops. Even though you haven’t—you are so sure of it, you’ve been so careful. You only cease drawing when he lifts himself from you and you turn to him with a questioning, pleading look.

“Stand,” he instructs simply.

You nearly protest. But you remember yourself, that you are meant to be putting your trust in him, and do as you are told. You are hyperaware of the wetness between your legs as you stand, leaning against the table for support. The haze of desire has left you pleasantly weak.

Annatar steps towards you, facing you fully for the first time since he has begun to touch you intimately, and it is both relieving and electrifying to see that desire darkens his gaze as well as he takes in your breathless state. Taking gentle hold of your chin, he lifts it so your eyes meet his, and not a moment later his lips are upon yours, soft and tender. It’s barely more than a short peck, just enough for you to melt into the kiss only for him to pull away before you can fully savour it. This teasing of his is so maddening, like a game to which the only rule you know is that you either submit to his rules, or forfeit altogether, and you can only hope he will not leave you wanting in the end.

Stepping back, be pushes his robes to the side, and proceeds to unfasten his trousers with relaxed, steady movements under your longing gaze.

He pauses whilst he is still decent, and patiently asks, “Will you welcome my flesh?”

Welcome it? You could think of little else for weeks.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmur.

Only then does he bear himself to your gaze. He is a masterpiece, hard and swollen and glistening at the tip. The state of his cock denotes much more impatience than he demonstrates as he gracefully seats himself in your chair. Your cunt clenches around a gnawing emptiness at the mere sight.

“Return to your seat, then,” he invites with a cheeky little smile.

You find it strange that he has not pulled the chair away from the table, sitting in it as though he means to work there himself, rather than receive you in his lap. But you obey either way, a daze of elation coming over you. It’s such a foreign, illicit feeling, pulling up the skirts of your dress with trembling fingers as you step between the chair and table to face Annatar, ready to straddle him.

Before you can lift one knee onto the chair, he stops it with a gentle but decisive hand.

“I do not believe you have finished the designs,” he says. “Have you?”

Frowning, you give a slow shake of your head. His tone nearly makes you feel like a chastised student. Disoriented, you are nothing but pliant as his hands guide you into turning around so that you are now facing the table. Surely, he cannot mean for you to keep drawing once he is inside you? You could barely manage to control your pencil strokes whilst you sat relatively unmoving with his hands upon you, you could not even manage to find the paper if you begin to ride him.

You are about to ride him. Lord Annatar. The thought banishes any such concerns from your mind, leaving nothing but blinding lust in its wake. He adjusts you so that your legs are bracketing his thighs, pulls your garments out of the way to expose your soaked folds, and guides you down so that the tip of his cock is only just breaching your entrance.

That initial stretch alone pulls a small whimper from you, and you plant your hands on the arms of the chair for support, trying not to make any rash downward movement that might hurt you both. But his hands are strong and so safe on your hips, and you surrender to their guidance as he eases your joining. He slowly teases the tip of his cock in and out of your cunt, each time reaching a little deeper than before, until you cannot take it any longer and and sink onto his length completely.

The stretch pulls a mewl from your throat as you finally settle in his lap. You strive to catch your breath, looking down as if to reassure yourself that this is, indeed, real. Your dress covers the place where he has disappeared inside you, but you are so heavenly filled by the length and girth of him, you fear the sight alone might cost you your sanity. You whine, your eyes falling shut as Annatar pulls you to his chest, one hand pressing down on your belly whilst the other gently wraps around your neck, and he whispers in your ear, “How does this feel?”

Your voice is no more than a trembling whisper, “Wonderful.”

You cannot bear to wait a moment more. You try to circle your hips in his lap, moaning as his cock begins to prod at all the most delightful spots within you—

He plants his hands on your hips, trapping them in a firm hold.

“Be still,” he demands. It’s no easy feat, but you settle down, awaiting his direction. “Good,” he purrs in your ear. “Good. Now...” he pauses, letting you quiver with anticipation, “you shall remain still until you have finished the designs.”

Your eyes shoot open, wide and confused as you twist your head to look at him. There is no trace of jest in his eyes. Even the pleasure he feels in the warm embrace of your cunt is a faint glimmer beneath the surface of his determination, subdued with utter discipline. You realize he truly means his words, and you despair.

“But...” You cannot even make a coherent plea. So dreadful is the thought of enduring the pleasure of having him inside you without pursuing it, you are reduced to little more than a pitiful whine, “My lord—”

“Shh,” he coos, tenderly kissing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, aiming to soothe you as if he is not the very source of your torment. “I know,” he murmurs. “I feel it too. This all-consuming ache to reach fulfillment, this longing for release... the wonders of your mind crave the very same. Open the door to set them free, as you have opened yourself to allow me in. You managed well enough before .”

“Yes, but you were not...” You grimace, clenching around him without meaning to in your anguish. “It’s so deep—”

“And you are so warm. So tight,” he breathes out, hoarse with want. “Yet I shall wait, patiently, for as long as I must. For your sake.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, which only worsens the ache between your legs. But you know by now—either play by his rules, or stop the game altogether.

You sigh, defeated, and nod. “All right.”

Annatar presses a light kiss to your temple, a gesture so sweet and chaste, it makes your head spin as much as his praise. “Good girl,” he rasps out. “Go on, then.”

