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velarisdusk · 26 days ago

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This Tempest, Ours

Rhysand x Reader

summary: On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought. word count: 11.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, there's only one sleeping bag, y/n is scared of storms, very briefly insinuated tamlin x reader, daemati-use, wet dreams, lovemaking for the most part but we get rough for a sec ] author's note: we’re gonna assume mental shields stay up during sleep…. yeah... ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a veil of dreammist & a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot & starlight crystals stirred thank you anon for the request!!!! i'm finding i really enjoy writing friends to lovers this is so sweet :") anyway i hope you like this one!! <33

The cold in the Winter Court didn’t seep into your bones—it gnawed at them. Gnawed like it had teeth and purpose and the unrelenting patience of a predator that knew you’d wear down eventually.

You’d stopped pretending to sleep an hour ago, after the lantern blew out. The wind outside the tent moaned like a creature in mourning, threading through the seams and catching in the corners of the thin canvas until it felt like the whole thing might lift and carry you off with it. You pressed deeper into the bundled cloak beneath you, trying not to shiver too obviously. You failed.

You were wrapped in more layers than you could count—thermal base, thick wool, a coat heavy enough to double as a blanket—but it still wasn’t enough. Even Rhys, normally indifferent to climate or discomfort, had resorted to cloaks and furs, the sharp line of his jaw the only part of him visible from beneath the hood pulled low.

Behind you, Rhysand exhaled, sharp and irritated. “You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through the ground.”

You didn’t open your eyes. “You always this broody when you’re forced to keep all that power on a leash?”

A beat. Then—“Keep talking and I’ll show you how not broody I can be.”

You snorted, cracking open one eye. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t let my magic out at all in twelve days. Give me a break.”

You finally rolled over to face him, the dim moonlight filtering through the tent’s fabric casting his features in pale blue and silver. There was a tension around his mouth, in the fine line between his brows. He hadn’t looked truly relaxed since your boots first crunched through the snow at the border.

The artifact—known only in whispers as the amulet of Larethine—was said to suppress magic so completely that even a High Lord’s power would snuff out like a candle. Rumored to have vanished after the war centuries ago, it resurfaced in scattered reports. They all pointed to the same abandoned temple buried somewhere in the Winter Court’s northern edge, where the snowfall was so constant it blanketed even sound. Rhysand intended to retrieve it quietly—before word spread and the wrong hands reached it first. So here you were. Nearly two weeks with no magic, no contact, no help. Just the two of you, and a map worn soft at the creases.

Rhysand’s power coiled beneath his skin like a thing alive, begging to be freed. But Kallias’ wards draped over the court like a net of ice, intricate and merciless. The second he even brushed the world with a tendril of it, you’d be caught.

You hadn’t expected it to wear on him like this.

“Your pack,” he said after a pause. “Still soaked?”

You winced, remembering the misstep near the creek a few days ago, then nodded. He shifted. “Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your pack, and everything in it—including your sleeping bag—is useless. It won’t dry in this weather. Either we share mine or I watch you freeze to death. I vote the former.”

You hesitated, the silence between you swelling into something tight and uncertain. But then another gust of wind screamed past the tent, and pride gave way to practicality.

“Fine.”

You crawled across the narrow space and slipped into the sleeping bag beside him. It was cramped—painfully so—and the moment you settled, his body pressed to yours, impossibly warm. You turned onto your side instinctively, back to his chest. You could feel every breath he took, feel the slow thump of his heart against your spine, the barest hint of muscle shifting when his hand curved around your middle, settling just beneath the edge of your ribs, his palm held steady against you.

Behind you, something rustled, and then the faint brush of membrane—Rhys shifting, one wing sliding from the sleeping bag in a slow stretch over you.

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered. “That thing freezes and falls off, we’re really fucked.”

He snorted quietly. “It has excellent circulation, thanks.”

“Put it away.”

Another rustle of fabric as he tucked the wing back inside.

“Warmer now?” he said dryly.

“Mm.”

The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable. You listened to the wind, to the soft crinkle of fabric with each small movement, to the quiet hum of his presence behind you. It was startling, how much space he took up without speaking, how much lighter the silence felt now that he was pressed against you.

His breath stirred at the hair at your nape. You tensed, then forced yourself to relax again, inching away a fraction. He followed.

“Rhys.”

“What.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

A pause. Then, shamelessly: “It’s where your neck is.”

You huffed, and he chuckled—a rare sound lately. Low and warm, it rolled through your back where your bodies touched, and you had to fight not to smile.

After a long moment, his voice came again, quieter.

“We’ll find it tomorrow.”

You gave a small nod, felt more than seen.

He shifted behind you, the subtle movement bringing his chest closer to your back, breath skimming your hair. “Then we get out. We go home.”

You let out a quiet breath, just enough to fog the air in front of you.

“You always this optimistic at night?”

He hummed low in his throat. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”

That pulled a small, tired smile from you.

“Must be the frostbite. You’re delirious.”

His fingers flexed slightly where they rested at your waist.

“Mm. That, or the cold makes me honest.”

Something in your chest ached—not sharp, but deep. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle soft around you.

Sleep found you curled into his warmth, his hand resting at your waist, his breath a gentle rhythm against your skin. And in the morning, with the air sharp in your lungs and the scent of pine still clinging to the chill, that warmth lingered over your skin.

The cold in the Winter Court hadn’t gone with the morning light. You’d found Larethine two days after that—tucked beneath the roots of an ancient ice-locked tree, a whisper of power veined through crystal. The mission had ended days later in a quiet exhale, a long journey home trailing behind it. It had been nearly three weeks since then. Long enough for bruises to fade, for muscle to stop aching.

Still, the cold seemed to have burrowed itself into your bones, the bite of it still there, even in the warmth of your bed in the City of Starlight.

You woke to the sound of wind clawing at the windows. A storm, full and furious, had settled over Velaris—the kind that turned the Sidra restless and made even the stars hide. Thunder cracked a beat later, loud enough to shake the walls.

Your heart was already racing, breath shallow and tight, at odds with the warmth wrapped around you. You lay there a moment, still and listening, the storm rattling through your bones like it had teeth again. They’d always scraped at your nerves, left them humming like struck strings.

The covers were a tangled mess around your hips, shoved down in sleep. Your T-shirt had ridden up high, bunched beneath your ribs, and when you looked down, you caught a glimpse of bare stomach, underwear, the slope of one thigh kicked over the sheets. You shifted, tugged the hem back down, fingers moving slow and clumsy like they weren’t entirely yours.

You remembered bits and pieces of the dream, not that it’d been much different from the others you’d had since that night. Tonight, he hadn’t been content just to hold you. His hands wandered. His mouth dragged slowly over your skin, coaxing sounds you’d never let slip in daylight. You woke slick between your thighs, the ache lodged deep and stubborn.

Another crash of thunder rolled across the rooftops. You pushed the blankets off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The house was magicked to stay warm; your skin was slick with sweat, and still, you felt chilled.

You didn’t think about it. Didn’t bother with pants or slippers. Just padded into the hall in your T-shirt—soft, worn thin, hem brushing mid-thigh and swaying with every step.

The storm pressed against the glass. The quiet inside felt louder for it.

You moved through it automatically, headed for the kitchen. The house was still, shadows long and familiar, but your mind had already drifted somewhere else—somewhere colder.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. Maybe you’d tried to. Maybe you’d told yourself it hadn’t meant anything. But your body remembered. Before your thoughts could catch up, your body remembered—his warmth at your back, the weight of his hand at your waist, the breath at your neck.

That same tension had curled beneath your skin now. You hadn’t realized you missed it until it came back.

The air had gone heavy the moment he touched you, and you hadn’t breathed properly since. You hated how your body still reacted—like it didn’t care what your mind had decided. Like it knew better.

Maybe it did.

You reached the stairs and took them without thought, one hand trailing the banister. The house didn’t creak beneath you. Even your own footsteps felt hesitant, like they didn’t want to disturb the memory.

You’d spent weeks pretending it hadn’t changed anything. That you were still the same. That he was.

You stepped into the kitchen without turning on the faelights. The storm outside pressed at the windows, a steady beat of rain—or maybe snow—smeared against the glass in streaks. Slush, probably.

You moved on instinct, pulled the kettle from its place, filled it from the tap. The cool weight of it settled in your hands, grounding—but not enough.

You set it on the stove and twisted the knob, a faint click giving way to the low hum of magic-warmed coils. Still, your thoughts refused to quiet.

You’d been telling yourself you hadn’t wanted it. That it had just happened. But you remembered leaning into him. You remembered the way your body had reacted—eager, instinctual, like you’d been waiting for it.

You reached for a mug without looking, fingers curling around the ceramic absently. It was warm from the cupboard’s enchantment, but your skin still felt cold.

You exhaled slowly and leaned your hip against the counter, staring at nothing.

And while the kettle began to warm, your thoughts slipped—quiet and treacherous—back to the tent. But your mind didn’t pull up the truth of that night. Not the soft hush of breath, the shared warmth, the way you’d both kept to yourselves despite how closely you lay. What you remembered instead—what you felt—was the dream you’d had in his arms. The one you hadn’t dared to admit to anyone.

You remembered the weight of his hand curling around your hip—broad, sure fingers splaying possessively across your skin like he’d always known exactly where to touch you. His thumb pressing just beneath your navel, slow little circles that made your breath catch. His chest, solid and hot, flush against your spine. Each inhale of his drawing your body tighter to his, like he wanted to fit you perfectly between every breath. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you.

And gods, you’d imagined how he’d move. He’d start slow, savoring it. Savoring you, every thrust controlled. He’d want to melt into you, to lose himself in every slick, shivering inch. And the press of him felt so real in your mind that your thighs pressed together without you meaning to.

The slow, deliberate roll of his hips against you, grinding in the dark with maddening restraint. Like he wanted to drag it out. Like he wanted to feel it, not just fuck.

But it wasn’t like you didn’t have dreams about that, too.

Like the one you’d just awoken from.

Where he wasn’t slow at all. Where he’d pushed you against the window, dragged your panties down with a growl, and dropped to his knees. He devoured you like a male starved. Like he needed it to breathe.

His tongue was relentless, slick and firm, fucking you with slow, torturous precision until your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the cries threatening to tear from your throat.

And just when your body began to shake, just when you thought you’d collapse—he was rising, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and sinking into you with one long, ruinous thrust that stole every breath from your lungs.

His voice rasped against your ear, all filth and hunger, whispering what he’d do next, what you’d beg for, how good you look, all wet and wanting and his. Every stroke dragged need from you like a confession, torn from your throat in gasps, in whimpers. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a demand. You shattered on his cock like you’d been made for it—again, and again, and again—until your body blurred at the edges and all you could feel was him.

And then—your name. A low murmur against your throat, reverent and rough at once, like it scraped its way out of him. Like it meant something. Like saying it against your skin was the only prayer he knew.

Almost a whisper. Almost a plea.

Almost—

Lightning split the sky—and thunder followed like a war drum, slamming through the silence hard enough to rattle the windows.

You flinched, heart in your throat, the mug slipping and knocking against the counter. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as the thunder faded, but it wasn’t the cold tiles beneath your feet that made your hands shake.

Wasn’t the storm making your chest rise and fall just so.

It was the echo of your name, murmured into your neck.

The ache in your body for something that had never even happened—

But felt, somehow, like it had.

Your breath came fast and shallow, heat rushing to your cheeks in a flush you couldn’t chase away.

Your heart was still hammering when—

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You jumped. The kettle screamed—when had it even started? The mug nearly slipped again, and you cursed under your breath, scrambling to keep hold of it.

A flush of panic surged alongside the remnants of arousal—

Glamour. Now.

Your scent vanished in an instant.

You rushed to take the kettle off the burner.

Shields—already up, and you triple-checked them. Reinforced them out of instinct, out of panic. Just in case.

Rhysand stood in the doorway, framed by the faint flicker of lightning beyond the windows.

Shirtless, his chest bare and skin golden in the dim light from the hall. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, like he’d just gotten out of bed—like he’d just been dreaming too.

Your stomach flipped.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him—not after what you’d been thinking, not with your skin still warm from it.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realize it was whistling—gods, I’ll—”

“You didn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “It was the storm. You’re fine.”

But something in his tone—the careful way he said it—made it feel like he was only trying to spare you.

You glanced down at the mug in your hand like it might save you. “Right. Okay. Still. Sorry.”

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you, eyes unreadable in the dark.

Then, quietly: “Storm wake you too?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thought tea might help.”

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—barely there. “You always brew it with wide eyes and shaking hands?” he asked as he stepped closer, brushing your fingers when he took the mug from your grasp.

You huffed a soft laugh. “Only when the thunder sounds like it’s about to rip the sky open.”

That earned a quiet breath of amusement from him as he slid an arm around your shoulders. Solid. Familiar. Like it belonged there.

“You know it’s mostly just noise, right?” he murmured. Rhys topped off the water in your mug, grabbed two teabags from the tin, and dropped them into the mug. His arm remained looped around your shoulders, holding you close as he covered the cup with a saucer to let it steep. “Sounds a lot worse than it is.”

You nodded, but your thoughts felt foggy and slow. Maybe it was the storm, or the hour, or the way he still hadn’t let go. The way his arm fit around you so naturally, as if it belonged there. As if it had never left since that night.

You shouldn’t read into it. It’s just comfort. Just instinct.

But you can’t stop noticing the warmth of him, steady and close. Can’t stop thinking about how easily he’s always known how to settle you—how natural it feels to lean into him like this.

Your lips press together, and you try not to think about how that same warmth once curled around you in a tent, or what it felt like to wake up in his arms.

His arm shifted, sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back, hand warm and steady as it pressed there. “C’mon,” he said softly, guiding you away from the counter and toward the little breakfast table near the window. He handed you your mug on the way, his fingers brushing yours again.

You moved without thinking, still wrapped in that dazed hush the storm had settled over everything. You sank into the chair without a word, and with a quiet flick of his fingers, the table filled. A crystal bowl of sugar cubes appeared near your elbow, followed by a small pitcher of warm milk, and even a tiny plate of shortbread cookies that hadn’t been there before.

“Thank you,” you murmured, the words quiet and full. Rhysand only nodded, moving back to the kettle to make his own.

After some time, you removed the saucer and took a careful sip—still too hot—before setting the mug down. Instead, you watched the steam curling lazily upward, trying not to let your gaze wander to where he stood by the counter. The stretch of muscle across his back. The ink winding over golden skin. The slow flex of his wings as he moved.

Then, lightly, “Cassian tried to give Azriel a haircut today.”

Your brows lifted. “He didn’t.”

Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly, though the only indication of his humor from where you sat was the soft shake of his shoulders. “He did. Said he could ‘blend the ends’ better than the hairdressers at the Riverfront salon.” He turned slightly toward you, the kettle behind him just starting to bubble.

You snort. “That’s because Cassian thinks ‘blending’ means cutting in a straight line.”

“Exactly,” Rhys said dryly, just as your fingers reached out—without looking—toward the honey jar at the far end of the counter.

His own hand twitched, summoning it with a flick of magic, smooth as breathing.

“He nearly took a chunk out of one of his wings,” he added, the jar gliding toward you in the same breath.

You caught it mid-air and spooned in a little honey, not missing a beat. “Azriel let him?”

“He didn’t know,” Rhys replied, pouring his own mug. He added the tea bags, covered it with a saucer, and took the seat across from you. “He thought Cassian was just trimming his own hair. Came back from the bath and Cassian had scissors and that look in his eyes.”

You stirred slowly, keeping your eyes on the swirl of tea. “I’m shocked he survived.” Whether you meant Cassian or Azriel didn’t matter; the sentiment applied to both.

“Mor told him if he even looked at her hair with a pair of scissors in his hands, she’d skin him.”

You smiled faintly. “Wise.”

Rhys’ lip twitched a little. “I thought so.”

The silence that followed was the kind that didn’t need filling. You let it stretch, let it settle into your bones like warmth. Outside, the thunder seemed to soften, like it, too, was growing tired.

After some time, Rhys lifted his mug, nose wrinkling slightly as he brought it to his lips.

“Lavender?” he asked, skepticism coloring the word.

You glanced up at him over the rim of your own cup. “It’s calming.”

He took a sip anyway, then made a quiet sound like he was trying not to grimace.

“It tastes like wet flowers.”

You gave him a look. “You’re still drinking it.”

“Out of solidarity.” He gave a theatrical sigh, settling the mug down like it had personally offended him. “Suffering beside you. As always.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you—small, but genuine, slipping out before you could catch it. The first moment of true ease you’d felt since you’d woken up. Rhysand didn’t say anything, just watched you with that quiet attention he wore too well, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like it pleased him to see it.

You let the silence stretch. “I didn’t know you were staying the night,” you said, still not quite looking at him.

“Didn’t mean to, ” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Had a few things to check in on here. Then the storm hit, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, casual, but not careless. “Didn’t want you riding it out alone.”

The stupid little flip your stomach did was entirely unhelpful. You took a slow sip of tea to ignore it.

The quiet settled again, a little softer now. Gentler.

Then Rhys’ voice came, quiet and rough at the edges.

“You always pace around in shirts that short when you’ve got the place to yourself?”

You spluttered mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without choking. Then shot him a withering glare over the rim of your mug.

He was smirking now, the picture of smug innocence. “It’s cute,” he added. “Cozy. Terrifying, really.”

“Keep talking and I’ll convince the House to trap you in the bathroom with no toilet paper.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re too tired. And besides—” he leans in just slightly, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself—“you’d miss me if I left.”

You flinched as a particularly loud boom of thunder cracked. The windows trembled in their panes, wind howling against the glass. The faelights dimmed briefly, a flicker like the storm had drawn a breath too deep.

“You should lie down,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wired.” His eyes flicked to the goosebumps on your arms. “And freezing. Come on.” He rose, tea still in hand. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll wait it out together.”

You hesitated. “... You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” The words were light, but not careless. “At least let me for a bit. You can talk at me until the storm passes.”

And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it cost him nothing to offer his presence—undid you more than it should have.

You didn’t answer right away. Just took another sip, hoping the warmth would quiet your pulse.

He let his words sit for a beat before offering, with a spark of levity, “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”

“You don’t have a side.”

“I’ll make one.”

You narrowed your eyes as you considered him, gaze trailing from the smug tilt of his mouth to the glint in his eyes. “Fine. But no funny business.”

“Define funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stood slowly, cradling your mug between your hands, and padded after him down the dim hallway. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, and you liked that—liked the hush between your footfalls, the faint creak of old wood beneath your steps, the way Rhys kept his pace just a half step ahead of yours.

Then, without looking back, he said, “You’ve got more mugs than sense.”

You glanced at him, deadpan. “They’re seasonal.”

He lifted his, inspecting the faded gold lettering. “‘I survived Calanmai in the Spring Court.’ It’s nearly Solstice.”

You took a long sip. “Year-round commemoration felt appropriate.”

He snorted. “You weren’t even in the Spring Court for Calanmai. We were in the Day Court dealing with that trade dispute, remember?”