He offers some support as you will your limbs into cooperating and begin to lean forward, towards the table. The movement jostles his cock within you ever so slightly, and you groan as you withhold from moving your hips in search of any further friction. The position is somewhat awkward, with you leaning over the page from a slightly too high angle, but you plant your elbows on the table and get on with it, determined to see this through.

If someone had told you this was how you would finish the designs—seated in Lord Annatar’s lap, his cock buried snugly inside you, so perfectly stretching you out that it drives you to the brink of insanity—you would have called them a most impolite adjective, and slapped them for good measure. But even less probable, even more scandalous, is that it’s almost easier this way. After a few moments of adjustment, you no longer scratch out attempts before they’ve even begun to take shape, or overthink each stroke of the pencil to the point where you forget what your overall intention had been in the first place. The wonderfully torturous stretch of Annatar’s cock within you takes over that part of your mind, and what is left of it is high on the thrill of it all, the anticipation, the graze of Annatar’s fingers as they trace the occasional languid line along your spine, so tender and encouraging.

The practical knowledge is there, deeply rooted in your mind from years of practice, and the creativity is a gift that’s never truly left you. But it is only now that you finally understand how to let them intertwine without trying to control it, to give in to the flow of inspiration the same way you are giving in to him.

And he keeps his word, sitting silently until the last stroke of your pencil, his hips never once giving the lightest stir. Only when you sit back to show him the finished sketches does he lean forward slightly, taking the paper from your hand as you take deep breaths to cope with the new stimulation.

You plant your hands on his knees for support, nerves filling you now that the creative haze is over. You are left only with great unfulfilled lust, and the creeping doubt that, perhaps, your work is no more adequate than it was before. You’d found a way to push through so far, but you are not sure you could manage such a feat a second time if he asked it of you.

But you would try. You would try anything, if it allowed only the sliver of hope that your Lord Annatar would finally take you, unrestrained and to sweet completion, at the end of it.

To your great relief, when you turn your head, you find him studying the paper with a most appreciative smile.

“See what you can accomplish when you give yourself permission to do so?” he says, caressing your thigh as if in reward. “These are splendid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you murmur. Before, you would not have dreamed to ask for more than such words of praise. Now, you bite your lip and entreat, “May I... May I, please...?”

“Seek your pleasure?” His voice is knowing, teasing, as if he is not furiously hard within you this very moment. Even after all this, a bout of shyness makes you avert your gaze briefly as you nod. “No,” he says seriously, and your eyes snap to him in alarm. “Not in this manner,” he goes on. “I wish to look upon your face.”

You have no doubt he meant to have your heart lurch in your chest. There is a wicked side to this messenger of the Valar, a shadow hidden within the light with which he surrounds himself. It only arouses you further.

Annatar helps you stand, and the emptiness left behind as he slips from within you would render you an inconsolable mess, if it weren’t for the promise of soon-to-be-found relief. You can’t help but eye his cock, drenched in your arousal and bobbing enticingly as he rises to his feet as well. He sets the precious sketches on the table with care, then turns to you with, at last, unveiled hunger, and reaching to the back of your thighs, hoists you in his arms in one swift move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, cling to his shoulders, and gasp as he carries you to the nearest wall, pressing your back against it. He holds you up effortlessly, even as one hand slips between you to touch your clit directly for the first time. The bundle of nerves has been helplessly throbbing for so long, it only takes a few firm strokes of Annatar’s fingers to have you fall apart with a brisk whimper, burying your face in his neck.

“How sensitive,” he muses, quite content as you pant through the sudden burst of pleasure. “You have craved my touch for a long time, have you not? I admit it has been quite distracting.”

There is the slightest hint of accusation in his voice, and you know he doesn’t just mean since he first touched you today. You must have failed, in all those weeks you worked together, to withhold the lustful thoughts he invoked in your mind from showing in your eyes. And so you had distracted a messenger of the Valar from his work on the crucial task to save all of Middle-Earth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” you whisper into his hair.

“Whatever for?” he asks as though you’ve said the silliest thing. Cupping your face, he tilts your head up so your gaze meets his. “Have you forgotten my name?” he speaks softly. “I am here to give.”

And give, he does. He slides inside you to the hilt, gladly welcomed back by your still-aching cunt, and this time, finally, finally, he withdraws and sinks back in once, then again, thrust after thrust until he builds to a quick rhythm that has you drowning in the pleasure after which you had thirsted for so terribly long. A string of ‘pleases’ leaves your throat, unbidden, even though you can hardly ask for more than the stretch of him inside of you, the relentless press and drag against places so sweet and deep within, the ceiling is filled with all the stars in the night sky as you throw your head back against the wall with abandon. Annatar leans in to kiss your neck, his tongue setting your skin even more ablaze. Your sole remaining ability is to moan and cling to him, receiving the pleasure you are being given.

Sauron is deeply satisfied as he takes his own. He has been aching as well, though the Maia is far more skilled at mastering the urges of his flesh. You had been quick to obey, eager to follow his commands, even without his influence nudging at your mind to suit his purpose, which in itself was as pleasurable as having your tight cunt wrapped around him as you worked. And now you are so pliant in his embrace, moaning in sweet submission as you reap the reward he most graciously offers—the very picture of the peaceful surrender he seeks to accomplish through the Rings. If only every being in Middle-Earth would accept the blessing of his authority as easily as you have, they would spare themselves so much wasteful bloodshed.

Perhaps he will keep you safe from it. Perhaps he will keep you to himself.

But you don’t know what is to come, nor would you care as your pleasure crests towards its peak, and you cry out with the force of your release, clenching around Annatar’s cock.

“Thank you,” you mindlessly gasp in between whimpers as he generously fucks you through it, “thank you, thank you, thank you—”

With one last, brutal thrust that pins your hips to the wall, Annatar groans, long and deep as he throbs and spills inside of you. It occurs to you that he has barely made a sound besides his laboured breathing throughout your coupling. Before he even slips out of you, spent, you wonder if you might have the privilege of hearing more in the future.

He is gracious enough, as your high subsides and you catch your breath, to carry you back to your chair. You doubt your legs would support you this very moment. He sets you down, fixes his robes, then stands before you as poised as ever. If it weren’t for the spark of mischief in his eyes, one would think you had done nothing but discuss Ring designs over a cup of tea.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, retrieving the sketches from the table, “for your most valuable work.” He admires them for a moment, then gives you a knowing smile. “Do not hesitate to ask for my aid, should you need it again.”

With a polite nod, he leaves you sitting in your chair by the table, much as you were when he had found you. Only, at that time, his spend had not been pooling between your legs, and it was hard to imagine it ever would be.

You smile to yourself. What an unconventional emissary, and how lucky you are that the Valar have sent him to guide you in your endeavours. For indeed, you are sure you shall require his assistance again quite soon.

Sequel -> Further inspiration

#annatar x reader #sauron x reader #annatar smut #sauron smut #the rings of power

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bobcat-pie · 1 year ago

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this is why young wizards are ruining the field of necromancy. they want to go straight to Death Ball, not bothering with any of the basics that the damn field was founded upon, oh no no no!

We're an offshoot of diviners that specialized in asking the dead for wisdom. act like it.

Death magic is so stupid, you’ve got all these wizards chucking green energy blasts and think that sounds rad, but then you pop the hood on what the energy does and it just makes you dead. “Ooh look at my death ball, when it hits you it kills you!” Bitch so does a fireball but i’ll give you three guesses which is better for heating up rations or keeping me warm at night. Zero utility, unbelievable.

#death ball and all necrosis-inducing spells do have a utility in the way they preserve/clean corpses #thus giving necromancers the ability to chain souls to those bodies.#who would you rather have as a thrall? impromptu-incomplete-cremation remains... or a no-sew embalmed corpse?#(or a clean-picked skeleton if you want to be classic and sanitary! necrosis spells speed up the process and let you set-it-and-forget-it)#that being said. death ball does have a very small use-case and should only be left to higher-level necromancers who NEED it.#personally i like to use it while sterilizing my tools #indeed. i could do that with fireball.#but my aim's not been what it used to be ever since my left eye rotted out and i've got a half-ghoul-half-magic-lich eye situation going on #and WHEN i miss i'd rather additionally sterilize my worktable instead of burning it

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aspenmissing · 1 month ago

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Hi hiiii!! Love your work!!

Could you do arcane characters with an s/o who has nervous stims or habits?? Mine’s come back full force and it’s somewhat annoying, but I’ve learned that people I’m close with don’t mind and it makes me feel accepted :3

Have a great day!! You’re my favourite author on here :D

ɴᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴅᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 5974 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ꜰᴜɴ ᴏꜰꜰ (ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜɪ ʜɪ ʜɪɪɪɪɪɪɪ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ!! ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴜᴄᴋ ꜱᴏ ʙᴀᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ.

JAYCE

The low hum of Hextech filled the room—faint, like a heartbeat behind the walls. Blue light shimmered from a half-finished core on the workbench, casting soft glows across brass tools and sketches scattered in loose piles.

Jayce had been tinkering with a prototype all afternoon, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows, grease smudged faintly along the side of his hand. But now his gloves were off, and the fire in his eyes had dulled—not from exhaustion, but from peace. The kind that only came when he let himself slow down.

His focus had drifted away from the tools and cables.

It was you he was watching now.

You sat perched on the edge of the worktable, knees tucked up to your chest, socked feet brushing against one of the metal stools. Your fingers moved in anxious loops, quiet and habitual. First the edge of your sleeve—rolling it between thumb and forefinger in slow repetition. Then a soft tap of your foot against the leg of the table. Then a pattern traced over your palm with your fingertip. A quiet cycle of motion. So small, so personal. You probably didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Jayce didn’t interrupt. Not right away.

He’d learned not to.

There was a time—early on—when he’d tried to gently still your hand, thinking he was helping. You’d smiled at him then, not unkindly, but distant. A retreat behind your eyes. That night, he’d gone home and read everything he could about stimming, anxiety loops, sensory grounding.

Now, he didn’t try to fix it.

He leaned a little closer instead, elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand. His body language relaxed, but his attention fully on you.

“You’re thinking hard again,” he said gently, voice warm with amusement and fondness.

You blinked, pulled out of your spiral just enough to look up. Your eyes darted to meet his, wide with apology. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to distract you.”

“You’re not distracting me,” Jayce said, his voice almost melting into the hum of the room. “I like watching you think.”

Your brows drew together—just slightly—as if unsure whether he meant it. A flicker of hesitation passed through your face, the kind that came from too many people misunderstanding you. From too many hands swatting yours away. From too many rooms where you’d been asked to be “less.”

Not used to someone noticing. Not used to someone noticing and being kind about it.

Jayce reached for your hands—carefully, never rushing—and you let him take them. His thumbs ran along the backs of your knuckles, slow and steady, grounding you in the way only he knew how.