“Sure, not this year.”

You turned your mug just as he glanced back, hiding the side that read “I Got Picked at Calanmai and All I Got Was This Mug.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know me.”

He stopped outside your door, wings tucking in as he leaned casually against the frame. You opened it without a word and stepped inside, flipping on the lamp. The room glowed in warm golds and shadows, the storm pressing faintly at the windows.

Rhysand followed a beat later, hands wrapped around his mug, gaze roaming the space like he hadn’t already seen it a hundred times before.

You crossed to the dresser and started absently clearing up—folding the sweater draped over the chair, tucking a pair of socks into a drawer, shoving a bra beneath a pillow like it hadn’t been lying out all day.

“Please,” Rhys said behind you, voice drier than your tea. “As if it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”

You tossed him a flat look over your shoulder. “They’re not for your viewing pleasure.”

“Everything’s for my viewing pleasure,” he muttered, already halfway to the bed, mug thunking down on the nightstand like a punctuation mark.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dresser, reaching for a lacy little number you hadn’t realized was still out—only for Rhys to beat you to it, no doubt winnowing the last few feet just for theatrics.

He held it up delicately between two fingers, eyebrows lifting in mock reverence. “Really, (y/n)? This barely qualifies as a scrap. Is it for… special occasions? Or just Tuesdays?”

You snatched it from his hand, cheeks warming. “Stop being a pig.”

His grin was wicked. “Oink.”

You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

Rhys just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Your hospitality says otherwise.” He moved to climb onto the bed like he’d done a hundred times before. You gave him a long, unimpressed look, then turned to grab your tea.

By the time you turned back, he was already against the headboard, wings gone, legs stretched out. He looked perfectly at home—too at home.

You slid in beside him with a muttered, “Don’t spill anything.”

“I never do,” he said, tugging the blankets up from where they’d bunched at the foot of the bed, covering you both.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just curled your fingers around your tea and let the warmth soak in. The bed creaked quietly as you shifted against the pillows. His thigh brushed yours.

Thunder grumbled far off, less urgent now. You let yourself breathe.

Then, casually, Rhysand said, “Still humming, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

“When you stirred your tea earlier,” he clarified, turning his head toward you. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Hum while you stir your drink? You do it all the time,” he said, flopping his arm behind his head. “Drives Amren insane.”

You let out a small, startled laugh. “Now I’m just sad I don’t hum louder.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his mug in mock toast. “Rattle whatever functions as her soul.”

You clinked your cup against his without thinking. “She’d gut you if she heard you.”

“Please,” he said. “She’s wanted to gut me for centuries.”

You smiled into your tea, warmth pooling in your chest that had nothing to do with the drink. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Full of steam and thunder and the fact that Rhys was here, warm beside you, his presence taking up more space than it had any right to.

He sank deeper into the pillows, stretching out like he belonged to the space and it belonged to him. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, distant but not vacant. And you let yourself look. The lines of his face were softened in the low light, made golden and shadowed by turns. He looked older like this. Not aged—just… full of time. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes, ancient and endless and quiet.

And yet he was warm beside you. Solid. Here.

“You always do that,” you said after a moment, surprising even yourself.

His gaze slid toward you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Do what?”

“Go quiet. Like you’ve left the room without getting up.”

A faint hum, low and noncommittal as he turned back to the ceiling. “Sometimes I do.”

It wasn’t a deflection. Just a truth handed to you gently.

You ran your thumb around the rim of your mug. “Where’d you go just now?”

A pause. Not long enough to mean avoidance, just… thought.

“Nowhere.” A pause. “Here.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but something in his jaw eased.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Then Rhys moved, and your shoulders were almost touching. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Y’know, I used to imagine this.”

You blinked, the sudden shift catching you off guard. “Imagine what?”

He didn’t seem to notice your disorientation, eyes still fixed ahead. “This—sitting here, quiet like this. You. Me. Tea.”

You stared at him for a second.

“Tea, huh?” you managed, still trying to catch up.

He grinned faintly. “Always figured it’d be chamomile.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Let me guess. In your daydreams, I served you tea in a silken robe and draped myself over your lap like some lovesick devotee.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward you with a glint in his eye. “You were wearing mismatched socks and humming off-key. The usual.”

That startled a laugh out of you, too loud for how late it was. “So you’ve always had terrible taste.”

His brow pulled just slightly, not in confusion but… disappointment? “I like to call it refined,” he said after a breath.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, so you did what you did best: sipped and looked away. Beyond the window, wind and water still tangled in the dark—but the violence of it no longer touched you.

“You know,” Rhys said after a pause, his voice dipping low again, “if we’re pointing fingers, you’ve been the quiet one.”

That violet gaze stayed fixed on you. You’d been on the receiving end of it before—in briefings, in battle, across a crowded room. But never like this. Never steady enough to knock the air right out of your lungs.

You didn’t answer.

He shifted again. “Won’t even look at me. What’s that about?”

You didn’t look up. Kept your eyes on the tea gone cold between your hands. There were a dozen reasons you could’ve given. Because the moment felt too full. Because it was easier not to see his face when you answered. Because his voice in your space, his body next to yours, felt like opening a book you weren’t ready to finish.

Instead, you said nothing.

Rhys didn’t push, he let the moment stretch.

You tilted your head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it might hold a map for what to say next. But what came out wasn’t planned. Just something that had lived on the tip of your tongue for far longer than you were comfortable with.

“Do you remember that night in the Winter Court?” you asked softly. “When we were in the tent?”

His reply was instant. “We were in the tent a lot of nights, you might have to be a bit more specific.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The night with the storm. When the fire kept going out.”

Realization flickered across his face. “Ah,” he said, voice quieting.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up. Not really. But something about tonight—about the tea and the thunder and the way he looked lounging on your bed like he belonged…

You two had never talked about that night. Never talked about the way his arms wrapped around you like instinct. Never talked about how it felt too natural, too easy, how the silence between you only ever felt like comfort and understanding. But now, with the storm as this strange cocoon around you…

You didn’t know what you’d expected him to say. But now that the words were out there, you couldn’t take them back.

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your mug. “I couldn't feel my toes. Thought I might lose them honestly.”

“You were shaking,” Rhys said, a quiet chuckle buried beneath the words.

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “You didn’t seem to mind holding me.”

Rhys tilted his head, his smile softer now. “I didn’t.”

Time slowed, dense with everything you weren’t saying. The storm pressed against the windows. His thigh brushed yours.

Then, quietly—like he was still deciding whether or not to say it—

“I thought about kissing you.”

You looked at him, heartbeat racing.

“You were freezing,” he added quickly, almost like a defense. “I kept thinking if I kissed you, it might stop your teeth from chattering.”

You huffed a breath, setting the mug down on your nightstand. “That is not how body heat works.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes warm. “But it was a nice excuse.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

“I didn’t sleep much that night,” you said.

Rhysand looked at you. Really looked at you. “Neither did I.”

You swallowed. The storm murmured against the windows like it remembered too.

“…I had a dream,” you admitted, voice barely above the hush of rain.

His brows lifted, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.

You hesitated. “Not the kind I should’ve had with you so close.”

A beat passed. And then he said, softly, “No?”

You shook your head once.

Rhys’s voice dipped, amused but careful. “Was I at least impressive in it?”

That pulled a short laugh from your chest—breathless, a little flustered. “You were… very convincing.”

His smile turned lazy. “Convincing, or irresistible?”

You huffed. “Don’t push it.”

“Never. I ease,” he said with a smirk like sin, sipping from his mug. “That’s how you get what you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a steady thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of everything that hadn’t been said over the years pressing in like gravity.

“I kept waking up,” you murmured. “Because I thought… if I moved too much, you’d pull away.”

He was very still. “I wouldn’t have.”

You looked over at him, heart skipping. He was watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that always made you feel like he knew more than he let on.

Then, almost too casually, he added, “For the record… you did move. Quite a bit, actually.”

Your heart stopped.

No, surely not—

You would’ve remembered that. You definitely would’ve remembered that. Right?

You blinked. “I did not.”

His grin was maddening. “Mmm. Rolled right into me. Twice.”

Heat rushed to your face, ears, down your spine.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, then opened it just to whisper, “You’re lying.”

He looked far too entertained.

“Twice,” he repeated, like he was doing you a favor.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Kill me.”

“I did consider it,” he said with a faint smile, “but you were clinging to me. It felt cruel.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you muttered.

“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” he went on, tone far too innocent. “Torturing me in my sleep.”

Your face remained planted in the palms of your hands, groaning. “I’m never speaking again.”

“That seems dramatic,” he said, clearly delighted.

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“This is your room,” Rhys said, not missing a beat.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “And you just let me?”

Rhys gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes twinkling. “Well, what was I going to do? Shove you away?”

You sputtered. “Most people would’ve!”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the air shifted—like even the storm outside had quieted to hear what he might say.

“I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to stop you.”

Your breath caught.

You looked at him, expecting the usual grin, some teasing remark—but there was none. Just quiet.

“You never… You never said anything,” you murmured. You weren’t talking about that night anymore—you both knew it.

Rhys hummed, low in his throat. “Didn’t want to spook you. Or tempt fate.”

This was about all of it. The looks, the silences, the way he’d never pulled away. The way he always felt just out of reach, like he was waiting for you to be sure. Like he’d been sure all along. But so had you—only you hadn’t known he was. You’d stayed just out of reach, too, waiting for a sign that never came.

You gave a breathless sort of laugh. “You think that would’ve tempted fate?”

He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t it have?”

Your silence said enough.

He let it hang there for a beat, then—without looking at you—reached for his mug again. Took a slow sip like he wasn’t aware of the tightrope he was walking. Like this wasn’t everything.

And when he set it down again, he spoke like it was nothing. “Whatever it was you dreamed… you certainly made it hard to stay asleep.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was velvet. “You were restless. Kept shifting. Making these soft little sounds, kept saying—”

You made a strangled noise. “Rhys.”

That made him glance over—his smirk unfairly smug. “Yeah, like that. A bit breathier though.”

You smacked his arm without thinking—more flustered than actually annoyed.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying. Must’ve been quite the night.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. You should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve changed the subject.

Instead, you said, quiet and steady, “You can see it, if you want.”

That wiped the grin off his face. He sat up, and his eyes found yours again, sharp and glittering.

“…Can I?”

You hesitated. Because the air between you felt different now, like the quiet after a confession, when the world waits to see what you’ll do with it.

You pushed the blankets off and sat up, mirroring him. Legs folded beneath you. Hands braced in your lap. You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were, every inch between you a live wire. Close. Closer than before.

You met his gaze and slowly, steadily, exhaled and let go.

Not all the way. Just enough. A slow unspooling at the edge of your mind—like a thread tugged loose.

It wasn’t dramatic. No crashing walls. No shuddering gasp.

Just a tilt. A lean. A flicker of trust in the quiet.

Like cracking a door open—not wide, just enough for someone to slip through if they wanted it badly enough.

And he felt it. You knew the moment he did. Not by any shift in his expression, but by the way his presence responded—quiet and immediate, the brush of his mind ghosting along the threshold of yours. Not a push or a pry, just a gentle touch, like a fingertip at your temple, tracing the edges of your mind’s adamant, as if to say, I’m here. It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.

When he did come in, it was careful. Gentle. Not a push, not a pry—just a brush of thought, like a thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He moved through you with reverence, with restraint. Not like he was looking for something, but like he was waiting for you to offer it.

The pressure in your chest built. Not from fear—but from how intimate it was.

You felt the weight of him in your mind. The shape of him. Familiar and foreign all at once. Rhys, your friend. Rhys, the shoulder you’d leaned on more times than you could count. Now quiet in your head, holding still, holding back—waiting.

So you let him see.

The memory rose, and it bloomed slowly, like a flower opening to sunlight.

Your skin slick with sweat, flushed and bare. Blankets kicked down around your hips. Rhys between your thighs—his mouth everywhere at once. On your throat, your breasts, the inside of your knee. His voice low and rasping, coaxing, worshipping. You arched into him, hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, closer.

Soft sounds slipping from your lips. His name. Over and over, like a prayer.

The pace of his thoughts shifted.

You felt it—felt him—react, felt the pulse of heat that wasn’t yours.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the memory played out, as you trembled beneath the ghost of his mouth in your dream. As your back arched for him. As your dream-self gasped his name like it meant everything.

You could feel his focus on every detail, like he was memorizing it all.

The way you sounded. The way you looked. The way you wanted him.

Rhys.

You whispered it in your mind—his name soft and aching.

Rhys.

The dark curled tighter inside you, shadows licking through your veins like smoke—hungry and unrelenting.

Taking. Taking. Taking.

Your hips shifted. Your breath hitched.

Rhys.

His breath stuttered in response—wherever he was.

And then, in the quiet of your room, you heard it.

A groan.

Low. Wrecked.

Rhys.

Your eyes snapped open.

Only—you weren’t in your room anymore.

The air was sharp and cold. You could smell pine, damp earth, that faint mineral tang of snow on the wind. Canvas fluttered quietly overhead. The lantern cast that same golden pool of light. You heard the storm beyond the trees, muffled and distant. And beneath you—sleeping bag. Mat. The slight ache in your shoulders from a long day of hiking.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

You blinked—and felt it all at once: the soft cotton of your shirt clinging to your skin. The same T-shirt you’d fallen asleep in earlier tonight. The same thin underwear beneath it. Your legs were bare. Cold.

And he was there.

Rhys, kneeling over you—close. Real. One of his thighs braced on either side of your hips, careful not to press down. His hands planted on the floor beside your shoulders. Caging you in without meaning to. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Chest bare. Hair mussed.

No sign of the coats you had that night. No gloves or boots or scarves to fight off the cold. Just skin.

Warm. Alive. Here.

Your fingers dug tight into the sleeping bag beneath you. “What are you doing, Rhys?”

He tilted his head. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

The words landed low in your belly.

Because it was—your memory, your dream, your body already humming with the way the figment of him had touched it before.

He was watching your mouth when you spoke again. “This isn’t how it happened.”

And gods, you could see it—where his hands had already touched this version of the night. Where the boundaries had softened, blurred. The cold clung to your skin still, but this was a watered-down echo of what you’d felt that night. Especially with the heat of him radiating so close, like he was the only warmth left in the world. The wind outside faded. All you could hear was the rhythm of your own pulse.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours. “No. But it could’ve.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to quiet the storm.”

He blinked, like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he said simply. “Well, since the kitchen. Bit by bit, so you’d think it was fading on its own.”

Your heart stuttered. “Rhys.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “What? You think I couldn’t feel how tense you were?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, the words quieter now. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Oh?” His brows rose slightly, magic shifting like the tide. “Should I stop then?”

And then, with no more than a flicker of thought, he did.

Sound returned all at once. Wind shrieking against your bedroom windows. Rain pounding the glass in sheets. Distant thunder rolling deep and endless across the city.

Your body locked up. Breath caught in your throat.

And just as fast as it came, it was gone again.

Silence fell. Not the true silence of the storm easing, but the quiet Rhys had crafted for you—thick, warm, and distant, like a memory.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Because part of you wanted to laugh. Not at him—but at yourself. At the sheer madness of lying half-dressed in your own memory, with your best friend hovering over you—inside the dream you’d had about him. Seeing it. Breathing it in. Touching the edges of everything you’d refused to say out loud.

Your voice came quieter this time. “We’re not just looking anymore,” not really a question, but you needed confirmation.

A pause.

“No,” he said—low and sure, gaze locked to yours like it was a tether. Like he needed the confirmation too.

You stared at each other. That same heat coiling in your gut, the same ache building where his hands hadn’t touched you yet.

You shifted slightly, barely a brush of your knee against his.

That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow, careful. Like giving you a chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His mouth brushed yours once. Barely. A whisper of contact, soft and almost uncertain.

But your breath caught, and your hands moved on their own—reaching, pulling him closer, until that uncertainty dissolved and his mouth claimed yours fully.

It was deeper this time. Hotter.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just inevitable.

Like he’d always meant to kiss you, and some part of you had always meant to let him.

While one hand held him up, the other found your hip, steady and sure, but not insistent. Just… there. A grounding point. A question.

You answered it without words—just a shift of your weight forward, the press of your chest against his, your fingers sliding up to rest lightly at his jaw.

He groaned low in his throat. Almost inaudible, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

Your kiss deepened, slow and molten. His tongue brushed yours, deliberate, and you let him in. Let him have that part of you.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just his fingers at first. Testing. Savoring. The warmth of your stomach. The shape of your waist.

His touch wasn’t greedy. It was careful. Almost reverent.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmured, breath catching as he dragged his knuckles along your ribs.

His lips ghosted down your jaw. “So have you.”

You didn’t deny it. How could you, when the lines between dream and memory were already blurring around you? When your body was already arching into his, betraying every want you’d ever buried?

You didn’t have to say it. Not when he could feel it in every breath you took.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. How you responded. The way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips just barely against yours.

Still clothed. Still not quite there. But the heat between you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating.

You whispered his name against his lips, barely audible.

His mouth stilled against your skin. “Say it again.”

You did. Quieter. Closer to a prayer than a plea.

Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

There was no smirk this time. No mask of arrogance. Just that same dark, endless gaze, lit now with something deeper. Something older.

“You’re sure?”

Not a tease. Not a dare.

Just a question. One last door he wouldn’t walk through unless you opened it.

You met his gaze and gave him the only answer that mattered—leaning in, mouth brushing his in a kiss that was softer than before. Not desperate. Not urgent.

Just honest.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling there, grounding yourself in him. In this moment.

And Rhys melted into it, bearing his weight on his forearm now, the hand beneath your shirt sliding up again—flat palm, slow drag. Like he was rediscovering a familiar map, one he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.

Every breath you took pressed your chest against his. Every motion of your hips fed the fire you were both barely keeping contained.

But it wasn’t just heat burning between you.

It was years. Of glances held too long. Of arguments that meant more than they should’ve. Of moments like this, only imagined.

Rhysand pulled back, far enough to drink you in—eyes roaming, slow and deliberate, like he meant to memorize the sight. The flush on your cheeks. The part in your lips. The want you didn’t bother hiding. “What were you thinking about in the kitchen?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. Because I was sleeping. And then I wasn’t.”

He shifted above you, and his hand drifted. Down your stomach. Past the pushed-up hem of your shirt. “It wasn’t the storm that woke me,” he murmured, and that hand kept going, slow and steady. “It was your scent.”

You gasped as his palm cupped you over your underwear—broad and warm and possessive. The heel of it pressed just right and he knew it. “Rhys—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t soften.

“I wanted so badly to know what you were dreaming about,” he said, voice dipped in velvet and ruin, rich with heat. His fingers curled just slightly, a teasing drag along the soaked fabric. “I could smell it. Clear across the house.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear now. “I could smell you,” he said, voice dragging slow, like he wanted the words to settle in your blood. “Warm and ready. Like sugar melting off skin. Like salt and heat.”

His breath skimmed your ear. “I wanted to fall to my knees right then and taste every drop of it.”