“I noticed you do that when you’re anxious,” he murmured, not accusing—just curious, just soft. “The little stims. They’re kind of... rhythmic. Like a song only you know.”

You gave a faint, uncertain smile, like you weren’t sure if he meant that as a compliment or a polite observation. “They annoy some people.”

Jayce frowned—never at you, always for you. “Then they’re not your people.”

The quiet between you stretched, but it was a comfortable kind of silence. His hands were so much bigger than yours, but they held you like you were made of crystal and copper. Like something rare. Like something that couldn’t be bent too hard without losing its current.

“I don’t always know I’m doing it,” you admitted softly. “It just... helps. Keeps me from spiraling when I’m stuck in my head.”

Jayce nodded slowly. “Then you never have to explain it to me. Not once.”

His tone was resolute, but not heavy. It just was. Like gravity. Like certainty.

Your fingers twitched again, instinctively trying to go back to the motion. You hesitated, wary that it might be a wrong move in this soft moment. But Jayce didn’t let you pull away—he gently encouraged it instead, folding your hands into his lap, his thumbs continuing their steady motion.

“Here,” he said after a pause, reaching into the drawer beside the table. He pulled out a piece of soft leather cord—a scrap from a bracer he’d been prototyping last week. Worn in just enough to be flexible, comforting. He looped it around your wrist loosely and offered the ends. “You can fidget with this when you’re with me. I’ll always have something for your hands to do.”

You blinked, taken aback by the simplicity and thoughtfulness of the gesture. Not grand. Not dramatic. Just quietly perfect.

“Jayce...”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and it was like he was trying to memorize this version of you. This moment. This peace.

He gave you a small smile, one that never quite reached his lips but glowed behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to be still or quiet to be loved,” he said. “Not with me.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear that—how rarely anyone had said it and meant it.

And just like that, your shoulders dropped, breath coming a little easier. The leather cord slipped between your fingers as you began to twist and wind it—finding rhythm, letting your thoughts breathe again.

Jayce stayed beside you, never rushing, never pulling away. Just being there.

Outside the windows, the Piltover skyline glowed gold with the setting sun, casting long shadows across the floor of the workshop. The hum of Hextech faded into the background again.

Now, all Jayce could hear was your rhythm.

And it was beautiful.

VIKTOR

The lab was quiet, save for the occasional metallic click… tap… click of Viktor’s cane against the tile as he paced slowly across the room. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and old paper, with the subtle undercurrent of something electric and strange — the heartbeat of invention. The warm glow of the Hexcore pulsed faintly from its container at the far end of the room, casting fluid, shifting shadows that danced across shelves stacked with blueprints and books, and over the cluttered desks that bore the scars of long nights.

You sat perched on the edge of a stool, hunched slightly, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. Your fingers tangled nervously in the sleeves of your shirt — tugging, twisting, tucking the frayed fabric between your fingers in practiced rhythm.

You didn’t mean to fidget.

It was just… the day had been long. Everything had pressed in too close: voices echoing too loud in your head, thoughts looping, spiraling, chewing at the corners of your calm. You’d meant to come in and help Viktor with calibration notes or circuit diagrams, but the second you’d stepped into the lab and heard the soft hum of him working—his familiar humming under his breath, one hand steady on his cane as he focused on his scribbled notes—you’d felt something inside you seize and flutter all at once.

You ached with affection and anxiety. You wanted to reach out. Say something. Anything. But your hands wouldn’t stop moving.

Tug. Twist. Tuck.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the room, Viktor’s humming stilled.

You didn’t look up, but you could feel the weight of his gaze settle on you—sharp and soft all at once, like he was watching a fragile mechanism wind itself too tightly.

Then came the sound of his cane again—tap… tap…—as he made his way over to you, slow and deliberate.

“Y/N,” he said gently, voice low and warm, like he didn’t want to startle you. “You’re doing it again.”

You froze mid-twist, pulse spiking like you’d been caught doing something shameful. Your shoulders tensed, your hands went still, and your voice came out small. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

He paused in front of you, and then — slowly, carefully — lowered himself into the chair beside yours with a soft sigh. The strain of his leg always made sitting and standing harder than he let on, but he never minded doing it for you.

“You do not need to apologize,” Viktor said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes searching yours. “Not for how your body asks for comfort.”

That sentence alone undid something tight in your chest. Your hands trembled slightly, still half-curled in your sleeves.

“Is it the noise in your head again?” he asked gently.

You nodded, your throat tightening. “It won’t shut up today,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “It’s like… everything’s vibrating. Like I can’t sit still or breathe right or…” You trailed off, your jaw working slightly as you blinked back the prickle in your eyes. “I don’t even know why.”

“That is all right,” he said. “You do not need to explain why. It’s enough to feel it.”

His hand reached out for yours—slow, deliberate, never pushing. He always gave you room to move, to choose. You didn’t pull away. His fingers slipped between yours, warm and careful, anchoring. His other hand remained on the head of his cane, fingers relaxed against the polished wood.

He shifted slightly closer, until his knee brushed yours and his shoulder was just a breath away. You leaned into the contact without thinking.

“You always do this with your sleeves when you’re overwhelmed,” Viktor murmured, voice dipping low. “Or you click your teeth. Or pace in tiny circles around the same patch of floor, even when you don’t notice it.”

A hollow little laugh escaped your throat. “I didn’t think you’d… see all that.”