He inhaled at the curve of your neck, sharply, greedily, hungrily. Like he could drink in the want from your skin. “It hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.”

Your thighs twitched. He smiled.

“You were so wet, weren’t you?” His thumb moved now, tracing slow, idle circles over the damp cotton. “Dripping onto the sheets, dreaming of something. I couldn’t stop thinking.”

You, on the other hand, simply couldn’t think. You could barely breathe.

“Thoughts of you…” he murmured, dragging the words across your skin. “Spread out across my sheets. Still dreaming. Still wet. I imagined you there on my bed, mouth parted, thighs sticky with it. Maybe you were dreaming of me fucking you slow—dragging it out. Or maybe rough—hands on your hips, face pressed into the pillow.”

His hand stilled. Breath shallow.

“I wanted to touch myself to it,” he said, voice torn. “To that scent—your need hanging in the air like perfume. To the image of you in bed… It drove me fucking mad,” he whispered. “The thought of you, wet and whimpering in your sleep. I almost fisted my cock right there, just to take the edge off.”

A pause, thick with restraint.

“But it felt like… a line I couldn’t cross. Like taking something that wasn’t mine to have yet.”

His head dropped slightly, forehead brushing yours.

“So I just lay there. Thinking. Burning. Telling myself to sleep—Rhysand, ignore it. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about her fingers between her thighs, don’t think about her mouth open, whispering your name into the night—

Just sleep.”

A beat. A slow, shaky inhale.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop needing you. And right when I couldn’t fucking take it anymore—right when I gave in and was reaching for myself—”

“Rhys,” you breathed.

“It vanished. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. So I got up, went to get some cold water.” He kissed the curve of your jaw. “Tried to walk it off.”

Another slow press of his thumb. Another spike of pleasure.

“And then,” he went on, gaze sharpening like a blade, “I got close to the kitchen. Heard you moving around.”

His smile turned feral.

“And there it was again.”

You made a soft, involuntary sound—embarrassed and wrecked all at once.

Rhys purred against your neck, all smoke and satisfaction. “That scent. Cauldron, it’s maddening. Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?”

You shook your head, barely.

He groaned—deep and low and filthy. “Fuck, don’t even have to touch yourself to flood the whole fucking house with it.”

His fingers dragged along the soaked fabric again, deliberate and slow. “All of it between your thighs, and you just… stood there. Thinking about it. Letting it drip down like you didn’t care who smelled it.”

You thought you were alone.

Cassian was in Illyria, Azriel was in Vallahan.

Rhysand hadn’t said a word before you’d gone to bed. Hadn’t made himself known, hadn’t so much as sent a thought your way.

He had to know you thought you were the only one home.

You never would have left your room like that if—

“You wanted me to find you like that?” he whispered. “Is that it? Standing there in your little shirt, soaking yourself, pretending you couldn’t sleep while your body screamed for me?”

Your hips jerked. His hand didn’t budge.

“Rhys,” you tried, broken and breathless.

But he was far from done.

“Maybe,” he mused, voice going molten, “you wanted me to walk in and bend you over the counter. Pull these—” he snapped the waistband of your underwear—“to the side and taste that sweet, sleepy mess you made between your legs. The one that begged me to wake you up with my mouth.”

You let out a ragged breath—half sob, half moan.

“Tell me what you were thinking about in the kitchen,” he said again, lower now, darker. “And this time, don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.

You gasped, hips twitching, breath gone.

“Try again,” he growled, mouth at your throat. “Or I’ll keep my fingers here all night and won’t let you come. Not until you tell me.”

Your legs trembled. “It was you,” you admitted, voice wrecked. “It was always you.”

He groaned like the words were a reward, his fingers finally moving with purpose, circling, stroking.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me what I was doing.”

You bit your lip.

His fingers stilled instantly.

“You—” your voice cracked, and you dragged in a shuddering breath. “You had me against the window.”

He hummed in approval, fingers pushing in just a little, just enough to make you gasp. “Which one?”

“The big one. Upstairs. In your room.”

“Of course,” he murmured, darkly pleased. “You like the one with the view.”

You nodded helplessly.

“And what was I doing to you?” he prompted, thumb brushing maddening circles again. “Tell me exactly.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed. “You came up behind me. Wrapped your hand around my throat. Pressed me against the glass.”

Before the words even finished leaving your mouth, Rhys shifted—free hand sliding up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath your jaw.

You gasped.

“Like this?” he asked, voice all sin and silk.

You nodded, throat moving against his grip. “Yes.”

His hand between your thighs moved diligently, slick sounds soft and obscene. “Keep going.”

“You pushed my legs apart. Made me look out at the city. Said you wanted everyone to see how pretty I looked for you.”

He groaned—low and wrecked. “Of course I did.”

And then he moved—sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip, the crease of your thigh. He peeled your underwear off your legs with lazy reverence, and when he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinted like a god about to claim what was his.

“Did I touch you like this in your dream? With my tongue?” he asked softly, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You moaned, thighs twitching. “You didn’t stop.”

He grinned—dark, delighted—and then he didn’t stop, either.

His mouth was on you in a heartbeat—hot, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt, tongue dragging through your folds, firm and slow. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, helpless, right where he wanted you.

And gods, he was good.

He licked into you like he was trying to taste the dream itself, moaning against your cunt like you were the one unraveling him. When his tongue flicked your clit—once, twice, then again—your hips bucked and he groaned, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you still.

“Gods, I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. “Did I make you come like this?”

You whimpered. “Twice.”

His mouth sealed around your clit again, tongue flicking faster now, more pressure, more hunger. Your hands scrabbled at the blankets, his hair, anything to hold onto as the pleasure surged, sharp and sudden and far too much—

And then you broke. Legs shaking, breath gone, climax crashing through you with dizzying force. He held you through it, tongue still moving lazily, drawing every last tremor from your body.

You didn’t even have time to recover before he was moving—rising over you again, mouth glistening, eyes wild with want.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheek as he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep. Let you taste yourself on his tongue. Let you feel how much he needed this.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice low. “Tell me what I did next.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and already aching again. “You—” your voice faltered. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath. You just… slid inside me.”

A groan rumbled in his chest, and he shoved his pants down with the kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. reached down, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with maddening patience.

“Like this?”

He guided the head of his cock through your folds, slick and aching. You nodded, breath catching.

“No teasing,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, and then—

He pushed into you with one long, slow thrust, the stretch of him making your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—.”

He started to move, hips rolling deep and steady, slower than the rhythm you’d imagined in sleep. He thrust like he couldn’t get enough.

Gentler. Like he wanted to savor it. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand slid down your side, settling at your waist, grounding you as his body rocked into yours with patient, aching care. Each thrust was deliberate, every motion a silent promise. And when he looked down at you—eyes dark and open, lips parted with quiet reverence—you felt like the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Better than I could’ve ever dreamed.”

That pulled a soft smile from him. He dipped down to kiss you again, slow and lingering, his hips still moving with that unhurried rhythm that had your toes curling. He wasn’t fucking you—he was making love to you. Deep and warm and full of something that felt dangerously close to adoration.

Then his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent question. You shifted beneath him, lifting your arms to help, and he peeled it off you with reverent care, tossing it aside without taking his eyes off you.

His lips brushed yours again, breath warm and trembling. “You feel so good,” he murmured, like the words had to be pulled from somewhere deep. His gaze drifted down your body, hungry and awestruck all at once. “And you look…” His breath hitched. “You look so fucking beautiful.”

One hand slid up, fingers splaying over your ribs before cupping your breast—slow, purposeful. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and your back arched instinctively, a soft sound catching in your throat.

“There you go,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s it. Just let yourself feel it.”

He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower. “Been thinking about this,” he rasped, tongue flicking over the peak before he took it into his mouth. “Dreaming of this.”

And his hips never stopped moving.

The pace stayed slow—for a moment longer. Long enough to draw another gasp from your throat, long enough for your fingers to tighten against his back. But you felt it—how his control began to fray. How the roll of his hips deepened, a little harder now, a little faster.

“You still with me?” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to see you nod absently. “That’s my girl… Let me take care of you.”

He drew back and pushed in hard, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Then again. And again. Still tender—but no longer soft. Not when he buried himself inside you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.

You clung to him as the pace built, sweat slicking your skin, breath mixing in the charged air between your mouths. He kissed you like he needed it, like he needed you, all of you, while he fucked you deeper, rougher, until every thrust had your eyes rolling back.

You turned your head, breath catching as his mouth dragged along your jaw. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

He groaned in response, hips stuttering just slightly.

“Every time you push in,” you went on, voice low and wrecked, “gods, it’s so deep.”

His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hitching it higher, opening you more. “You’re perfect,” he growled. “Fucking perfect.”

Your fingers curled around his nape, tugging him down until your lips brushed his ear. “You don’t have to hold back,” you breathed. “I can take it.”

His hips slowed.

You didn’t stop. “I want to take it,” you whispered, and then added, a little bolder, “Want to feel all of it. All of you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Your gaze met his—open, hungry. “I want you, Rhys.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Then his grip tightened—hands sliding under your thighs, pressing them up, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you open. The new angle had you gasping as he sank in, slow at first, then all at once—deep and overwhelming.

He held you there, panting above you, pupils blown wide.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, and he started to move—hard, fast, relentless, like a dam breaking, like he’d been holding back for years and couldn’t anymore. “So take it. Don’t close your eyes, look at me… There’s my girl. There you go.”

You couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe as he talked you through it. You could only feel as he fucked you into the blankets with single-minded, devastating purpose.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he drove into you again and again, every thrust punching a sound from your throat—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him, the heat of him, the way your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let him go.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips snapping forward.

You tried. Gods, you tried. Your lashes fluttered as your eyes met his—wild and dark and hungry.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep those eyes on me while I fuck you.”

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs trembling in his hold. “Rhys—”

“I know,” he panted, pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed across your ribs before brushing the swell of your breast. He cupped it gently at first—then squeezed, thumb circling your nipple until you cried out.

“You’re doing so well, fuck—taking me so deep. Can you feel how tight you are around me? Gods, you’re perfect like this,” he said, voice cracking. “Under me. Around me. Fuck—mine.”

You were close—so close it ached, a coil drawn tight in your belly, ready to explode.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he urged, voice nearly breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

And with one more brutal thrust—deep, punishing, perfect—you shattered around him—body locking up, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure surged through you like lightning. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

Rhys kept fucking you through it, relentless, determined, dragging every last wave of that climax out of you with deep, punishing thrusts. His grip on your thighs was bruising, the way he held you open, kept you wide and helpless beneath him, like he needed to watch the way you came undone.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

Your hands clawed at the blankets, your mind white-hot and unraveling. Every thrust hit something electric inside you, your body too sensitive, too raw, and yet—you wanted it. Needed more.

“Too much,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.

“No, baby,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—then slamming back in so hard your vision blurred. “You can take it. You’re gonna give me another.”

Your mouth dropped open in a moan, back arching as he angled his hips just right—grinding deep, relentless, right against that spot that made you sob.

“I can’t—” you tried again, voice breaking, but your body told a different story. Your hips rolled to meet him, thighs quaking where he held them, cunt pulsing so hard around him it was all he could do not to lose it.

“Yes you can,” he hissed, sweat slicking his chest. “You’re already close. I can feel you—so tight, so wet. Fuck, you’re milking me.”

You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The pressure built again with terrifying speed, your body strung so tight it felt like you might snap in half.

Then his thumb found your clit—circling, pressing, teasing just enough— just enough—

You screamed. Loud and wrecked and his, as a second orgasm slammed into you, fiercer than the first, crashing over you like a storm. Your whole body locked up, legs shaking violently in his grip, and all you could do was feel—like you were flying apart in a thousand pieces, pleasure white-hot and endless. Your vision went white. A cry tore from your throat as your body clenched down around him, pulsing with wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back in with a groan as he chased his own end.

“Gods,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—fuck—”

And then he was coming, hips pressed flush to yours, buried as deep as he could go, filling you with every last pulse of him.

He didn’t stop touching you, even then—his movements gentler now, grounding, soothing, his hands sliding down your legs, your hips, up to cradle your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, trembling, lost.

You were still trembling when he finally eased out of you, slow and careful, like he hated to leave the warmth of your body. You hissed at the sudden emptiness, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You barely registered him moving—just the rustle of fabric, the shift of air. Then something warm and damp pressed between your thighs, and you jolted.

“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, rasping with the remnants of his own ruin. “Just cleaning you up.”

Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Where the hell did you even get that?”

Rhys gave a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he wrung out the cloth and dabbed between your legs with unhurried care. “I always come prepared.”

You groaned. “That better not be from your pocket.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. It was clean. Can’t say the same for you.”

You swatted at his shoulder, too weak to land anything meaningful. He caught your wrist easily, brought it to his lips, kissed your knuckles. Then, quieter, more serious: “You okay?”

You met his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just that—his eyes, searching yours, all that fire banked into something steadier. Warmer.

“I’m good,” you whispered. “Better than good.”

He nodded, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that.”

“Liar,” you muttered, which earned another soft grin.

“I mean,” he murmured, voice dipping as he smoothed the cloth over your skin one last time, “I did—but I wasn’t planning on it going that far.”

You let out a breathless laugh, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest as the chill started to creep back in around the edges of your bliss.

“Rhys,” you said dryly, “as much as I’m enjoying the ambiance out here, I’d really prefer not to freeze to death with your come dripping out of me.”

He huffed a soft laugh—but a blink later, the cold vanished. The ground beneath you softened, gave way to your plush mattress. Dim, golden light from your lamp spilled over you both. The scent of lavender and sex filled the space.

Rhysand shifted closer, his arm curling low around your waist. The weight of his touch, the steadiness, was enough to drown out the storm still raging beyond the window.

You tucked your head beneath his chin, let his warmth settle into your skin.

“Next time,” you mumbled, eyes already heavy, “you conjure us a fire first.”

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he promised, voice like velvet and shadows, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

#acotar #rhysand acotar #rhysand #rhysand x reader #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #this tempest ours

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flux1563 · 1 month ago

Text

Biggest secret

Words : 7381

Tags : squirting, tied up, a lot of fingering, BWC, creampie

"Wonyoung, we're going to be so late," Yujin called out, her voice echoing through the bustling airport.

Wonyoung, the ever-calm member of the K-pop group, glanced at her watch. "We've got five minutes," she said with a gentle smile. "Breathe, Yujin."

They were two young women about to embark on a much-needed vacation. Famous for their talents, their faces graced billboards and magazine covers across Asia. Yet here they were, trying to navigate the unfamiliar European airport as inconspicuously as possible. Their fans had no idea they were even on the same continent.

Their manager had assured them that this trip was off the books, a chance to let their hair down and enjoy the continent without the pressure of performances or appearances. They had packed light, eager to leave their glammed-up personas behind. Wonyoung, with her sharp features and piercing gaze, had swapped her usual high ponytail for loose waves that fell around her shoulders. Yujin, on the other hand, had opted for a more dramatic change, dying her hair a soft pink and trading her stage outfits for comfortable streetwear.

The air was thick with excitement as they stepped out into the warm embrace of the afternoon sun. The cobblestone streets of the city stretched out before them, a canvas of history and culture waiting to be explored. They had a map, a basic grasp of the language, and a list of must-see spots. But what they hadn't anticipated was the encounter that would change their lives forever.

As they approached a quaint café, a man emerged, his 6'3" frame casting a long shadow. His eyes, a piercing blue, met Wonyoung's and she felt an immediate jolt of attraction. He was ruggedly handsome, with a strong jawline and a mop of curly hair that danced in the breeze. Yujin's cheeks flushed as she took in his casual yet confident stride. The two women couldn't help but stare.

"Ladies, are you okay?" he asked in a rich, accented voice that sent shivers down their spines. His name was Y/N, a local artist who had recognized the subtle signs of lost tourists. They nodded, trying to play it cool despite their racing hearts. He offered to help them find their way around the city, an offer they eagerly accepted.

Wonyoung and Yujin found themselves drawn to his easy charm and the way his eyes twinkled with mischief. As they walked, Y/n pointed out hidden gems that weren't on their itinerary. They laughed at his jokes, feeling a sense of freedom that was rare in their usual tightly-scheduled lives. The tension grew as they shared glances, each one loaded with unspoken desires. The energy between them was palpable, and it wasn't just the heat of the day that was making them sweat.

When he invited them to his penthouse, they didn't hesitate. The elevator ride was filled with nervous giggles and sly glances, their hearts pounding in unison. The penthouse was a stunning blend of modern architecture and antique charm, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the cityscape. They felt like they were stepping into a different world, one where the only rule was to enjoy themselves.

As they settled in, Y/n suggested they stay with him for the duration of their vacation. He promised them privacy and a chance to experience the city like locals. The thought of escaping the watchful eyes of their fans and the suffocating bubble of their celebrity lives was too tempting to resist. Plus, the thought of getting to know him better was an alluring prospect that neither of them could ignore.

The next day, they set out early, their excitement palpable as they wandered through the cobblestone streets, the smell of freshly baked bread and blooming flowers filling the air. Y/n led them to a hidden market where the vibrant colors of the produce popped against the ancient buildings. They sampled cheeses that melted on their tongues and tasted wines that sang of the region's rich heritage. The sun climbed higher, casting a warm glow over their exploration.

As the evening approached, they returned to the penthouse, their senses filled with the day's adventures. The city had come alive with the setting sun, its vibrant energy seeping into their very souls. They decided to embrace the local nightlife, eager to let their hair down even further. Y/n pulled out an assortment of fine wines and beers, setting the stage for a night of relaxation and camaraderie.

The drinks flowed freely, and soon enough, Yujin and Wonyoung's inhibitions began to wane. They giggled and whispered to each other, their cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the excitement of their secret escape. Y/n, who had been nursing his drink more slowly, watched them with a knowing smile, enjoying their playfulness.

"You know, we have a fantasy," Yujin slurred, her eyes glancing coyly at Y/n. "A... a really big one."

Wonyoung's eyes widened for a second, then she giggled, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. "Yeah," she agreed, her voice a little unsteady. "A... a big white cock."

Y/n's smile grew wider, and his eyes darkened with desire. He leaned in closer, his breath warm on their necks. "Is that so?" he murmured, his voice low and seductive. "Well, I've got something that might just live up to your... fantasy."

The room grew hotter as the words hung in the air. Wonyoung's heart raced, and she felt a pool of wetness forming between her legs. Yujin bit her lower lip, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "Prove it," she challenged, her voice a soft whisper.

With a knowing smirk, Y/n stood and began to unbutton his shirt, his muscular chest coming into view as the fabric fell away. The two K-pop stars watched in awe as he revealed a sculpted body that could have been chiseled by the gods themselves. His skin was a warm, golden hue, kissed by the sun. He approached them, his confidence a tangible force in the room.

"Gentlemen prefer blondes," he murmured, reaching into a drawer and pulling out two lengths of soft, velvety rope. "But I have a feeling I might make an exception for you two."

With surprising gentleness, Y/n approached Yujin first. Her eyes were wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation as he took her wrists in his firm grip. He deftly wound the rope around them, securing them to the chair's arms with a series of quick, precise movements. He made sure the knots weren't too tight, but just tight enough to keep her in place. The soft fabric of the rope was a stark contrast to the cold metal of the chair, sending a thrill through her body.

Next was Wonyoung. She watched with bated breath as he approached, her heart pounding in her chest. He knelt before her, his eyes never leaving hers as he bound her ankles to the chair legs. The way he moved was mesmerizing, a dance of dominance and care that had her panting with anticipation. He then reached for her wrists, wrapping the rope around them in the same expert manner as before. He tied them to the chair's back, making sure she was as secure as Yujin.

The two friends sat there, bound and helpless, their breaths coming in short gasps. The room was filled with a new kind of tension, one that was palpable and electrifying. They had never felt so exposed and yet, strangely, so alive. Their eyes locked on Y/n as he stepped back to admire his handiwork, his gaze roving over their bodies with a hunger that was almost tangible.

"Now, where were we?" he asked, his voice low and gruff with lust. "Ah, yes, your fantasy. Tell me more about this... 'big white cock' you've been dreaming of."

Wonyoung's cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red, and Yujin bit her lip to stifle a moan. They exchanged a look that spoke volumes, and with a nod from Wonyoung, Yujin began to speak, her words tumbling out in a rush. "We... we've always wondered what it would be like. To have someone so powerful and in control, to give us pleasure beyond what we've ever known."

Y/n's eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam entering them. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of Wonyoung's jaw. "And what makes you think I can give you what you're looking for?" he whispered, his thumb brushing against her plump bottom lip.

Wonyoung's breath hitched, her eyes never leaving his. "We've seen your pictures," she said, her voice low and seductive. "We know you can handle two eager mouths."

With a smug smile, Y/n leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin. He placed a gentle kiss on her neck, eliciting a soft moan. His tongue snaked out, tracing the line of her collarbone and down to the swell of her chest. He could feel her pulse racing under his lips, the heat of her body beckoning to him. His hand slid under her shirt, cupping her breast firmly.

He stepped back, his gaze lingering on the two bound women before focusing on Yujin. He approached her with the same deliberate grace, his eyes burning with a hunger that matched their own. He leaned down, his mouth capturing hers in a searing kiss that stole her breath away. His other hand reached for the hem of her shirt, lifting it up to expose her midriff. His tongue traveled down, tracing the curve of her belly button, making her squirm in her seat.

Their moans grew louder as he continued to explore their bodies with his mouth. He kissed and licked every inch of exposed skin, savoring the taste of them. His teeth grazed Wonyoung's nipple, eliciting a high-pitched whine from her as she arched her back, trying to get closer. Meanwhile, his hands had moved to Yujin's thighs, his thumbs teasing the sensitive skin just beneath the hem of her shorts.

He moved back to Wonyoung, his tongue flicking over her erect nipple before switching to the other one. He took his time, savoring the sounds of her pleasure. Wonyoung's eyes were closed, lost in the sensation of his mouth on her body. He knew she was wet, he could see the evidence staining the crotch of her pants, and the scent of her arousal filled the air.

Yujin watched, her own desire building as she felt the heat of his breath against her skin. She could feel the wetness seeping through her underwear, a testament to the effect his words and actions had on her. When he finally turned his attention to her, she was more than ready. He kissed along her neck, his teeth scraping against her sensitive flesh as he moved downward.

He pulled her shorts aside, exposing her to the cool air of the room. His tongue darted out, licking a slow, torturous path from her belly button to the top of her mound. She gasped, her body jolting in the chair. He didn't stop there, though. He pushed her legs apart, giving him full access to her soaking wet pussy. His tongue dipped into her folds, tasting her sweetness. Yujin's eyes rolled back in her head, her moans growing louder as he explored her with his mouth.

The room was filled with the sounds of their passion, the soft wet noises of his tongue on their skin. He took his time, teasing and tormenting them both until they were begging for more. The ropes that bound them seemed to tighten with every passing second, their bodies straining against the restraints.

Y/n looked up, his eyes meeting theirs. "Ready to see if I can live up to your fantasy?" he asked, his voice thick with lust.

Their eyes glazed with desire, they nodded frantically. The night was young, and they had a feeling it was going to be one they'd never forget.

Y/n stood, his gaze never leaving the two bound beauties before him. He unbuckled his belt with a smooth click, the sound echoing through the room. He unbuttoned his pants with a leisurely grace, the anticipation building as the zipper slowly descended. He pushed his pants and boxers down to reveal the monstrous 10 inches of BWC that had fueled their fantasies for so long. It stood proudly erect, a testament to his arousal.

He sauntered over to the sideboard, his eyes never leaving the girls. He picked up a sleek, black vibrator that lay there, charging with an eerie glow. "While I'm fucking one of you," he said, his voice thick with desire, "the other will watch, with this little friend here keeping her company."

Yujin and Wonyoung stared at each other, the competition in their eyes burning hot. They had shared so much together, but never had they competed for a man's attention quite like this. Yujin leaned forward, her bound breasts jiggling with the motion. "Me first, please," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. Wonyoung's eyes narrowed, her chin tilting up in defiance. "No, she said, "my pussy is better than hers."

Y/n's smile grew even more wicked as he took in their slutty expressions. It was clear that the two friends had a wild side that was eager to be unleashed. He knew that this night was going to be one for the books, and he had the perfect plan to cater to their every desire. He stepped closer to Yujin, his cock hovering over her face. "You seem so eager," he murmured, tracing the tip of the vibrator along her cheek. "But remember, you're going to have to share."

Y/n positioned the vibrator at Wonyoung's entrance, her eyes wide with anticipation. He flicked it on and watched as her pupils dilated at the first touch of the buzzing toy. She moaned, the sound muffled by the fabric of the chair. He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear. "You're going to watch," he whispered, "and you're going to imagine it's your mouth wrapped around me instead."

Turning his attention to Yujin, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her closer to his cock. She opened her mouth eagerly, taking the tip between her lips. He groaned, feeling her warmth and wetness as she began to suck. He could feel Wonyoung's eyes on them, her desire almost tangible. He pushed his hips forward, sliding his cock deeper into Yujin's mouth, watching as she struggled to take all of him.

"Fuck, he's so big," she murmured, her eyes watering as she tried to adjust to the size. Wonyoung's breath hitched, her own desire growing as she watched her friend's face contort with pleasure and pain. Y/n's cock was indeed massive, and the sight of it stretching Yujin's mouth was incredibly arousing. She knew it was only a matter of time before she felt that same fullness herself.

Y/n watched with hooded eyes as Yujin's cheeks hollowed with effort, her mouth straining around his thickness. Despite her inexperience with a cock so substantial, she took him in with surprising enthusiasm, her eyes watering but never leaving his gaze. He reached down to stroke her hair, whispering words of encouragement as she choked and gagged, her throat tightening around him.

"U can take it, baby," he coaxed, his voice low and reassuring. "Just relax, breathe through your nose."

Wonyoung watched as Y/n's cock slid in and out of Yujin's mouth, the vibrator inside her pulsing with an intensity that matched the throb of her own need. Her eyes never left the erotic dance of his hips as he fucked Yujin's face, the sight of her friend's submission sending shockwaves through her body. The vibrator inside her was a poor substitute, but it was all she had to cling to in that moment.

Y/n's eyes flickered between them, his grip tightening in Yujin's hair as he picked up the pace. "Glukk glukkk glukkk," he groaned, the wet sounds of his cock filling the room. "Your mouth is so good and tight, baby."

He began to fuck her face more aggressively, his hips snapping forward with a ferocity that made her eyes water. The vibrator inside Wonyoung buzzed away, the sensation amplified by her friend's desperate sucking sounds. She felt her own orgasm building, the pressure in her core growing tighter with each thrust of the artist's hips.

Y/n's grip on Yujin's hair tightened, his strokes becoming more erratic as he approached climax. His abs tensed, and a low growl rumbled from his chest. The room was filled with the sound of wet suction and the muffled gasps of the two bound women. Yujin's eyes grew wider, her cheeks hollowed as she took him deeper, her throat muscles working overtime to accommodate his size.

The moment came, and with it, a torrent of cum shot into Yujin's mouth. She struggled to swallow, her cheeks puffing out as rope after rope of white hot liquid filled her. It was too much, too fast. Cum began to leak from the corners of her mouth, dribbling down her chin and onto her chest. Wonyoung watched, her own orgasm cresting at the sight of her friend's submission.

Wonyoung pussy clenched around the vibrator, and with a cry, she came, her juices spurting out onto the chair beneath her. The vibrator's relentless buzzing only heightened her pleasure, sending wave after wave of ecstasy through her body. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she screamed his name, the sound echoing off the penthouse walls.

Y/n pulled the vibrator out of Wonyoung with a wet pop, her cum dripping down the shaft. He didn't even bother to wipe it clean before sliding it into Yujin's eager pussy, her legs still spread wide from her own oral ministrations. She let out a moan that was half-surprise, half-ecstasy as the toy filled her up. The artist's cum was still warm on her chin and chest, mixing with her saliva and sweat.

"Now is ur turn, Wonyoung," he said, his voice a dark, seductive purr. "Take it like the good slut u are."

Y/n stepped back, his cock glistening with a mix of precum and Yujin's spit. He approached Wonyoung with the same predatory gaze, his hands reaching for her bound wrists. "Prove to me," he said, his voice a low growl, "that you're the better cocksucker."

Wonyoung looked him dead in the eye, her own hunger palpable. She didn't need any further encouragement. As soon as the ropes were loosened, she leaned forward, her mouth open wide. Y/n stepped closer, positioning his cock at her eager lips. Without a moment's hesitation, she took him in, all inches disappearing into her mouth.

The sound of "Glukk glukk glukk" filled the penthouse, a rhythmic symphony of her mouth's submission to his length. Wonyoung's eyes watered as she worked his shaft, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting the saltiness of his pre-cum. She took him deep, her throat muscles constricting around his cock, and he watched with rapt attention as she took his entire length.

"You're so much better," he moaned, his hands tangling in her hair. "So tight, so good." His words were like gasoline to the fire of their competition. Yujin, whose pussy was still pulsing around the vibrator, watched with a mix of envy and arousal. Her own mouth was sore, but she couldn't help but want to try again, to prove herself to him and to her friend.

But the night wasn't about competition anymore. It was about pleasure, raw and unbridled. Wonyoung's eyes watered as Y/n's cock slammed into her mouth, his hips moving with an intensity that bordered on brutal. She could feel his desire in every thrust, his need for her submission. Her throat was a tight ring of muscle that stretched around his thickness, and she reveled in the feeling of being used by this powerful man.

He groaned, his hands tightening in her hair. "Fuck, I'm going to cum in your throat," he growled, his voice thick with lust. Wonyoung moaned in response, her eyes never leaving his. She nodded, eager to take him all the way.

With a roar, Y/n's cock erupted, filling Wonyoung's mouth with hot, sticky cum. She swallowed as much as she could, but it was too much, too fast. Cum spurted out of her mouth and down her chin, covering her neck and chest. Yujin watched, her eyes wide with a mix of amazement and envy as Wonyoung's cheeks bulged with the effort to contain his seed. It was clear that Wonyoung had outdone herself, taking even more of his cum than Y/n had given her.

The vibrator inside Yujin's pussy hit just the right spot, sending her spiraling into her own orgasm. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body convulsed in the chair, her moans muffled by the ropes around her wrists. Her orgasm was intense, her muscles clamping down on the buzzing toy, her juices coating it. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction as she watched Wonyoung take her prize, even though her own mouth was empty.

As Wonyoung swallowed the last of Y/n's cum, Yujin felt the first spurt of her own juices. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Her pussy contracted, sending a geyser of liquid shooting into the air, drenching the chair and the floor beneath her. Wonyoung looked over, her eyes wide with surprise, and then with a wicked smile.

"Maybe you lost in the mouth, but I think your pussy is greater than Wonyoung's," Y/n said, his voice thick with lust. He leaned down, his cock still hard and glistening with saliva. He licked the cum from Yujin's chin before pressing his lips to hers in a deep, hungry kiss. "Tell me, baby, does that make you feel good?"

Yujin whimpered into the kiss, the taste of their combined flavors swirling in her mouth. She could feel the heat of embarrassment mingling with the high of her recent orgasm. "Yes," she admitted, her voice small and needy. "It feels... amazing."

Y/n chuckled, the vibrations of his laughter sending shockwaves through her body. He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveyed his handiwork. The two idols were a mess of ropes and cum, their faces flushed and their chests heaving with each ragged breath.

"Enough for today," he murmured, his voice filled with a sense of finality. "I've got to save some for tomorrow." He began to untie Yujin and wonyoung, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Their wrists were red from the ropes, but she didn't flinch as they fell away. Instead, she leaned back in the chair, their legs still trembling from the aftershocks of orgasm.

They stumbled into the bathroom, still naked and sticky with cum. The shower was large and luxurious, with jets that could massage every inch of their bodies. They stepped inside, the warm water cascading down on them, washing away the sweat and the evidence of their earlier escapade. Their eyes met, and in that moment, any hint of competition was gone. They were just two friends, sharing a secret that no one else knew about.

Y/n took his time soaping them up, his hands gliding over their curves and valleys with the same gentle precision he had used when tying the ropes. He kissed their necks and whispered sweet nothings in their ears, making them feel cherished and desired. They giggled and played, the tension of their earlier encounter giving way to a newfound intimacy.

Once clean, they stumbled out of the shower, their bodies glistening with water droplets that clung to their skin like diamonds. He led them to the large, comfortable bed that dominated the penthouse's master suite. The sheets were cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies as they tumbled in, still wet from the shower.

Wonyoung, ever the tease, rolled onto her back and spread her legs with a wicked grin. "Yesterday, Yujin got the first taste," she purred, her voice husky with desire. "But today, I want your cock inside me first."

Y/n chuckled, his hand stroking his still-hard cock. "Beg for it, baby girl," he said, his voice low and seductive.

Wonyoung's smile grew even more wicked as she licked her lips. "Please," she murmured, her eyes never leaving his. "Please, fuck me first."

Y/n's grin widened, and with a swift move that belied his strength, he flipped Wonyoung onto her stomach. Her legs trembled with excitement, and she wiggled her ass in the air, silently begging for his attention. He took a moment to admire the view, her plump cheeks framing her glistening pussy. The scent of her desire filled the air, and he knew she was more than ready for him.

He leaned down, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting her again. His tongue slid out, tracing a wet path from the base of her spine to the sensitive flesh between her thighs. Wonyoung moaned, arching her back to give him better access. His tongue delved into her folds, lapping at her clit with a fervor that made her legs shake.

Y/n took his time, his tongue swirling and probing, teasing and taunting. He knew just how to make her squirm, just how to push her to the edge without sending her over. He felt her pussy clench around his tongue, and he chuckled, the sound vibrating against her sensitive skin. He licked her with long, firm strokes, each one sending a bolt of pleasure shooting through her body.

Her moans grew louder, echoing through the penthouse suite. She was close, so close, but he wasn't done with her yet. He pulled back, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. "Beg for it," he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

Wonyoung's eyes were glazed with lust, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please," she whimpered. "I need it. I need you inside me i want it raw."

Y/n's grin grew wolfish. "So greedy," he murmured, his hand coming down to give her ass a firm slap. She yelped, but the sound was muffled by the pillow she had bitten down on. "But if you can't even wait your turn..."

Before Wonyoung could respond, she felt the pressure of his cock at her entrance. With one powerful thrust, he was inside her, filling her completely. Her scream was a mix of pleasure and pain as her body stretched to accommodate him. Y/n didn't stop, pumping into her with a ferocity that had her seeing stars.

The feeling was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Her pussy was so tight around him, and with each thrust, she could feel him hit a spot that made her toes curl. She threw her head back, her eyes squeezed shut as she felt him reach depths that she didn't know were possible. "Oh, fuck," she screamed, her voice echoing in the large room.

Y/n's rhythm grew more erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants. He could feel the walls of her pussy clenching around him, trying to keep him in, as if afraid he'd pull out too soon. He leaned over, his chest pressing against her back, his cock going even deeper. "You like that?" he growled, his voice low and guttural. "You like having my big white cock inside you?"

Wonyoung could only nod, her voice lost to the intensity of her pleasure. She could feel her orgasm building again, the pressure in her core growing with every stroke. "Fuck me harder," she begged, her voice a hoarse whisper. "I want to feel it in my stomach."

Y/n's hands tightened on her hips, and he complied, his cock slamming into her with a force that made her whole body shake. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by their gasps and moans. Y/n's cock was like a piston, moving in and out of her with a precision that was almost mechanical.

Y/n's thumb found her clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he continued to fuck her. Wonyoung's moans grew louder, the pressure in her stomach unbearable. She felt like she was going to explode from the inside out. "Yes," she screamed, "yes, I can feel it in my stomach!"

Her orgasm washed over her, a tsunami of pleasure that had her entire body convulsing. Her pussy clamped down on him, her juices flooding the bed beneath them. Y/n grunted, his hips moving faster, his cock swelling even more as he approached his own climax. "Take it," he groaned, his voice tight with effort. "Take all of me."

Wonyoung's cries grew louder, her body writhing in ecstasy. Y/n's cock was a blur, his strokes so fast they were almost a blur. And then, with a final roar, he came. His cum flooded her, filling her up until it spurted out around his cock, coating her ass and the bed beneath them. She could feel the warmth of it, feel the power of his release.

As he pulled out, she collapsed onto the bed, her legs trembling. "Fuck," she breathed, her voice weak. "That was... I don't have energy right now, i can't believe i can take 10 inches." Her pussy was still pulsing, her body still trying to come down from the high of that intense orgasm.

Y/n chuckled, turning to face Yujin, who had been watching the whole thing standing, her knees slightly bent and her own pussy visibly throbbing. "You're next," he promised, his eyes gleaming.

Yujin licked her lips, her gaze never leaving the artist's still-hard cock. She had never felt more desperate for anything in her life. The way Wonyoung had taken him, the sounds she had made... she wanted that. She needed that.

Wonyoung rolled onto her side, panting, and gave her friend a knowing smile. "Your turn," she murmured, her voice still thick with lust. "Show him how it's done."

The artist stalked over to Yujin, his cock bobbing with each step. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice a dark whisper.

Yujin nodded, her eyes wide with excitement and a hint of fear. She had never been with a man this big before, but she had watched Wonyoung take him, and she knew she could do it too. She had to. For herself, for her friend, and for the thrill of the challenge.

He pushed her onto the bed, her body bouncing on the soft mattress. "Spread your legs," he ordered, his tone firm but gentle. She complied, her legs spreading wide, giving him full access to her pussy. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock glistening with Wonyoung's cum. "Look at me," he said, his eyes boring into hers.

Y/n pushed into her with a slow, deliberate movement that had her gasping. He was so thick, so full, and she could feel every inch as he filled her up. "Oh, God," she whimpered, her nails digging into the bed sheets. "It's so big."