His golden eyes softened. “I see everything about you,” he said, thumb brushing across your knuckles, slow and rhythmic. “Especially the things you try to hide.”

You blinked hard, overwhelmed for a different reason now. It was always like this with Viktor. He noticed things. Not to correct or judge, but to understand.

“I used to think I was broken too,” Viktor said after a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor, to the worn curve of his cane. “That needing help, or resting my weight on something outside of myself, made me weak. Less.”

You could hear the ghost of something in his voice. Regret? Memory?

“But it doesn’t,” he went on, looking back at you now. “We are not machines, Y/N. We are not meant to be perfect. And you—your thoughts, your hands, the way you move when your mind is loud—it is all part of you. I do not want you to mask yourself with me.”

Something in your chest cracked open at the edges, vulnerable and raw.

“I could build you something,” he said, his voice turning thoughtful, almost shy. “Something for your hands. A stim ring, perhaps. Or a clicker, something mechanical. I have some spare gears I could use, and I think I know just the tension you like—enough resistance to feel real, but not enough to frustrate.”

You let out a sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” he said simply. “But only if it helps. Otherwise, I will sit here and hold your hands until they stop shaking. Or longer. As long as you need.”

You leaned forward then, your forehead pressing to the soft fabric of his coat. He smelled like machine oil, old books, and the faintest trace of tea. Home.

The metal brace on his leg clinked faintly as he adjusted to hold you, one arm slipping around your waist, firm and grounding.

“I love you,” you whispered into his coat.

His breath hitched ever so slightly, but his voice was steady when he answered, “I know.”

He shifted enough to press a kiss into your hair. “And I love every inch of your restless heart.”

You sat like that for a long time. No ticking clocks. No buzzing thoughts. Just the soft hum of the Hexcore, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet miracle of being seen.

JAYVIK

You hadn’t realized you were doing it again.

Your fingers were picking at the hem of your sleeve, tugging the threads in tight little spirals like you were trying to unravel something just beneath your skin. You could feel the tension in your shoulders, the way your breath had been sitting too shallow in your chest for the past hour. The room wasn’t loud, not really, but your mind was. Thoughts stacking, spiraling, layering over each other until they became a weight pressing against the inside of your skull.

The soft sound of fabric fraying beneath your fingernails barely registered — not until Viktor’s voice cut gently through the static.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, quiet and careful, as if he were walking through a room full of glass. Not scolding — never scolding — just noticing. Like he always did.

You blinked and looked down, your vision refocusing on your hands. The hem of your sweater was starting to look a little threadbare. Again. You sighed, folding your fingers inward like maybe they’d behave if you hid them.

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled. “Just… can’t get my head to shut up today.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the soft tap… tap… of Viktor’s cane against the wooden floor. You knew that sound well. There was something reassuring about it, like a metronome syncing your heart back into rhythm.

He moved slowly, as always, each step measured and deliberate, until he reached the couch. You didn’t look up, but you felt the shift in the cushions as he sat beside you — close, but not crowding — and then his hand, cool and steady, resting lightly over yours where they were half-tucked into your sleeves.

“I know,” he said simply. And he did.

He didn’t try to talk you out of how you felt. Didn’t try to logic his way through your anxiety the way others might. He just offered his presence — calm and constant — like a lighthouse through fog.

His thumb traced slow, grounding circles over your knuckles. You hadn’t realized how much tension was wound through your hands until it started to ease under his touch.

“Would you like me to stay here,” he murmured, “or give you space?”

Your throat tightened, and your reply came out softer than you intended. “Stay.”

That one word was always enough for him.

“Alright.”

A moment passed in quiet. Then, from the kitchen, came the heavier sound of Jayce’s footsteps — solid and familiar. You heard the clink of ceramic against the counter, the soft rush of water, and then his voice floating in like sunlight through a window.

“Hey, love—do you want tea, or should I let Viktor keep spoiling you?”

You managed a small smile, the corner of your mouth tugging upward despite the noise still simmering in your head. “Both.”

Jayce laughed, and it was the kind of sound that vibrated in your chest like warmth spreading through cold limbs. A second later, he appeared with two mugs in hand — steam curling from the tops, carrying the scent of lavender and honey.

He handed one to Viktor with a quiet nod and set the other in front of you, careful not to jostle your hands. But instead of settling on the far end of the couch, he knelt in front of you, resting his chin lightly on your knee, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice dipping soft, careful, like he didn’t want to scare you back into yourself.

“Not really,” you whispered. “It’s just one of those days. Everything feels too loud. And I keep doing…”

You pulled your sleeve up to show the frayed hem. The fabric was starting to look a little like how you felt — worn thin at the edges.

Jayce didn’t look annoyed or concerned. He just leaned forward and kissed your knee, slow and tender. “Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“It’s okay to have habits,” Viktor added, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand hadn’t left yours, hadn’t stopped its gentle circles. “But we can help, if you want us to.”

You looked between them — Viktor’s quiet steadiness, Jayce’s open-hearted warmth — and nodded, something in your chest trembling loose.

“Can I… have something to do with my hands?” you asked. “Just something that won’t ruin another sweater.”

Jayce’s face lit up instantly. “Gods, yes. Yes. Hold on—wait here.”

He shot to his feet so fast it nearly knocked Viktor’s mug. “Careful,” Viktor muttered with a fond eye-roll, but there was no real annoyance in it.