He didn't rush, taking his time to let her adjust to his size. His eyes never left hers, the connection between them intense. "Breathe," he murmured, his voice soothing. "You can do this."

Y/n's cock stretched her further than she had ever been stretched before. She felt her body give way to his, her tightness enveloping him like a warm, wet glove. "So tight," he groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. "Tighter than Wonyoung."

Y/n began to move, his strokes long and deep, filling her to the brink with each thrust. The pain was exquisite, a delicious burn that she had never felt before. She watched in the mirror as her own pussy swallowed his cock, the sight of it making her even wetter. She reached down, her hand shaking as she touched her clit, her movements frantic.

"Fuck me," she begged, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Fuck me like you did Wonyoung."

Y/n chuckled, his eyes dark with desire. "But you're not Wonyoung," he murmured, his cock teasing her entrance. "You're Yujin. And I'm going to make you feel things she never could."

With that, he pushed into her again, harder and faster than before. Yujin's body responded in kind, her pussy spasming around him as she felt her orgasm build. She had never squirted before, never felt that intense release of pleasure, but with each powerful thrust, she grew closer and closer.

Her hand worked her clit in a frantic rhythm, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The artist watched her intently, his eyes never leaving her face as he fucked her. He could feel her pussy tightening around him, the beginnings of her orgasm starting to pulse through her body. "Show me," he growled, his hips slamming into hers. "Show me what a squirting pussy looks like."

The room grew hazy around her, the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of his cock inside her and the pressure building in her core. And then, with a scream that was more animal than human, she did. Her pussy clenched down on him as a flood of liquid shot out, soaking the sheets and the both of them. It was a sensation like nothing she had ever felt before, a release that seemed to come from her very soul.

Y/n's eyes went wide with amazement. He had never seen a woman squirt like that before, especially not on his first try. "Fuck, baby," he breathed, his strokes becoming more erratic as he watched the show. "You're a squirting queen."

Yujin could feel her orgasm building again, her pussy spasming around him. She had never felt so alive, so wanted, so...used. It was intoxicating. "More," she moaned, her voice barely recognizable. "Please, don't stop."

The artist chuckled, his eyes gleaming. He knew he had her now, that she was his to do with as he liked. He picked up the pace, his cock slamming into her with a force that made the bedframe rattle. The sound of wet flesh slapping together filled the room, a symphony of lust that had Wonyoung watching with envy.

Y/n reached down, his thumb finding Yujin's clit again. He rubbed it in tight circles, feeling her body respond to his touch. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she let out a high-pitched keening sound. She was close, so close.

"Cum for me," he growled, his cock pumping in and out of her with a ferocity that had her panting. "Let me feel your pussy milk me dry."

Y/n's thumb circled her clit with precision, the pressure building until she couldn't hold back any longer. Yujin's body bowed off the bed, her pussy contracting around his cock as another gush of liquid shot out, soaking him, the bed, and the floor. He groaned, the sensation of her squirting pushing him closer to the edge.

With one final thrust, he came deep inside her, his cum spurting into her womb. The feeling was indescribable, the heat of his seed filling her up in a way that made her feel complete. She could feel his cock pulse with each spurt, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm. They stayed like that for a moment, locked together in the throes of passion, their bodies slick with sweat and cum.

As he pulled out, Yujin's pussy gaped open like the letter "O," the aftermath of his powerful release leaving her utterly exposed and vulnerable. Wonyoung's eyes widened at the sight, a mix of awe and envy. The artist chuckled, his cock still hard and gleaming with their combined juices. "Look what I did to her," he said, his voice filled with pride.

Y/n's eyes were hooded with desire as he took in the sight of Yujin's pussy, still quivering from the intensity of her orgasm. He leaned down, his tongue tracing the edges of her swollen folds, tasting the sweetness of her cum. "You're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "Your pussy is a fucking work of art."

With a wicked grin, he reached out with his hand and lightly touched the sensitive bud of her clit. Yujin's body jerked in response, her breath catching in her throat. He began to tease her, his fingers dancing over her clit in a rhythm that was both maddening and exquisite.

Her eyes went wide as she felt the beginnings of another orgasm. She had never been this sensitive before, never felt like she could cum again so soon after such an intense release. But here she was, her pussy gushing and spasming as if it had a mind of its own.

Y/n watched in amazement, his eyes glued to the sight of her juices flowing out of her. "Again?"

Yujin nodded, her body trembling with the effort of staying conscious. "Yes," she gasped, her eyes glazed with desire. "I need... I need it."

With one final, gentle squeeze of her clit, the artist leaned back, watching as Yujin's body was wracked by another orgasm, this one even more powerful than the last. Her eyes rolled back, and she let out a scream that was cut off as she passed out, her body going limp beneath him.

Wonyoung's gaze flickered from Y/n to her unconscious friend, her own desire flaring anew at the sight of Yujin's pussy, still quivering and open from the intense pleasure. "Looks like she passed out," she murmured, a hint of sadness in her voice. "But her pussy's still wide open like 'O' for you."

Y/n chuckled, his smirk never leaving his face as he turned to face Wonyoung. "And now, it's your turn," he said, his voice dripping with anticipation. Wonyoung's eyes widened, a thrill of excitement coursing through her as she realized she was about to be the center of attention once again.

He crawled over to her, his still-hard cock bobbing with every movement. Wonyoung spread her legs, eager to feel him fill her up. But instead of entering her, he lowered his head, his tongue tracing a path along her inner thighs. She moaned, her body already sensitive from the earlier orgasms. He licked her slit, his tongue delving into her folds and tasting the sweetness of her desire.

Wonyoung's hips bucked, her body responding instinctively to the sensation. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But with Y/n, she knew she could let go completely, surrender herself to the pleasure he so expertly delivered. His fingers found their way inside her, pumping in and out with a steady rhythm that had her pussy clenching around him.

Her moans grew louder as he worked her over, his tongue and fingers in perfect sync. She could feel the beginnings of another orgasm building, a pressure that was both exquisite and unbearable. "Please," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. "I can't take anymore."

Y/n's only response was to push harder, his tongue delving deeper, his fingers curling to hit her G-spot. Wonyoung's body was a tapestry of sensations, a maelstrom of pleasure that threatened to consume her. She felt like she was on the brink, about to shatter into a million pieces.

And then it hit her, an orgasm so intense that it stole her breath away. She screamed, her body arching off the bed as her pussy spasmed around his fingers. He didn't let up, his tongue still lapping at her clit, his fingers still pumping away. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a never-ending crescendo that left her trembling and gasping for air.

As the waves of pleasure finally subsided, she collapsed back onto the bed, her eyes fluttering shut. "No more," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can't..."

But Y/n wasn't done with her. He slid his fingers from her pussy, bringing them to her mouth. "Taste yourself," he ordered, his voice firm. Wonyoung's eyes snapped open, and she took his fingers into her mouth, her eyes never leaving his. The taste of her own cum was surprisingly sweet, a heady cocktail of desire and satisfaction.

Her eyes glazed over as she sucked on his fingers, the sensation of his gaze on her making her stomach flip. He watched her intently, his own desire never waning. "Now, I want you to watch," he murmured, his voice low and commanding.

Wonyoung nodded, her cheeks flushing with arousal. She turned to face Yujin, her eyes locked on her friend's pussy as Y/n began to finger her once again. Y/n's movements were slow and deliberate, his eyes on Wonyoung's face as he watched for any signs of discomfort or distress. But all he saw was pure, unbridled need.

Wonyoung's body was a canvas of desire, her pussy swollen and glistening with her juices. Her hips began to rock in time with his fingers, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Fuck," she whispered, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "I'm going to cum again."

Y/n watched as Wonyoung's orgasm built, her body tightening around his hand. He could see the moment she lost control, her eyes rolling back in her head as she let out a scream that was more primal than anything he had ever heard. Her pussy clenched down, and she came hard, her juices spurting out to cover his hand and arm.

It was too much for her to handle. With a final, desperate whimper, Wonyoung's eyes rolled back, and she passed out, her body going slack. Y/n pulled his hand away, watching the aftershocks of her climax ripple through her. Her pussy was still spasming, her legs trembling slightly from the exertion. He chuckled, feeling a sense of pride at his handiwork.

The room was thick with the scent of sex, the air heavy with the sounds of their panting. Y/n looked down at his cock, still hard and demanding more. He knew he had to take a break, though. He had work to do, a canvas calling his name. He stood, his legs shaking slightly from the effort of holding back his own climax. "I'll be back soon," he murmured, his eyes lingering on the two passed out stars.

Leaving the sated girls on the bed, Y/n padded over to the en suite bathroom, his cock still standing tall despite the recent releases. He stepped into the massive tub, the warm water enveloping his body, and reached for the soap, his mind racing with the images of their shared pleasure. The scent of sex still lingered on his skin, a potent reminder of the power he had wielded over them. He began to cleanse himself, his hands moving over his chest, down his stomach, and finally to his still-hard member, which seemed to protest the interruption of its fun.

As he washed away the sweat and cum, his thoughts drifted to the unspoken challenge in their eyes. They had pushed each other, competed for his attention and affection, and he had reveled in it. The sight of their pussies, open like the letter 'O', was burned into his mind, a visual testament to the depths of their arousal and submission. It was a powerful image, one that stirred his creative soul and inspired a new painting in his mind.

He stepped out of the tub, water dripping from his sculpted body, and padded over to the bedside table, where he found a piece of paper and a pen. In the dim light, he scribbled a quick note. "I will come at night, take care of yourself," he wrote, the words a promise of the pleasure yet to come. He knew they wouldn't wake until morning, but the anticipation was part of the thrill. He placed the note on Yujin's pillow, knowing she'd find it when she woke up.

#yujin smut #wonyoung smut #ive smut

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averagewriter-inthedark · 8 months ago

Text

The Doctor's Wife 💘 | Carlisle Cullen Imagine

Set during the events of Twilight (2008)

Twilight Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Carlisle Cullen x female!vampire!reader (romantic), Bella Swan x Edward Cullen, Edward Cullen x reader (platonic)

Content warnings: fluff, light angst, suggestive themes right at the end | female reader (she/her) | wc: 3.5k

requested 📥 yes/no

Premise: When Edward introduces Bella to his family after weeks of avoiding the inevitable, there was no telling how it was going to go down. Of course, what does one expect when they bring their girlfriend over for the first time…. except it's to a family of animal blood-sucking vampires who's lives each deserve a biography of their own. Bella felt the pressure of making a great impression, but the nerves seemed to heighten in regard to meeting the woman responsible for raising Edward throughout his undead life. The woman whose soul was bonded to none other than the Cullen patriarch.

--------------------------

Over a hundred years walking the Earth and Edward still experienced the universal feeling of cringe and embarrassment. This time, at the hands of none other than his family as he introduced him to the girl who’d captured his undead heart and made it hard for Edward to stay away.

“Alright, um,” he swallowed, placing a gentle hand on Bella’s back to nudge her in the direction of the staircase. Away from the prying eyes of his siblings and Carlisle after Alice had to say, ‘Oh, you do smell good,’ and Jasper was literally fighting for his life to keep it together. “Where’s Y/n?”

“In her studio,” Carlisle replied with a smile, the mention of his wife bringing a warmth to his chest. “She’s working on a project and can definitely use a break. She’s been excited to meet Bella since you mentioned bringing her over.”

Bella blushed, the nerves resurfacing at meeting another member of the Cullen family. The matriarch at that. Edward’s adoptive mother and Carlisle’s wife.

“Thanks,” Edward turned on his heel, leading Bella in the opposite direction. Mumbling a short goodbye, she followed the vampire down the corridor, past the staircase and a living space before stopping in front of a wooden door.

Before he knocked, Edward put a comforting hand on Bella’s shoulder, “Calm down,” his teeth sparkled against the light, eyes teasing. “Your heartbeat is out of control.”

“Sorry,” she flushed again, cursing at herself. She didn’t understand why she was so nervous to meet Y/n. More so than the rest of his family. Maybe it was because Edward spoke so highly of her. Maybe it was because she saw the way Carlisle lit up at the mere mention of her name. Or how the townspeople praised Y/n, even if they only had one interaction.

Edward went to knock, but this time was interrupted by a voice calling out from the other side, “Come in!” Smiling, he pushed open the door, revealing a large room in what only could be described as an organized disarray.

Bella’s jaw slightly dropped, taking in the scene before her. Eyes first darting to the high ceilings with a drop-down chandelier. Though it wasn’t on, thanks to the natural light provided by the left side of the room with floor to ceiling windows where a wall should’ve been. A beautiful, perfect view of the forest surrounding the home.

The walls were painted a rusted burnt red, the kind you see in art museums. Floors made of the finest dark wood, with one area covered by plastic reserved for protecting it by the paint cans laying on top, beside an easel holding a large canvas. A very large, vintage clock took the center of the wall connected to the window, surrounded by pieces ranging from old signs to shelves holding books and plants.

On the main wall parallel to the windows, a map of the world hung, flanked by art pieces. Portraits, landscape. Various mediums of pencil, oils, and acrylic. A phone straight from the 1930s mounted above a small table covered by messy stacks of paper. Bella’s eyes drew to a woven basket that came probably to her waist, filled with pieces of rolled parchment. A few laid on the ground. A foot away from it was a cart holding art supplies.

Finally, Bella’s gaze landed on the figure in the center of the room. Y/n sat on a wooden stool, her posture perfect, hand scribbling across a large piece of parchment placed on the wooden desk facing the windows. The desk was the type that propped up, a lamp attached to the corner, and side table. Something an artist or engineer invested in.

“I thought I heard the raging pump of a heartbeat approaching.” Bella squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment, letting out a small groan. Opening them when she heard the skid of the stool against the floor.

“Y/n,” Edward scolded, tone playful.

“Apologies, I couldn’t help myself,” Y/n chuckled, approaching the two with a wide smile. Bella held her breath, admiring the woman before her. Alice may have been the fashion girlie of the family, but there was no denying who she must’ve gotten it from.

Y/n made even the simplest of clothing look ethereal. White blouse tucked into beige trousers, brown belt with hints of gold, paired with stunning white heeled boots. The necklaces she wore were layered, the longest of which had several charms making them clink together, bracelets covering her wrists, three rings on each hand, and gold hoops. A multicolor scarf consisting of warm tones like red, orange, and yellow tied around her hair. Then of course, her eyes were melting gold.

She was the picture of an artist.

Upon closer inspection, Bella had to hold back a whistle at the ring reserved for her left ring finger. Carlisle sure had taste and made sure his lady got what she deserved. That was no ring. That was a rock.

“You must be the famous Bella,” Y/n’s hand shot out, Bella hesitating a moment before taking it. Y/n’s handshake was soft yet firm at the same time. Bringing a chill to Bella as their skin met. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you,” letting go of her hand, Y/n brought both of hers up to make a gesture. “I have been begging Edward to bring you around for weeks. I don’t know why it’s taken him so long,” a playful glare was directed at him.

Edward rolled his eyes, then put an arm around Bella. “Bella, this is Y/n. My mother for all intents and purposes. Artist, architect, and occasional therapist to all of us emotionally stunted immortal teenagers.”

“You said it, not me,” Y/n smirked, hands raised again.

Bella laughed, comforted by Edwards touch as she regarded Y/n. “It’s really nice to meet you, Y/n. Edward talks about you all the time.”

“Good things, correct?”

“Of course,” Bella assured, nudging Edward who had scoffed. “He mentioned you designed this house--it’s absolutely beautiful. And this--,” motioning to the space, Bella was again in awe of Y/n’s studio. It’s like she was walking through an exhibit in the Louvre. “Wow.”

“When I made the blueprints for this house, I wanted everyone to have a place--plus everyone was vocal about what they wanted,” she teases with a grin. “Carlisle has his study, Alice her closets, Rosalie wished for a garage, Jasper desired a library, Emmett a game room, Edward got his music room. And me,” a hand waves to the room with pride. “My studio.”

Bella raised an intrigued brow, aimed at Edward, “you have a music room?”

Had he been human, Edward would have blushed. He brushed it off with a shrug, “Yeah, it’s just where I keep a few instruments. I’ll show you as we go through the house.”

“A few,” Y/n lightly scoffed, earning a small glare from the boy.

“Carlisle said you’re working on a project,” he changed the subject, nudging his head toward the desk. Catching sight of the blueprints that were in the early draft stages.

“The high school plans to renovate the library, so they’ve asked me to go over some plans and designs. They were pleased with my work for the gym last year.”

Edward turns to Bella, “Y/n has the magic touch for designing and constructing. And because we’ve had the time to redo college over and over again….” They share a laugh, “she’s got degrees in art, engineering, design, and business on top of her architecture education.”

The woman simply shrugs, “I like to keep busy. Who wouldn't want to take advantage of obtaining all the world’s knowledge when you have eternity.” If she saw the pointed look Edward was giving her, Y/n ignored it.

“Anyway,” He sighed, returning his attention to Bella, “The town comes to her for consultations. And, in most cases than often, she designs and oversees the build.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Bella awed, past Edward’s shoulder she spotted the white construction worker's hat. Propped beside a coat hanger possessing a pair of overalls, scarves, and painters' boots. “Did you-,” her finger pointed to the display of artwork, “paint all those?”

“Several, yes,” Y/n motioned them to follow her, moving closer to the wall. “This one you might have guessed is the view of the forest from this room. The first one I did when we moved here. But not all are recent, some I did in the 90s--,” she pointed to a canvas framed with gold trimming near the top. Depicting an image of inside a medical tent, “That one is from when I volunteered for the Army Nurses Corps.”

Bella’s eyes bulged, glancing between Y/n and Edward. “You--you served during the War?”

Y/n nodded, expression now solemn, “First World War. We were living in Virginia at the time and therefore injured soldiers coming back from Europe docked at the bases there first. Carlisle was the trauma surgeon, and I was a nurse.” Her boots echoed against the wood as they strolled down. “We stayed there the duration of the war before settling in Chicago….”

“How long before he wakes up?”

“Not long,” Carlisle kept his eyes on the unconscious boy while his wife paced behind him. Had they been able to sweat they would’ve been drenched. “The venom transferred from his neck. The closest I could get to his heart--it should take less than a day.”

Y/n ran a hand through her neatly styled hair in distress. They’d only been in Chicago a few months. Arriving when the War ended and immediately joining the effort to combat the Spanish Influenza spreading through the population. With their current predicament, there was no way they could stay.

Ripping the nurses cap off, she asked, “What’s our next move then? We can’t stay here. This city is an endless potluck of people, and we don’t know how strong his urges will be,” she stopped pacing, coming beside her husband with a pleading gaze. “I know you said his parents are dead, but that doesn't mean he may not have family who’ll come looking for him. What kind of people are we to rip him from the ones who love him?” Upon the look she received, Y/n dropped her head, “Unless you mean to fake his death.”

Carlisle placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “The boy had the influenza. They saw his condition--it was deteriorating. They’ll believe it took him in the night and his body was sent to the incinerators. Just like the others.”

Y/n sniffed, eyes welling with unshed tears. “I know, but…” she trailed off, “He’s a kid, Carlisle. We agreed that when it came time for us to save someone from death, it would not mean robbing them of their life--.”

“He was dying, Y/n,” his tone was firm, yet gentle. “I promised his mother we’d look after him.” Eyes flicker to Edward, then back to Y/n. While Carlisle hated himself for what he’d done, there was no going back now. “He’s our responsibility now. We’ve to teach him the ways of this life and make sure he copes with it. Not succumb to the darkness like we did.”

Another sound left her, Y/n taking a moment to process before nodding. “Okay,” she whispered, keeping her voice steady. “We take this day-by-day.”

“Day-by-day.”

“That’s when Edward….” Bella trailed, biting her lip when she realized it wasn’t the best idea to bring it up. Yet, she was surprised both the vampires nodded, understanding her implication. Instead, she said, “He mentioned you’ve been with Carlisle the longest….”

Like earlier with the doctor, Y/n visibly brightened at each time his name was said. “Will be two hundred years this fall.”

“Two--two hundred??” The human spluttered. Edward had failed to tell her that information. Only saying the two had been together long before Carlisle saved him.

Chuckling at Bella’s reaction, Y/n tucked a piece of stray hair back in its place. “The vampire who bit me didn’t stick around. Abandoning me. A few days later of endless wonder and unable to control my newfound appetite, Carlisle found me.” Her smile was so wide, bright white teeth bouncing off light. “It’s been quite a life ever since.”

They spent the next few minutes learning about the history of each painting. From the oil masterpiece of the New York Skyline to the charcoal portrait of Joan of Arc. Bella took time to admire the watercolor image of Carlisle. Donned in his white coat, hair and posture perfect.

“Ah yes,” Y/n hummed, beaming up at the canvas. “My personal favorite. Though I’m a little biased given the muse of this piece happens to be the muse of my soul.”

“Stay still.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not,” Y/n berated, dipping the brush back into the golden color before continuing to paint Carlisle’s hair. “I know this is time consuming, darling, but it’s not like you haven’t done it before.”

“In my defense,” his hand raised, quickly putting it back in his lap when she groaned, “I’ve never technically sat for a portrait. The ones from Volterra were done while I wasn’t aware they were being painted.” A grimace took his features, remembering his time with the Volturi. “Aro preferred moments to be captured as they were happening in real time.”

Y/n threw him a look, shaking her head in the process. “Yeah, he seems like the type.”

“First and last time he got to play model,” she laughed at the memory. “Thanks to the creation of the camera I could develop a photograph and wallah!” her hands made a gesture, “A still image to use as reference. And now with cell phones….I don’t even have to put in the work to develop the photo. It’s right there!”

Initially Bella found her reaction to a camera phone a little odd. But then remembered Y/n was a 200+ year old vampire and literally witnessed the development and advancement of technology.

“But I don’t always create,” Y/n winked, stopping in front of a stunning work of a lily pond. “Sometimes I collect.”

Stepping closer, Bella inspected the art, finger on her lip as her brows furrowed in concentration. She’d seen it before. The familiarity of it was driving her brain into overdrive. Then it hit her, breath hitching, “Is that…A Monet?” Her confirmation nod made Bella nearly choke on her saliva. “How--?”

“Being alive 226 years and getting the privilege of traveling anywhere means I’ve had the pleasure of meeting interesting people,” her smirk was the type a movie villain showed that made the audience fall in love with them and brush away the fact they were a villain. A captivating sight. “One of those people happened to be Claude Monet during our time in France. Our shared love for art and nature brought a great friendship. I was actually with him when he painted this,” she casually said, aware of Bella’s astonished reaction despite her eyes trained on the canvas. “Unfortunately, Carlisle and I left before I got to see him finish. After he died several of his paintings went to museums or auctioned off. I made sure to acquire this one--took me about three years to find.”

After a moment of gawking, Bella gathered herself and moved onto the next piece. It really felt like they were in an art museum. Soon they came to the end of the gallery.

“You’re incredibly talented,” Bella praised, unable to take her attention off the marble sculpture enclosed in a glass case by the small bookshelf.

“Thank you. It’s nice to finally have someone to show this all too. Instead of just me admiring it daily.” Y/n put her hands in pockets, “Now I hate to kick you out, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to beat,” Y/n led them to the door, “and I’ll let you get back to your tour of the house. It was lovely to meet you, Bella, and please don’t be a stranger. Our door is always open for you.”

“I really appreciate it,” Bella smiled, standing beside Edward in the doorway, “It was great meeting you too.” A wave of a goodbye and promise to visit again, Y/n watched Edward escort his girlfriend up the staircase to the second floor. Leaning against the side, Y/n touched a finger to her lips, not bothering to hide the giant grin surfacing.

“I know that look.”

Despite speaking after Bella and Edward disappeared, Y/n felt Carlisle’s presence the second he breached the corridor. Not to mention the tingling sensation at the base of her spine.

Slowly turning to face him, her smile widened, and Carlisle saw the way her golden hues sparkled when he approached. “And what exactly is that look?”

“The one where you’re overcome with happiness unable to be measured with how much it consumes you.”

Hands took hold of her shoulders, gently brushing down until they reached her own, Y/n leaning into his touch, voice teasing, “What mother would I be to not be overjoyed for her son and the wonderful girlfriend he’s brought home?”

Carlisle chuckled, tilting his head down to place a kiss on her forehead. The floral aroma of her Marc Jacobs perfume amplified her already sweet scent. Oh, how addicted he was to her scent. It was like walking through a garden of the most beautiful flowers on Earth.

“You didn’t embarrass him, did you?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, tapping his chest to scold him, “Not much more than you lot. He was practically dragging Bella out of the kitchen.” Carlisle raised his hands in defense, making her raise a brow.

“That was all the kids. I’m innocent, my dear, you must believe me.”

She tsked, “Well, at least you didn’t scare the poor girl like Rosalie and Jasper. And as much as I love Alice’s excitement, you might want to tell her to take it down a notch,” Y/n made a face, “I thought we all agreed last night not to bring up Bella’s scent.”

She was met with a sigh, her sculptured-God of a husband dropping his head onto her shoulder in defeat. “What was I supposed to do? You left me to fend for myself.”

Laughing, Y/n reached her arms around his shoulders, encasing him in an embrace to which he greatly accepted. “I’m sorry, my love. Will you forgive me? I promise to find you the finest stag in all of Washington for you to feast upon.” Instantly his head shot up, moving it so their noses brushed against each other.

“That’ll do.” Their lips met, igniting fireworks throughout their bodies as it always had for 200 years. Never once losing the feeling.

They’d seen everything in the course of their century's long life. Several wars. Epidemics. The fall of countries and rise of new ones. Medicine advancing, technology overtaking man. The race to space and the rebirth of the Olympic Games.

Met people who’d changed the world. Witnessed humanity evolve--and sometimes wondered how the hell it could be so stupid. But overall, they were the stagnant figures in their plane of existence. Time moving, they remained still.

And yet, somehow, they were able to find a family after all.

When they pulled apart, their expressions of love remained. “God,” she hummed, “That never gets old.”

“Just like the first time?” He chafed, gold eyes glimmering.

Y/n pretending to think, lips pouting, “Less nervous,” a squeal escaped her at the feeling of his fingers tickling her ribcage. Shoving him away, the woman chided, “Get back to the hospital old man. There are patients to be seen, and I have a deadline to finish.” The gasp that left him made her grin.

“Old?! I’ll have you know that if I’m old then that means you are---.”

“Don’t you finish that sentence,” her finger pointed at his chest, “otherwise you’re sleeping on the couch.” Carlisle smirked, entering her personal space once again.

“I can’t sleep. Neither can you.”

“Damn,” she exhaled, feigning defeat when really, she was becoming more invested with their little game. “You’re right.” Then her eyes turned dark, sinister. Face consorting to a look that made Carlisle shudder.

A look he’d seen hundreds of times, and not once did not bring a chill to his already cold body. Enough to bring his heart back to life. Enough to send the frozen blood down to his spine.

“Guess we’ll have to find another way to pass the time.”

#carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle cullen x you #carlisle cullen imagine #carlisle cullen fanfiction #carlisle cullen fluff #twilight fluff #twilight imagines #twilight fanfiction #the twilight saga #edward cullen x reader #bella swan imagine #Spotify

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mondaymelon · 2 years ago

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₊˚ෆ 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 !! | sagau xiao, childe, zhongli x gn!reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ cw: uhm. obsessiveness? yandere if you blink a couple times? cult themes... the usual deal with this au

⤷ [ you, the benevolent and kind overseer and creator of teyvat, has descended upon this world in mortal flesh, with a presence that is overpowering, omniscient, and so impossibly pure. ෆ yet, one day, you come into the cathedral with a gash on your arm, dripping with shimmering golden ichor that spilled from your veins. there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring. ]

— sagau!xiao noticed you immediately. it would be hard not to. since the beginning, he had always heard it.

your sound. a beautiful one, a heavenly one. a chord struck him, somewhere in his chest, and he found himself panting on the ground, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

like a electric charge - one that leaves you startled, tentative, with the tips of your fingers still tingling from what happened moments prior. a buzz in your veins that thrums along with your heartbeat.

he didn't deserve to see you. not with what sins he had committed. but xiao was selfish. he wanted to, with his tainted body, he wanted to praise you, scrape his throat raw with his voice.

and so he did.

his face brightens as you step into the cathedral, dressed in ceremonial robes as per usual. you look ethereal, why would you not? your eyes are warm as they fixate on him, and he can feel his heart skip a beat and words die in his throat. he kneels before you orderly, readying to lift his head when something catches his attention - that is, the coppery scent of blood.

blood?

a droplet splatters onto the dustless floor. melted gold.

xiao's already stood up before he realizes it. his eyes are blown wide, his shrunken pupils sharp, like a cat's. "who. who did this to you?" those words take all the willpower in him to speak. his mind is swirling, racing, thinking up of every single possibility, vision scattered and blurry as unbridled fury teems within him.

"it's nothing. some civilians have begun rioting in the city, saying that i'm an imposter. all i did was show them a little bit of my blood and they all started singing praises, so the issue has been resolved." you shake your head with a soft smile, like this matter isn't anything to concern himself over.

it is.

he hates it. how he feels so fucking powerless, how he couldn't even stop this simple event from occurring in the first place. it's his fault. it's his and everyone else who dared not believe your words. your word is the truth. it is the undeniable laws of the world, what maps the stars and what lays the land.

he'll have time to ingrain that within everyone's minds. even if it means time away from you. but that's not the issue at the moment. he turns to search for bandages, but sees the already-healing wound slowly closing up as your skin mends together.

there's a knife at your side, coated in something that shimmers in the rays of light coming from the high, color-tainted windows.

something in his heart decides, seeing your reserved smile.

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

very well.

then he'll just have to eradicate every last one of them. ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!childe had, to be honest, never cared all that much. why would he, to the person who had abandoned him into the cold, dark, abyss? yet, the smile on your face. it's bright. so bright it burns him. was there a day where he could smile like that?

no, no. he couldn't. that's an expression only reserved for someone as beautiful as you. as pure as you, like a blank, unblemished canvas, with the world as its paint. it's a level of resplendency that no one on this cursed universe could ever hope to accomplish.

a god in flesh, living in a tainted world. a walking contradiction that he had grown to call the thing that allowed him to keep living. something that spurred irony, you who broke all forms of the logic he had made to keep himself sane. perhaps that was why the heart he'd locked away has suddenly begun aching again? is that why he feels so warm from your divine prescence?

"childe?" you call out his name into the vast, empty hallways, glancing around for the familiar sight of a tuft of ginger hair. he hears you at once, rushing to your side with a grin on his face.

"your grace??" he bows at the sight of you, unable -to contain his excitement as he quivers in place, the smile on his lips tugging upwards even more than its current extent. "yes, what's-"

he stops abruptly, his voice faltering as he catches the scent of something iron. one familiar on the battlefield, a liquid that'd paint the surroundings a beautiful red.

his heart pounds. the thrill of a battle? no, that can't be it. if that was the case, how come it felt like he was slowly suffocating on his unspoken words?

that's when he catches the sight of the poorly wrapped bandages encasing your forearms. and the shimmering ichor that's soaked through the hastily wrapped cloth.

he moves to grab your arm, but curses himself out as he quickly changes direction and tightly holds your wrist, his expression more pained than yours, despite you being the one suffering with the injury. "what... your grace, what is this?"

he hates your knowing smile. he hates it. (oh, but does he? could he hate anything that is of you?) it just reminds him how you're all too far for him to reach, a purity that he does nothing to maintain. "there was a riot in the city against the church. luckily, they all quieted down after i gave them a glimpse of..." you trail off, ending your incomplete sentence with a sheepish smile. the rest is self-explanatory, anyway.

his vision trembles as his pupils shake. "haha, you...?" fuck. fuck fuck fuck, just whose idea was it to allow you near a knife? how did you get your hands on that?? which stupid fucking bumbling idiot allowed for this to happen?

it's his fault. he should've been by your side. curse the fatui, curse them all, how could they possibly dare keep him away from your holy being? the guilt that churns within him, is that why he remains mute as you step away, gracefully walking to meet with the other retainers?

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

no, it's fine.

it will all be fine.

cutting off their tongues won't be enough. cutting them up until they're a dismembered, bloody mess isn't even close to what you've suffered for the sake of humanity.

yes, he'll make them realize that. they'll pay with their blood a thousand times over. ₊˚ෆ

— sagau!zhongli had his breath taken away by you before he even saw you, before the two of you had even exchanged words. your presence - it was so simply alluring, a saccharide charm that just drew him closer and closer.

sweet. yes, it was a familiar flavor upon the tongue that had long since tasted the many marvels the world had to offer. like a warm cup of tea, made from the sugary extract of flowers, how the sensation of it seemed to bloom upon your mouth.

ah, how should he put this. perhaps you had procured the blossom in his heart instead? stems, leaves, buds, a floret that'd only appear when you were in his gaze. a steady thrum that ran throughout his body with every stolen glimpse he took from your attention expertly.

perhaps, was this what he felt all those years ago?

did it matter? his soul was resolute, now, and it glowed gold, just like the blessed blood that flowed through every vein and lay in every vessel within that beautiful, beautiful you.

yes, ichor... just like the splatter of it on the ground...? a pang of fear strikes him - has something happened to you while he was away? he should've none better than to trust those good-for-nothing other cultists, who spend all their time babbling about your gloriousness yet turn a blind eye to whenever you require assistance!

no, he had to calm himself down. this wasn't the moment where he should grow frustrated. first, he must confirm the situation... he's planned this out to the every plan b, c, d, e, and so on, so how come he's still feeling so anxious?

there you are, upon your throne, busy conversing with a fellow archon, the one as free as the wind. funnily enough, you were the one that tied him down like a shackle.

"ah, zhongli. are you alright? you're breathing quite hard." you tilt your head, averting your gaze from venti's sparkling eyes and instead fixing them on the usually stoic man's jumbled expression. his shoulder's heave as he resists the urge to collapse at your feet.

"what... what are you... you're hurt?" stained bandages peek out from just below your silk sleeve, a sight that cannot possibly be missed from his attentive gilded eyes. "why didn't you tell me? i-i'll call one of the healers so they can-"

"zhongli, there's no need for that." with a hand, you gently signal venti to leave the scene, which he does, with obvious reluctance. a silence gesture that resonates with appreciation deeply within him. "this was of my own accord."

"your own accord?"

"unbelievers decided to throw a riot, and there wasn't much i could do except...well, don't they say that seeing is believing?" how come you don't look the slightest bit pain? where is your self-pity? your frustration? "anyhow, i'm not in a good state. please leave me for the time being, i don't plan on receiving any more audiences tonight."

he bows hastily, yet each movement is still finely crafted with minuscule adjustments that have taken him thousands of tries to master. he does as you say, and his strides are quick and long. it won't take a genius to see that his facade has crumpled, with the clear agitation that's spreading across his features like a wildfire that devours all in its path.

there will always be those who are too foolish to see the light you bring.

he'll change that. every thrum of the golden markings running up and down his body seem to pulse in unison with his heartbeat, which is raring like he's recently returned from the battlefield.

who would've thought he'd so quickly return.

this time, of his own will. he'd be sure that these fools of this world would learn the truth of your paragon. ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) please save me the delulu has returned and iTS NOT LETTING GO

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123

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love-hs28 · 6 months ago

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Under the Stars

Summary: You and JJ lay on the boat one night, in your own little world a few feet away from the rest of the group. JJ kept you company, though, by making up ridiculous stories about constellations.

JJ Maybank x Reader Fluff 800 words Posted on: 11-17-24

The night sky above the obx never failed to amaze you. The endless canvas of stars never got boring to look at, and you could spend hours just staring into the never-ending space.

Everyone was hanging out on the HMS Pogue after a long day of working at the Poguelandia shack, and you and JJ were lying on the deck, a few feet away from the rest of the group. The conversation had dwindled out to a quiet mutter, everyone sipping on their drinks and looking out into the marsh, letting the gentle rocking of the boat ease away the day’s stress.

JJ lied next to you, his arm tucked under his head as he gazed up at the sky. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, tracing idle patterns into the worn fabric of his t-shirt.

“You see that one?” JJ’s voice broke the quiet but comfortable silence between you two, warm and soft. He lifted his free hand and pointed to a cluster of stars. “That’s the Great Sea Turtle of the Outer Banks.”

You let out a soft laugh, your head tilting to follow his finger. “The Great Sea Turtle?”

“Yep.” JJ nodded contently, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Legend has it that he’s the guardian of hidden treasures. But, plot twist- he’s got a thing for nachos. So he only shows up when someone’s got a really solid batch of cheese and jalapenos goin on.”

You let out a full laugh this time, the sound so genuine and bright that it made JJ’s chest swell with pride. You turn your head towards him with a loving smile on your face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously accurate, you mean,” he shot back, turning his head to look at you. His blue eyes twinkled with a familiar mischief, but there was something soft there too- a look that never failed to make your heart flutter.

“Alright, Maybank. What about that one?” You tilted your head back up to the sky, but you could feel JJ’s gaze stay on your face, making you blush slightly. You pointed to another group of stars, interested to see what story he would make up.

JJ squinted, pretending to analyze the constellation like it was a topographical map. “Oh, that’s an easy one,” he said after a moment. “That’s The Dolphin Doing Taxes.”

You snorted. “That what?”

“Dolphins gotta pay taxes too, baby,” he said, completely straight-faced. “You think livin in the ocean’s easy and free? Nope. Uncle Sam’s got his hand in their fish jar too.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter this time, and you playfully shoved his arm. “Stop it before I push you off this boat,” you joke, looking up at him with a smile both on your lips and in your eyes.

JJ grinned proudly, his heart thudding against his ribs. God, he loved making you laugh like this; seeing your face light up because of him.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll cool it with the tax jokes.”

You shook your head with yet another laugh, your giggles fading into a soft smile. “You’re somethin else, Maybank.”