Jayce darted to the bookshelf in the corner, kneeling down to dig through the drawer that you always forgot existed. There was the sound of rummaging, a quiet aha!, and then he returned with a small wooden box cradled in both hands.

“Fidget stuff,” he declared, dropping to his knees again in front of you like he was presenting treasure. “I’ve been collecting them. Just in case.”

He opened the box for you, revealing a neat little arrangement of tools and toys. Soft silicone loops. Smooth beads strung on wire. Clickable gears that spun like clockwork. A tiny metal puzzle shaped like a cube. A weighted plush that fit perfectly into your palm. All of it neatly organized, clearly touched and tested by careful hands.

You stared at it, overwhelmed in the best way.

“You did all this?”

Jayce shrugged like it was nothing. “Figured one of us would need it sooner or later.”

You reached for the plush first, letting its small weight settle into your hand, grounding and warm. It was soft — soothing — and somehow smelled faintly of Jayce’s cologne and Viktor’s tea.

“I like when you take care of me,” you said quietly, your voice catching in your throat.

“We like taking care of you,” Viktor corrected gently. “You take care of us, too. You know that, don’t you?”

You blinked quickly. Your eyes stung, and your chest felt too full for your ribs.

“I try.”

Jayce leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a long moment. “You do more than try.”

Viktor shifted slightly beside you, using his free hand to adjust the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He tugged it over your lap with practiced ease, tucking it around your legs like muscle memory.

With the fidget plush in your hand, Viktor warm and steady at your side, and Jayce resting his head against your thigh, the apartment felt smaller in the best way. Less like a place where your thoughts echoed too loudly — more like a sanctuary.

Their sanctuary. Your sanctuary.

And for the first time that day, you exhaled without shaking.

VANDER

The smell of Zaun’s evening air filtered through the cracked window—oil, rust, rain, and the faintest trace of damp stone. The city always smelled like it was remembering something old and heavy. Y/N sat on the worn armrest of the couch in the upstairs living room above the Last Drop, tapping their fingers against their thigh in a rhythm that only made sense to them.

Tap tap–tap tap. Tap tap–tap tap.

It helped. It always did.

The noise downstairs had been louder than usual tonight—shouted toasts, the scrape of metal chairs, the slam of tankards. Some idiot had challenged Vander to a drinking contest, and the crowd had roared like it was the Piltie arena.

The kids, of course, had picked up on the chaos like little lightning rods. Vi was pacing like a caged wolf, picking fights with Mylo just because she could. Claggor was trying to mediate, but humming through his nose the way he always did when stressed. Powder had burst into tears once already. Too much sugar. Not enough structure. Not enough quiet.

Now, the hum in Y/N’s chest—the creeping buzz of something uncertain, something wrong even though nothing was—was starting to swell and press at the edges of their ribs.

They picked at the edge of their sleeve next, tugging at a loose thread, twisting it tight around their fingers. The soft tug, the tiny bit of pressure, the repetition—it helped.

Tap tap–twist. Tap tap–twist.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Heavy steps. Familiar.

Y/N didn’t look up.

“I can always tell when something’s off,” Vander’s voice rumbled gently from the doorway.

He leaned one massive shoulder against the frame, arms folded, his body filling the space like a warm wall. His voice was steady as ever, a low, gravelly anchor.

“You’ve got that look.”

Y/N gave him a quiet smile, just enough to not be rude. “Which one?”

“The one where your fingers are movin’ like they’re trying to play a song no one else can hear.”

Y/N glanced down at their hands. The sleeve thread had curled tight around their index finger, a makeshift ring.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” they mumbled, gently tugging the string free and looping it around the next finger. “Just… overstimmed, I guess. The kids are wired, and the bar was… a lot.”

Vander nodded, his expression softening with understanding. He always listened with his whole face—eyebrows drawn, lips slightly parted like he wanted to absorb every word and hold it gently in his palm.

“You wanna step out for air?” he offered, jerking his chin toward the window. “Rooftop’s quiet tonight. Rain’s stopped.”

Y/N opened their mouth to answer, but the sound of tiny footsteps thundered down the hall like a stampede of one.

“Mom!” Powder’s voice rang out as she crashed into the room.

She was all limbs and wild energy, hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted. Without hesitation, she launched herself into Y/N’s lap, arms wrapping tight around their middle.

Y/N caught her mid-air with a little oof, shifting to cradle the small body against their chest. Powder was getting too big to fling herself like that, but neither of them cared.

“Powder, it’s bedtime,” Y/N said gently, brushing a bit of soot off her cheek.

“But Vi and Mylo are arguing,” she wailed, “and Claggor won’t stop humming, and I can’t sleep!”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her back in slow, practiced circles. “I know, baby. I know. It’s been a long day.”

Powder blinked up at them suddenly, as if remembering something important. She reached out and poked their hand.

“Are you doing the thing again? The tapping?”

Y/N blinked, then smiled. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just trying to settle.”

Powder’s expression softened. She curled closer, cheek pressed to their chest.

“I like it when you do that,” she mumbled. “It means you’re still here.”

That brought a quiet ache to Y/N’s throat.

Vander stepped fully into the room now, crossing the floor in just a few strides. He knelt beside the couch, big hand brushing Powder’s wild hair back behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

“We’re all still here, little monkey,” he said warmly. “But it’s late. You want me to tuck you in?”

“No,” Powder said stubbornly, fingers tightening on Y/N’s sleeve. “I want mom to do it.”