JJ’s grin softened as he looked back up at the sky. “Yeah well.. I gotta be. How else am I gonna keep you around?”

You knew he meant it as nothing but a joke, yet you couldn’t help but feel there was a hint of self-consciousness hidden under his humor.

Your hand found his, your fingers intertwining as easily and familiar as breathing. “Oh please,” you said softly. “You don’t have to do anything, J. ‘m not goin anywhere.”

You tilted your head up towards JJ once more to meet his gaze, both of you saying a thousand unspoken words with your eyes. For a moment, the world seemed to exist only around the two of you. The sound of the others- John B’s laugher, Sarah’s teasing voice, Pope’s exasperated comments- faded into the background. It was just the two of you, lying under the stars, holding onto something that felt infinite.

“Good,” JJ murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Because I kinda like having you around.”

“Oh yeah?” You tease, blush creeping up to your face. He never failed to make you feel flustered in all the best ways possible. JJ nodded with a smile on his face as you nestled closer to him, letting the warmth of his body and the cool night air wrap around you like a blanket, both of you returning your gazes to the sky.

Above you, the stars twinkled on, silent witnesses to your little world of laughter, love, and ridiculous stories of dolphins paying taxes.

Thank you for reading! Not my best work, but Season 4 got me back in my JJ phase so I had to crank somethin out for you guys. More obx content probably coming in the future! Leave some prompts for me and I’ll love you forever. xoxo

#jj maybank fic #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x gn!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank fluff #obx fanfic #obx #outer banks fanfic #outer banks #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fanfic #jj maybank blurb #outer banks imagine #obx imagine #jj maybank x reader fluff

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koiukiy-o · 2 months ago

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-> pairing: professor!rafayel x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, established secret relationship. -> wc: 0.7k -> warnings: suggestive; minors dni.

-> a/n: my slut ass wrote this in class bc "wouldnt rafayel as a professor be the hottest fucking thing ever???" so, here it is.

The classroom is alive with the scent of linseed oil and damp turpentine, the murmuring of brushes gliding over canvas, the occasional scrape of a palette knife. Light pours in through the vast windows, gold spilling across easels and stretched linen, illuminating the chaos of half-finished works.

You try to focus. You really do.

But your mind is a mess of color and heat, flashing back to last night—

The press of your back against cold sheets, the heat of his body above yours, the way his hands, calloused from years of wielding a brush, had explored you with an artist’s precision.

“Hold still,” Rafayel had murmured, his voice lower, rougher than usual, his lips brushing over your jaw, your throat. “Let me see you.”

He had been relentless—tracing, mapping, memorizing you. And not just with his hands. His eyes, impossibly sharp, impossibly knowing, had flicked over every inch of exposed skin, studying the curve of your hip, the way your body arched into him without thought.

"So reactive," he had mused, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your collarbone. His breath had been warm, teasing, setting fire to your skin.

Your fingers had twisted in the sheets. “You—”

He had laughed then, soft and sinful, dragging his teeth lightly across your pulse point. “What?”

You had no words.

Only the feeling of him—his weight, his heat, the deliberate way he moved, like he was painting something unseen into your skin. And God, the way he spoke…

"You’re so beautiful like this."

Like this—flushed, breathless, unable to think straight.

And then—then he had shifted, pressing you deeper into the mattress, his fingers ghosting over your inner thigh, his voice dipping into something darker—

"Tell me what you want."

The way his fingers, still stained with paint, had traced lazy circles against your bare skin. The press of his body against yours, firm, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to ruin you. The way he had murmured your name like it belonged to him, lips ghosting over your ear, teasing, promising—

“Mm. You make such a pretty mess.”

A sharp clatter of brushes yanks you back to the present.

Across the room, Rafayel leans back against his desk, watching the class with that usual lazy amusement. He twirls a charcoal stick between his fingers, smudging dark pigment across his skin without a care. There’s nothing in his expression that betrays last night—no secret glances, no shift in demeanor. To everyone else, he is just their professor, enigmatic, impossible, untouchable.

But you know better.

You know what his smirk looks like against your throat, how his breath hitches when you touch him just right. You know the exact shade of red that blooms across his skin when he drinks too much, when his restraint wavers, when he forgets to be careful with you.

And yet, here, in front of everyone, he is perfectly composed.

He does not look at you. Not obviously.

But when he does, it lingers.

“Expression over precision,” he says, pushing off the desk, moving through the classroom. His tone is languid, effortlessly commanding. “What you feel should dictate your work, not some rigid technicality. Art isn’t careful. It’s reckless. It’s vulnerable. It—”

He stops beside you.

Your breath catches.

He glances at your canvas, tilting his head slightly. Then, too softly, “Still too restrained.”

The words punch through you, low and knowing, meant for your ears alone.

You tighten your grip on your brush. Bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You can feel the other students glancing over, listening, waiting for his critique. And Rafayel—Rafayel is playing the part of the untouchable professor so well, except for the way his fingers brush the edge of your easel as he steps even closer. A phantom touch. A reminder.

You can still feel the heat of his hands on your skin from last night.

You hate him.

You want him to do it again.

“Here,” he says, and before you can react, his hand is over yours, warm, firm.

Guiding.

His grip is light at first, barely there—just his fingers brushing over yours, a slow press against your knuckles. Then, deliberate. Strong. He curls his hand around yours completely, his body so close you can feel the slow, steady rise of his breath.

The brush moves.

A streak of deep violet sweeps across your canvas, bold, unapologetic.

The class exhales in surprise. A few students murmur. You can barely breathe.

He leans in, just enough for only you to hear.

“Lose control.”

And then he’s gone, moving to another student’s work as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you flushed and aching, pulse thrumming like wet paint dripping from a brush.

#❅ — works !#lads #lads mc #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lads smut #rafayel x y/n #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel smut #rafayel fluff #lnds x reader #l&ds rafayel #l&ds

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usanyan · 4 months ago

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young and so in love, wonbin x reader

! unprotected sex, marking, body worship

🎧 creatures in heaven by glass animals....

blankets and pillows are scattered on the wooden floor, the fluffy white cover gives a comforting and soft warmth. but not as warm as his body on yours, fingertips drawing invisible patterns on your shoulders. he's laying on you, legs tangled in yours just like his black hair that falls in front of his forehead, his skin like a fire heating you up. he's looking at you and you're looking at him in the silence of the night, eyes almost imagining each other in the dark living room. your hand rests on his jaw, your finger draw the curve of his face, the dip of his chin, the shape of his lips, you touch each mole, each beauty mark and scars painting him. if you had to describe love, it would be his name written in the stars, and you wish people could see him through your eyes.

quiet evenings are wonbin's favorite, when he comes home after his dance classes and the gym. his body feels sore and he wishes he could take his limbs off and leave them to rest while he sleeps and recovers. and he doesn't know any other way than your arms around his shoulders and a soft blanket that smells like you, like every room of your apartment. his tired mind feels at peace in the love sanctuary you created together, a place where there's no outside world and no real life, just the two of you.

gentle caresses turn into cravings, wonbin's hands holding your shoulders steady when he kisses you. time melts away like his lips on yours, they move in slow motions, they discover your mouth again and again. they know every dips and corners, they know your skin and your taste. wonbin captures your lips once, twice, he devours you whole, he wants to get under you skin and be one with you. your world narrows and revolves around the warmth he shares with you. having to part away from your lips almost breaks wonbin's heart, his teeth then graze your jaw and behind your ear, his ragged breaths brush your neck when he gets closer.

pillows drop to the floor when you move around, tongue tangled with wonbin's, the white blanket that surrounds the both of you like a cloud slides off his bare back to join the pillows in defeat. the mattress looks sad with only your bodies dipping in it. wonbin chuckles in the crook of your neck, his wet kisses send shivers through your limbs and into your heart. your fingers stroke his hair then down the nape of his neck and his shoulders, and he rests on your chest, like tied with you. it's passed 2am on the clock when wonbin lays you down on the blanket, making a new bed on the floor of your apartment. it's childish, it's stupid, but it's like a little home into your home.

clothes are long forgotten, wonbin's body is perfectly molded over yours, you're both breathing as one. his burning fingertips trace the perfection of your curves, first with your face. he puts gentle kisses on your eyelids, he trails his nails to draw over your nose and lips, down your chin and your throat. he discovers again and again the lines of your collarbones with his hands, he leaves soft pecks on his way down. then your shoulders, as if he's mapping your frame with his closed eyes, he wants to imprint the image of you into his mind forever. his fingers dig into the plush skin of your chest, little circles and licks over your nipples. wonbin wants to savor the taste of you and wants the moment to last for hours, he wants to feel your hand brushing his hair while he covers your body in love marks. then the sway of your hips, the dips of your waist, lips all over your stomach. he sinks his teeth into your sides, he leaves colors behind him and paints you like a canvas. it's never enough.

you watch his eyes overflowing with adoration, you feel his heart pounding in his chest under your hand. wonbin is not in love, he's addicted, you've made him high in all the possible ways, a high he's never coming down. not when your stare makes his body melt, not when your hands burns his skin, not when your lips makes his stomach explode with butterflies. you entered his mind and changed his every thoughts to you, you possessed him. he's just a person, he's just a someone, how did he find you, the fallen angel, the soulmate, the meaning of love? and then there's you, you hand him your heart and lock it inside his ribcage so it can beat with his, you dream of staying tangled in his limbs lost into the abyss of his eyes. there's this thing about wonbin, something into his pupils that's magic, something that makes your veins flow with sparkles and sends shivers to your spine.

you want him. you want him when he kisses your thighs, you want him when his warm hands caress your lower stomach, you want him when he lays on top of you and rests his forehead against yours. you can't read into his eyes but you hear his voice, i love you. i love you. wonbin forgot all the other words, there's only your name echoing into his mind. when you lay both of your hands on his cheeks, it's like his heart stops and so does the world. you bring him closer until you rest your lips on his eyebrow, kissing the scar from his childhood. you peck his cheek and his jaw, you don't want to forget the beauty marks on his face left behind his lover in his past life, like the story says. your fingers play with the hair at the back of his head, you graze his skin with your fingertip, you want to count all the freckles that go down his spine and cover his shoulders. you press another kiss on his left shoulder where you spot another mole.

wonbin nuzzles his face into your neck, his black hair tickle your face. you nibble at his skin and he brings himself closer, hips diving into yours and chest warm when he breathes. soon enough you've painted his collarbone in your own marks, you're possessive, and he's all yours. wonbin's lips go from behind your ear to your jaw, your cheek and your nose before he kisses you, he moves in perfect waves of softness and love, he shares the heat of his body with you when he finally tangles his tongue with yours again. the festival of fireworks in your stomach never stops, colorful fire rockets exploding over and over again ignited by wonbin's lips. he settles himself better between your legs, hips at home against yours, and the star charm of his gold chain dangles on your jaw.

wonbin likes to take his time, he likes to massage your thighs and hips before spreading them further apart for him, he likes to rub himself against you while he whispers you how much he loves you, how much he craves you, how beautiful you are and how lucky he is. is he the lucky one or are you? you don't really know. wonbin turned out to be your own lucky charm for every single thing in your life and you couldn't be more thankful. wonbin knows how to make you reach stars, how to go to the moon and back. he knows your body like his, like he crafted you with his hands, he holds you like you were made to be in his arms.

wonbin lays a soft kiss on your temple when he slides inside you, your name falls from his lips in a gasp and his breath is shaky in your ear. for a while you both only savor the feeling of being connected as one, the warmth spread from between your thighs and inside your body, under your skin and his. wonbin reaches for your lips again, his teeth almost grabbing the pink flesh to drag it closer and taste you whole. his arms rest on each side of your head, he stays above you but close enough for you to feel every inch of his body. as he ever so slowly pulls out to push back inside you, he tangles his fingers with yours and hold your hand. he rolls his hips at a lazy pace, you feel each part of himself as he reaches deep into the warmth of your insides. your breaths are mingled together, wonbin is almost losing his when he attaches his mouth to your neck. he laps and spreads hot kisses on your throat, you hold his face in place with a hand into his black hair.

wonbin grinds inside you more steadily, he finds his rhythm following the sound of your moans and the way you chant his name. he feels each time you tighten around him igniting the fire his lower stomach. he feels each time you squeeze his hand with your fingers and gently tug on his hair when he nips at your jaw. your hand that rested in the black messy strands reaches his shoulder and back, you grip at his skin with your nails when the pleasure courses your veins faster. wonbin is taking you to constellations you didn't even know, the feeling bubbles into your chest and spreads inside, it burns you where you're connected with him. it's like wonbin took off the charm on his necklace to put it in your eyes and mind, and all you can see is stars.

nights like these are timeless. wonbin cherishes them, cherishes you. he wishes he could hide into your bed, under the white blankets, he'd keep you with him and stay safe and sound forever. in you, wonbin found his reason to stand up and be himself, he found someone who loves and embraces every of his flaws, every side of him that he pushes away. he found a safe place to rest when he feels like the world ends, he lays in your arms as you put his pieces back together. you've made his heartbeat yours, each of his breath comes from your own lungs. wonbin is convinced you're made to be his, you're made to be the other half that keeps him sane and alive. every part of you is his treasure.

wonbin holds you close to the edge, galaxies fly in your mind and flow your inside with pleasure. your vision of wonbin over you is blurred, you try to concentrate on the feeling of the now warm gold chain dragging slowly against your chest with each movement of wonbin's hips. his shoulders tense under your fingertips, toned stomach twitches against your plush skin. you let go, wonbin grips your hand through your fall, you choke a whisper of his name that he suppresses with his lips. he eats all of your pretty noises until the pression builds inside him too, he hilts himself until there's no more space between both your hips. pleasure distorts his beautiful face and his brows furrow. he fills you full of his love, marks you from the inside. the way he whines and breathes heavily is the most beautiful music to your ears, as beautiful as when he sings his love songs to you.

each second lasts hours, wonbin lets his body rest on top of yours like your own personal blanket. he stays inside you for a while, he just wants to be one with you as long as he can possibly be. you soothe the scratches on his shoulder with the tip of your fingers, you draw circles on his warm and damp skin. eyes closed, wonbin drinks in your scent and play with your hair. you breathe together, until the high is over, until the drug wonbin gets you on with his lips seems to falter. the stars still dance in front of your eyes, and you see them deep inside his dark pupils when he perks up to look at you.

nothing else matters. nothing is more important than the smile he gives you before kissing the back of your hand, fingers still intertwined. nothing is more beautiful than his shining face and the strands of hair that stick to his forehead. nothing is more comfortable than the warmth he provides you both from the outside and the inside. nothing is more safe than the blanket on the floor of your apartment where you're both laying at 3 in the morning. your own little heaven.

#riize wonbin #riize smut #wonbin smut #max's cat >_<#wonbin song 🎵

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bettelaboure · 3 months ago

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⊹The Brushstroke of Desire ⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Warnings: explicit sexual themes, sensuality, intimate situations, and emotional vulnerability ⊹ Word count: 2 k ⊹ Authors note: usually I prefer smut myself, but dear God, how I giggled like a little girl writing this...

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The first time you noticed him, Seung-Hyun was an island amidst the buzz of the gallery’s opening. While the guests swirled in clusters, exchanging pleasantries and hushed critiques over champagne flutes, he remained apart, alone. His presence was subtle but undeniable. A man who seemed to move through the world as if it bent to his will. A man who had no need to hurry, yet, here he was, pausing in front of your painting with a quiet reverence that made your breath catch. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a perfectly tailored suit, a suit that whispered of wealth, of power, yet there was nothing about him that seemed conceited. No, it was as if his calm, unhurried attention to your work held a deeper meaning—an unspoken invitation to witness something intimate, something only the two of you could share.

The brushstrokes of your piece were a map of your soul. The color choices, deliberate. The shapes, reflections of your inner chaos and quietude. When his gaze finally shifted toward you, it was not the casual glance of a viewer. His eyes were sharp, tracing the arc of your expression, as if reading between the lines of your existence, searching for a truth hidden in plain sight. In that moment, you felt a delicate dance of exhilaration and vulnerability flutter in your chest. Was it possible? Could he—this stranger who was no stranger at all—see what you had poured into the canvas? The raw, unspoken parts of yourself you had laid bare for the world?

There was no small talk. No hollow pleasantries. Just a single question that made your pulse race. “Tell me about this one.” His voice, smooth and deep, lingered in the space between you.

The words spilled from your lips with a kind of honesty you didn’t know you were capable of. You spoke of the emotions that had driven you to paint, the restlessness that had gnawed at you, the nights you had spent lost in a haze of color and shadow. You spoke, but it felt as if he wasn’t listening for the facts, but for the unspoken weight of your experience. And all the while, his gaze remained fixed on you—intense, unwavering, as though he could see inside you, past the surface. As though he was savoring every word you uttered.

It was as if time itself had paused, drawn into the magnetic pull of his attention. When he spoke again, it was with the slow certainty of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. "Dinner?" The invitation was simple, yet his eyes held something more—a promise. One you were unable—or unwilling—to deny.

The restaurant was a hidden gem, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The atmosphere was soft, intimate, as if the world outside had been temporarily forgotten. Candlelight flickered against the polished wood, casting shadows that danced along his features, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He was a man sculpted by grace, by power, by something deeper that you couldn’t quite place. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you like a cloak, soothing and heady all at once.

Each brush of his fingertips against your knuckles was an unspoken question, a quiet exploration. There was nothing accidental about his touch—every movement deliberate, calculated, designed to unravel you piece by piece. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, a soft pressure that sent heat spiraling up your spine. Your breath caught, the touch innocent, yet charged with an energy that sent your thoughts scattering.

The conversation flowed, weaving between art, life, and the things left unsaid. Seung-Hyun spoke with a depth that made you lean closer, drawn not only to his words but to the way they were delivered—with purpose, with intention. His eyes, always steady, seemed to see more than you were willing to show. There was a slowness to his every gesture, as if he savored the moment before he moved on to the next. Each sip of wine, each lean toward you as you spoke—it was as if he was tasting you, savoring the very essence of your being.

“How did you start painting?” he asked, his voice low and hushed, as though it were a secret shared between you and him alone. His gaze never wavered from your face, studying the way your lips moved, the subtle change in your expression.

You hesitated only for a moment before speaking, the words tumbling out, soft and confessional. “It wasn’t a choice. Not really. I think I’ve always needed to paint. It was my escape when I was younger—a way to channel everything I couldn’t express. But over time… it became more than that. It became the lens through which I see the world.”

He nodded, his expression softening with understanding. “Art,” he said thoughtfully, “is one of the few things that can capture both the chaos and the calm of life. It holds everything—the contradictions we don’t want to face, the truths we don’t want to see.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his insight. There was a quiet intensity in the way he spoke, as though he understood the very marrow of your soul. “You speak as if you’ve felt it,” you remarked, your voice barely a whisper.

“I have.” He leaned back, studying you as though he were memorizing the way your face lit up when you spoke of your passion. “Art is the one thing in this world that remains untouched by power or wealth. It demands honesty. And it’s not just beauty that I seek—I collect art because it forces something real from me. It opens a door to truth that nothing else can.”