Vander raised a brow, amused. “Guess you’re on duty.”

Y/N chuckled, their fingers now stroking Powder’s back in that same rhythmic tapping—soft and comforting now instead of anxious. “Alright, alright. But you get to convince Vi and Mylo to stop arguing.”

“Oh nooooo,” Powder groaned dramatically, but let herself be scooped up.

Y/N carried her down the hall, where Vi was sulking in the doorway and Mylo was lying dramatically on the floor like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Mom,” Mylo whined, “Vi punched me in the soul.”

“It was a tap,” Vi snapped. “He was breathing like he does that thing with his nose.”

“Enough,” Y/N said, firm but kind. “Apologies, deep breaths, and then I’ll come back for hugs.”

By the time Y/N returned to the living room, the house had exhaled. The lights were dim, the sounds hushed. The warm lamplight pooled across the floor, glowing like candlelight, wrapping the space in a golden hush.

Vander was still there, sitting in his armchair with a drink in hand. He looked up when they entered, and wordlessly held one arm out in invitation.

Y/N went to him immediately.

They tucked themselves beside him, curling into his side like a stone returning to the riverbed. His arm wrapped around their shoulders, broad hand coming to rest on their upper arm—heavy, steady, safe.

For a moment, Y/N’s fingers started twitching again. Thumb brushing over each fingertip, one by one, in a slow, familiar cycle.

One. Two. Three. Four. Back again.

Vander caught their hand, gently folding it in his own.

“You don’t need to hide that around me, you know,” he murmured, voice a soft rumble against their temple.

“I know,” Y/N whispered.

He kissed the top of their head, letting the silence stretch. Then he spoke again, quieter.

“You’re allowed to have your ways, love. We all got ‘em.”

Y/N hummed in acknowledgment, eyes half-lidded.

“Mylo chews his nails,” Vander said, squeezing their hand once. “Vi punches walls. Claggor polishes his goggles every time he’s nervous, like he’s gettin’ ready for war. Powder—she hides under the bed with every tool she owns and starts building stuff with no plan at all. Just keeps her hands busy 'til her mind settles.”

Y/N smiled. “And you?”

“I talk too damn much,” he said with a low chuckle.

Y/N laughed softly, pressing their face into his shoulder. His scent—bar smoke, steel, soap—filled their nose, grounding them even more than the tapping ever could.

They didn’t need to be still. They just needed to be held.

The rhythm in their chest didn’t vanish, but it didn’t have to. Because here, in this room, in these arms—it was okay to not be “normal.”

It was okay to stim. It was okay to be soft. It was okay to just be.

SILCO

The Last Drop was quieter than usual.

Smoke coiled lazily in the low, warm lamplight, soft and slow, like a lullaby written in wisps. The muffled thrum of music from the floor below pulsed behind the walls — distant enough not to press on your nerves, but near enough to remind you that the world outside still turned.

You sat perched on the edge of Silco’s desk, boots dangling, shoulders tense. Your fingers moved in a quiet, familiar rhythm, tugging at the frayed sleeve of your coat over and over.

Tug. Tug. Release. Tug. Tug. Release.

A ritual, almost. One that lived in your bones now.

You hadn’t realized you were doing it again until you felt his gaze — not sharp, not judging, just there. Watching. Noticing. Silco had that way about him. He could be reading reports about Chembaron feuds or council bribes and still catch the way your jaw tensed or how your leg bounced when your thoughts got too loud.

He didn’t speak at first. He rarely did when the stimming started. He never made you feel like you had to stop, never treated it like a flaw to be corrected. Just… observed it. Like it was a language only the two of you shared.

He only stepped in when he sensed you slipping too far into yourself. When the rhythms turned sharp. When the silences between each breath stretched too thin.

“Something’s on your mind,” he said finally, voice low and unhurried — not a demand, just an offering.

You stilled your hand too fast. Too deliberately. It only made the silence louder.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, but the edge in your voice betrayed the truth. You weren't fine — not really.

Silco didn’t call you out. He just watched you for another beat, his one good eye tracing the tension in your shoulders. Then, with slow precision, he set his pen down. Leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepling, like he was assessing the terrain before entering a battlefield.

But you weren’t a battlefield.

Not to him.

You were something else — a steady presence in a world that was always brimming with smoke and blood and ambition. You were not something to conquer. You were someone he approached with rare gentleness.

He stood and stepped toward you, each movement calm and deliberate, the way he only ever moved when he was being careful with you.

“Y/N,” he said again, softer now, almost tender. “You’re tugging at your coat like it’s about to fly away.”

You gave a small, breathy laugh — more habit than humour. “Sorry. Just... habit.”

His hand reached out, slow enough to give you time to move if you needed to. You didn’t. You let him guide your fingers away from the edge of your sleeve, then gently bring them to his chest — right over his heart.

The beat beneath your palm was steady. Firm. Alive.

“Breathe,” he murmured, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “With me.”

So you did.

In. Out. In again.

His chest rose and fell beneath your hand. He was a pillar of calm in that moment, anchoring you without needing to fix anything. Just being there.

Silco had learned your rhythms the way other men might learn a map. He knew that when your leg bounced, your thoughts were racing and wouldn’t stop. When your nails picked at skin, you were trying to keep something in. And when your voice got too quiet and your movements too controlled — like they were now — you were on the edge of unravelling.

“I had a dream,” you said quietly, barely louder than the hum of the music below. “You were gone. Everything was. Zaun, this room, all of it. And I was just... sitting in silence. I didn’t know who I was without you.”

He stilled.

Not the sharp kind of stillness he gave his enemies, but something heavier. His grip on your hand didn’t falter, but you could feel the tension behind it — a flicker of emotion he so rarely showed. His breath caught once, almost imperceptibly.

“Zaun will live with or without me,” he said eventually, voice quiet but resolute. “But you — you are not defined by me. Or by this city.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly. He always spoke with such certainty. Even when everything inside him burned.

“But I’m calmer with you,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could second-guess them. “Even when I’m falling apart. Especially then.”

That made him pause. Something in his face softened — not a full shift, just a subtle loosening of the tight lines around his eye and mouth. He leaned in slowly, pressing his forehead to yours, and you let your eyes close.

This close, he didn’t feel like the Eye of Zaun, or the man who kept his hands clean only when it came to you.

He just felt like Silco.

The man who lit the oil lamp on your side of the bed without you asking. The man who waited patiently for your breathing to slow instead of telling you to calm down. The man who didn’t need words to know what you needed — just presence.

“Then let me be your calm,” he whispered. “I’ve built an empire for the people I love. For Jinx. For Zaun. And for you.”

You swallowed thickly. Your thumb moved instinctively — tracing a familiar pattern across the edge of your own palm. Silco noticed, and without breaking the closeness, his hand reached for yours again. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, grounding circles — a mirrored rhythm of your own stims. But his version was soothing. Measured. Like he was reminding you that he saw you, all of you — not just the composed surface, but the anxious knots underneath — and loved you anyway.

And in that moment, for the first time all day, you didn’t feel the need to fidget.

You didn’t need to tug at your sleeve or count the cracks in the wall or breathe through a straw just to make it stop. Your heart still raced — but it wasn’t panicked anymore. It was just beating.

Because you weren’t alone in the storm. Someone had learned to stand inside it with you.

And maybe, just maybe, you could start to believe that was enough.

SEVIKA

The bar is loud, grimy, and packed wall-to-wall with rowdy patrons, smoke curling in the air and clashing with the scent of sweat and spilled liquor. The kind of chaos most people blend into, if they’re smart. You’ve always done your best to blend—keeping your head down, sitting in the corner, fiddling with your sleeves, tapping your foot, clicking your tongue quietly every few seconds to regulate your anxiety.

But The Last Drop isn’t a quiet place, and even in the noise, there’s always someone who notices.

Sevika’s at your side like always, one massive arm stretched across the back of the booth, cigarette tucked between her lips, eyes flicking across the room like she’s waiting for trouble to come knocking.

She doesn’t mind your habits. Not the quiet little hums you let out when your nerves spike. Not the knuckle tapping. Not even when your hands shake a little after a long day. In fact, she often sets her prosthetic on the table and lets you gently tap your fingertips against the cool metal. Grounding. Steady.

But not everyone is as kind as she is.

“You hear that?” a drunk voice slurs from the next booth over, loud enough to cut through the music. “That little noise. The fuck is that? Sounds like a broken damn faucet.”

Your breath hitches, fingers freezing where they were gently pressing your sternum in a rhythmic pattern. Your stim. You hadn’t even realized it got louder.

“Hey,” another voice joins in. “Maybe they're trying to sing. You singin’, sweetheart? You need a tune to match that mess?” The men laugh. Ugly and wet.

You curl inward, shoulders hunching like you could fold yourself into nothing. Sevika stiffens beside you. You don’t look at her, but you feel her move—feel the weight of her presence shift from relaxed to dangerous.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.

“Wanna say that again?” she asks, low and slow like thunder in the distance. The kind of warning that means run.

The bar goes quieter—not silent, but aware. Like it always does when Sevika gets that tone.

The drunk man scoffs, trying to act bigger than he is. “Relax. It was a joke. Didn’t realize your pet came with a mute button.”

That’s it.

You don’t see it—don’t need to. You just hear a sharp thud and a chair scraping back. When you flinch, Sevika’s already pressing her hand against your back, gently this time.

“Look at me,” she murmurs. “Not them.”

You glance up at her—jaw clenched, eyes fierce, but all of that softens when she looks at you. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“Good. Then I’m only breaking his nose once.”

There’s a crack, a short shout, and then the man’s down. No fuss. No drawn-out fight. Sevika doesn’t even spill her drink.

“You ever talk to ‘em again,” she growls, towering over the now-bleeding man, “you’ll be drinkin’ through a straw for the rest of your life.”

Then she turns back to you, like nothing happened, like breaking a man’s nose is just part of the Tuesday routine.

You’re shaking a little—stimming again, hands flicking anxiously, lips parting to make a small keening sound you can’t quite stop. But she doesn’t flinch. She just takes your hand, warm and solid, and brings it to her lips.

“None of that,” she murmurs. “You don’t owe this place your silence. Not for them. Never for them.”

You nod slowly, and she helps you out of the booth, one strong arm around your waist.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” she says. “You wanna stim, you do it as loud as you damn please.”

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bibli0thecary · 2 months ago

Note

Are you going to be doing anymore of the baker Joel series because oh my heart 😭❤️

the return ౨ৎ

pairing: baker! joel miller x reader

In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakery—grumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.

Then there’s you—a stressed-out grad student who starts doing your thesis in his cozy café. You only came for the pastries… and the baker.