The silence between you thickened, pregnant with a tension neither of you acknowledged yet both could feel. Then, after a beat that stretched between you like a taut wire, he added, “And you—your presence, your passion—it’s like you’re a piece of art yourself.”

You felt the words as if they were a physical touch, something that shifted the air around you. A compliment, yes, but something far more intense. Your chest tightened, heat creeping into your cheeks.

“You mean that?” Your voice trembled with the question, the sudden vulnerability of being seen so completely, so intimately, leaving you breathless.

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but there was something deeper there, something that told you that he had already seen more of you than anyone else ever had. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

By the time the night was over, you weren’t sure if you had eaten anything at all. The taste of his voice, the weight of his gaze, and the subtle brush of his fingers against your skin had rendered everything else distant, irrelevant. When he drove you home, the silence in the car was heavy, charged with an unspoken understanding, a quiet storm brewing between you.

You barely had time to breathe before realizing your phone—your lifeline to the outside world—was left in the passenger seat. You had resigned yourself to retrieving it the next day, but Seung-Hyun was not a man who left things unfinished. The next morning, a soft knock echoed at your door, and when you opened it, there he stood, phone in hand, his presence commanding the space.

But something else—something more—was in the air now.

As you stood there, a whisper of sound broke the silence. Your voice. Soft, needy, breathless.

Seung-Hyun froze, his breath hitching at the sound. His pulse quickened as he stood just beyond the threshold, rooted in place, a witness to the private moment unfolding before him.

He could have walked away. He should have. But the pull, the magnetic force between you, kept him there. Instinct moved him, and he turned the knob, stepping into the space you had unwittingly made for him.

The sight of you, sprawled on the bed, fingers grazing over your own skin, lost in a moment of desire you hadn’t known he would witness, was enough to make his chest tighten. His pulse thudded louder in his ears, a rush of heat flooding his veins.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stop. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Your eyes locked, and in them, he saw everything—the vulnerability, the longing, the rawness of the moment. It was an invitation, and he accepted it without hesitation.

With deliberate slowness, he closed the door behind him. His voice, barely a whisper, was thick with something you both felt but refused to name. “Were you thinking of me?”

The confession was already there, written in the flush of your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath. Your body answered before your lips could. The weight of his gaze held you in place as he crossed the room, each step deliberate, measured. He traced the curve of your jaw with a fingertip, and the touch was gentle, reverent, as if he was learning you with each caress.

When he kissed you, it was slow—an unhurried exploration, as if he was savoring the taste of you, imprinting it on his memory. Every second stretched between you, thick with the promise of more. His hands moved with the precision of an artist, memorizing the way your body reacted to his touch. The way you gasped when his lips brushed your inner thighs, the tremor that followed every slow, deliberate caress.

And when he finally took you, it was not rushed. It was deliberate, the way he studied every inch of you, the way he held you as though you were something fragile, something precious. Each movement was a stroke on a canvas of skin, each whisper of his name from your lips a note in a song only the two of you could hear.

When the world outside had faded, and you lay tangled in his arms, the soft light of dawn spilling through the curtains, you felt an unfamiliar sense of belonging. Not just to him—but to the moment. To the quiet certainty that this—whatever this was—had changed you both, irrevocably.

And in the stillness, he whispered against your shoulder, the ghost of a smile in his voice. “I came to return your phone.”

You laughed softly, a sound that felt too light, too free for everything that had just passed between you. And in that moment, you knew. This was only the beginning.

#choi seunghyun #fanfic #choi seunghyun scenario #t.o.p bigbang #bigbang #top x reader #choi seunghyun x reader

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thesimsbaddie · 1 year ago

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Mr. CEO - Office Collection

This collection is perfect for male office sims or man cave decor!

Keep It 100 Wall Decal (1 Swatch)

Mr. CEO Office Art Canvas (20 Swatches)

Mr. CEO Office Art Canvas II (16 Swatches)

Mr. CEO Office Art Landscape Frame (14 Swatches)

The World Is Yours (2 Swatches)

Mr. CEO Office Tri-Art Canvas (3 Swatches)

Black and Gold Map (3 Swatches)

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#my cc #ts4cc #s4cc #the sims 4 #the sims #simblr #ts4 #sims 4 #sims #sims 4 custom content #ts4 cc #s4 cc #ts4mm #Youtube #urban sims #urban sims 4 #sims 4 furniture #the sims cc

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sehtoast · 2 years ago

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Hunger (Homelander x Reader Smut)

18+ | Dry humping, making out. gender neutral reader. | Fic Directory

He's addicted. Nothing short of enraptured heart, mind, body, and soul with you.

You're soft yet firm under him. You are the warmth he's always craved– the fire he's searched for since as long as he can remember. His hands are everywhere all at once.

On your cheeks, your neck, shoulders, hips, chest.

He touches you everywhere. He needs every inch, every fucking bit he can hold.

He needs you.

You do something to him that he cannot name. You light a flame, but it does not burn.

You don't hurt.

Your lips are soft against his, kiss bitten and plump from just how long you’d been going at it. Must have been a while now…

Your gasps, your little shuddering breaths are beautiful music to his ears, more perfect than the heavens themselves could ever compose. You are his instrument, and he, your musician– the maestro that will learn every possible way there is to make you sing for him. Every stroke of his fingers under the hem of your shirt, every kneading grasp against your chest.

He breaks away for a time, but only to focus his attention on your neck. The canvas on which his teeth and tongue will paint. You are his magnum opus. He will mark you, claim you, and you will forever be the most wonderful creation his hands have ever touched.

You shiver in his grasp, squirming, hands gripping in his ruffled undercut as he nips at you. He is carnal hunger personified. He is desire. He is need.

And you are all that could ever satisfy him.

His tongue maps a path up your neck, over your jaw, up the curve of your cheekbone. He kisses just shy of your ear, leaning in to whisper, “Mine.”

His hands are moving again, and you find your legs hiked up to wrap around his waist. He presses into you, raging desire evident by the press of his cock within his suit. Homelander’s teeth graze the flesh just beneath your ear as he grinds against your core, his breath fanning hot against you.

You hear him bite back a whine.

You tighten your legs, pulling him against you. The friction makes you both groan, eyes meeting, minds connecting in silence.

I need you.

His lips meet yours, still wet from when he’d suckled his marks, and he rocks his hips. His tongue caresses yours and he sighs loudly through his nose. The sensation is tantalizing at best– not nearly enough to drive you over the edge.

But, him?

There was nobody in the world more sensitive than the man impervious to everything.

All it ever truly took was the knowledge that you reciprocate everything. That you, center of his universe, would and do return his intensity. That you’re unafraid to moan into his mouth or use your legs to aid in his quest for friction.

He can smell your arousal. How terribly you need him– just as he needs you.

To be wanted. To be needed.

He can hear your heart hammering with more than just desire.

To be loved.

Crimson flutters behind his eyelids. The force of his thrusts increases until they’re erratic, and your whimpers reverberate between your mouths as he tongues everywhere he can in yours. It’s as though he means to consume you from the inside out. He’s sloppy, messy, and hungry.

Even more so when your hips roll to meet his.

His forehead presses to yours, his brow knit, eyes clenched. He separates from the kiss and saliva follows his lips as he pants hot and heavy against yours.

“O-Oh!” He pushes against you hard and fast, a pitchy keen catching in his throat as his expression melts and he comes undone. He cries out your name, and you pull him down to kiss again as his thrusts slow, becoming languid. He rides out the waves, holding his breath.

“Oh ff– Oh fuck.” He exhales hard, eyes fluttering open to stare down at you. “I…”

He knew you knew.

He came in his pants.

The wetness in his briefs adds a delicious sensation to each circular grind against you. All he can do is groan while he attempts to collect himself.

But then came a pair of hands to rest at his cheeks.

Your hands.

Kisses to his forehead, just below his eyes, to the tip of his nose.

To his lips.

When he opens his eyes, he swears he’s in heaven.

The fire in him is tame. The fury he is so often burdened by is so featherlight that it may as well not even exist.

His heart is full.

For in his hands, in his heart, he holds you.

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander smut #homelander fanfiction #antony starr #this ended up shorter than i originally imagined it but honestly? kinda nice to do something simple #also ended up a lot more lovey than i initially imaged hahaha buT he deserves it uwu #edit: imagined *

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tsuiioku · 8 months ago

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the dreadful need in the devotee — bungo stray dogs oneshot

content. f!reader. poetic prose, discussions of mortality and death, existentialism, suggestive themes, allusions to greek and abrahamic myth, romanticized unhealthy relationship dynamics, possible continuity errors. notes and translations at the end. not proofread. 3.8k+ words. ⟶ features fyodor dostoevsky. this work is a sequel to another oneshot! reading it's not a requirement, but is encouraged. this is also a collaboration with @yonseibananamilk! please check out her half of the collab ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

The fire of Pyramus danced within its hearth, the crackles a plea for freedom. Wooden shelves shimmered in a spectrum of amber hues. The light married abstract shadows with the spines of ancient books, stories lost to civilizations no historian could neither name nor describe. However, the harsh rays softened as they reached the two huddled on a sofa in the corner.

The domestic flame of your shared nocturnal nook chiseled at your features. Meadowed plains melded into the hills of your cheeks before they dipped back into low valleys nestled on the cusp of your nose or at the curvature of your cupid's bow. Fresh streams fringed the waterline of your eyes, fluttering lashes portraying the underbrush that beckoned him, barely obscuring the mystery hidden beneath the murky brook. Such a delicate canvas, framed with messy hair, made his sick heart thump at such vulnerable dishevelment.

You drank every word of your book with reverence while he could hardly focus on the one he held. The careful movement of your fingers as you turned the page tainted his thoughts into fantasies where they instead traced the expanse of his skin—it was repulsive.

But he dreaded an infallible demise the moment you chose to lay against him, not a thought to the difference in your stations. That heated sensation of unfamiliar tenderness, shrouded from the world, only to be acknowledged in an unimportant room in an unimportant place, thumbed him with a sentiment he could not adhere a title to. You were powerless in the scheme of everything that enveloped you, yet held no regard for fear or fate.

Instead, you smiled.

He hid the quiver of his limbs as his finger brushed the underside of your chin. Your face craned upward, and he realized he had been parched for a taste of the features he had so painstakingly mapped to memory. Your eyes closed with leisure as you leaned into his touch and—

He cracked his eyes, unable to open them as they strained to readjust to the merciless glare of his monitors, their caustic luster a stark contrast to the imprisoned fireside of his daydreams. His muscles cried out when he stretched. The quiver in his limbs recurred in spasmodic vibrations, worsening the cramp of his hands as he flexed them. It was a relentless ache that had become all too familiar to him.

You were a distraction. He had lost whole minutes of time to fanciful delusions with you and that damning grin of yours at the center. In his preparations, he toyed with the idea of dispatching you to a remote location outside the ire of societal destruction before ridiculing himself upon further examination. If another one of his subordinates had become such an issue, he wouldn't have hesitated to snuff them out—you had to be the human incarnate of temptation, the ultimate test of his faith.

Men who had traversed the path before him did not do so without trial. He had scrutinized the warnings their stories contained—Adam, Samson, Saul—men who had strayed from their noble path only to lose their kingdom. Fleshly pleasures lured many a good man to condemnation, for how could such sweetness be considered a mortal sin?

The fallen had once been beautiful creatures of virtue, and you were but a testament to the scars left in their descent. It was temporary—you and the fragmented thoughts your presence created would pass in years' time. He only had to be patient.

A knock at the entrance to his workspace interrupted his internal toil.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?"

Patience would be easier said than done.

"Not at all."

Because you dissipated thought and reason from his frenzied mind the moment you blessed him with even a mumble. Your voice was the otherworldly harmony that strained atop his ballad of misery. Not the corrupt inflections he had become accustomed to over centuries of time, but rather a sincere, artless tune that only he was ordained to hear and that he alone could descry. He would only admit one fact—human companionship was a merciless mistress.

For he knew you were your happiest at his side as his right hand, but he could not understand the reason—it brought harm to your so-called "doorstep," and the workload was laborious at best. But even in this isolated instance, when the crooks of your smile didn't entirely brush the banks of your eyelids, a noticeable ease settled in your bones at the sight of him hunched over a desk. An ease he returned, albeit underneath the veil of his carefully crafted mask.

"The preparations for the cannibalism event are almost complete," you continued, maintaining an unusual manner of professionalism as you handed him a set of stapled documents and receipts. "I just need to receive your approval before sending out the orders." His eyes crossed each section without too much consideration for their actual contents, affirmed in his trust of your intellectual capabilities when it came to outlining critical components of his plans with the ire of a scrutinizing eye.

"Thank you. These will do."

This was usually the time that you would dive head-first into a heated discussion about the latest novel from his collection or scurry off with a courteous farewell to complete the enormous amount of tasks you often procrastinated, but instead, you lingered. Your brows furrowed, locked in contemplation as your eyes stalled on his screens—schematics for his future "trip" to the European detention facility, Meursault. He cleared his throat, which luckily broke you from your daze.

"It'll be weird." You ran your thumbs across your knuckles, teasing at your bottom lip as you shifted from foot to foot. "Moving to a new hideout, I mean." The palms of your hands shifted to skim the dust and grime-coated surface of his barren shelves, toying with the clumps of debris that gathered on your fingers as your mind returned to its baseline. What did your thoughts stray to in times when they left you stranded, out of his reach, as they became more challenging to discern? He could only pray, in some twisted part of his dark mind, that they were a reflection of his own—then maybe those fantasies could be justified.

Outside his internal ramblings, he hummed lowly, acknowledging the truth behind that sentiment. Neither of you shared an attachment to the four walls that surrounded you—it was no home. It held none of the warmth or affection such a term required, though the idea of a home was foreign to you both.

Under those clouded waters, your eyes held a look he both adored and disdained. That muted hesitation had returned, like a criminal stood on trial, unable to utter a word of the truth lest they condemn themself. And you knew too much and said far too little. If you would surrender to your impulses, push him or pull him close so that, in some fashion, his conscience could be alleviated and he could refocus—but it seemed you were stuck within the same cycle of indecision.

You parted your lips, faltered, and closed them again, second-guessing yourself as you fiddled with your fist. But upon further inspection of your nervous disposition, he spotted an object that had been hidden in your back pocket. A book. He raised a brow as you slowly pulled it out.

"You've offered me so much reading material in the past." You handed him the book. Its cover was weathered and cracked; a once vibrant hue faded into a dark, timework brown. The delicate, diaphanous golden letters that spindled across the spin dulled with age but continued to catch onto the fluorescent light. "So I thought I'd return the favor. It's a book I've had for as long as I can remember."

"Poetry?" He couldn't withhold the amusement in his tone. You were such an adorable little woman—his heart squeezed in indescribable fondness at the incredibly fitting genre. The book cradled in his hands was even more charming, if possible. Several translucent tabs and disorder marks stacked the contents of the book, defining a distinct difference from his own analytical annotations. Part of him wanted you to leave sooner so he could delve into the contents away from distraction and be allowed to soak up every delectable notation.

"For wherever you plan to go. I hope you might find some use out of it." Your face softened. "I know it's helped me."

He huffed but knew that he was ultimately endeared. "Thank you, моя дорогая. If you enjoyed it, I'm certain I'll find it an enticing read."

A tremor trickled down your spine at the unexpected sound of his mother tongue. His thick accent sounded like velvet to the ears, but you quickly nodded and sent him the courteous farewell he had initially expected—but he couldn't allow you to leave without answering one more question.

"Which one should I read first?"

You paused, prodding the question around in your mind. The answer you stumbled upon was bold, and you contemplated your choices as your nails methodically drummed across the doorway's threshold. It was a risky choice, but one you had to take.

"Browning's Sonnet 22." Your expression could have locked him there for eternity. "It's my favorite."

And you left. You left, and indecision haunted him once more.

An abhorrent, unsightly torpor flooded within him like the Neva itself, the warmth of the Russian summer smearing any presence of intellect or acumen from his person. His limbs lay heavy from the sweltering heat as the underbrush tickled at his perspiration-laden skin, allowing him a momentary reprieve as he observed the breeze push against the bountiful flora that edged the bank of a creek older than he was in a homeland he had no way to return to.

"Федя."

He roused from the rush that engulfed his body and replaced his idleness, his mind ravenous at the mere whisper of such an intimate, almost forbidden name. Soft hands replaced the roughened roots of creekside plants, trailing his arms until their owner came into full view, beckoning him to lean forward with the purse of your lips.

You were somehow even warmer than the summer sun, and he melted like a tempered candlestick at your sheer touch, lips chasing your own as you drew away with a smirk and a laugh. The collision of your bodies onto the hardened ground drew the breath from his lungs, but he allowed himself to find it once more in your embrace, nose buried in your neck as he resisted the urge to indulge in mortal temptations and simply allowed himself to revel in the innocent embrace.

"Федя," you cooed. Your hands roamed the expanse of his hair, outlining the edges of his nape in a rhythmic motion that started to lure him into a dreamless sleep.

That was until the sensation started to fade, and he felt the familiar stomach-dropping sensation of falling. His eyes shot open as the idyllic naturistic scene dissipated from view to leave a void. Only you remained, but he paled as even you started to fade, reassuring him with a pitiful smile that he had become far too acquainted with.

"I'm sorry, Федя. You'll have to go one without me this time."

Your presence melded until your touch was like the chill of an algid frost—it was like the expiration of a dying star, crumbling in on itself until it rematerializes once more. From dust, you came, and to dust, you shall return. The contact was the biting notion of where and who he was, with every incapability and flaw that marred his flesh. It whipped at his skin, burned at his eyes.

He shook as you slipped through his fingers, drifting out of his grasp as he looked around for something to hold onto, anything to help either of you escape from—

"That must be a pretty good book you've got there."

The blinding aura of his circular cell was not a sight he wished to become accustomed to, the chamber he had been "forced" to occupy with the French prison. And to his utter dismay, it had been the lousy half of the Port Mafia's former Double Black that had stirred him from his waking nightmare, Osamu Dazai. The bandaged man looked like the cat that had caught the rat; his eyes narrowed as if he had finally pinpointed the Russian's weakness. An unseemly smirk drew across his pale face.

"You've been staring at the same page for the past five minutes, Fyodor," the detective crooned, splayed on on his bed with his head dangling at the side at an uncomfortable angle, almost like he wasn't locked in a high-stakes match of chess. "Your eyes haven't moved an inch. Leaves me to wonder what could possibly be so enticing about that book. You should lend it sometime!"

"I'm simply concerned for the well-being of your fellow agents," Fyodor sneered cooly, allowing his demonic mask to slip back on with his signature smirk. "I just can't help but worry for them. I'll be sure to pray for a swift, painless demise."

"Hmm, I'm sure."

But the suspicion of the detective didn't matter. Fyodor had ensured that you had no connections to one another, and your identity was completely erased once you went underground years prior. So, for the time you remained hidden, you were safe, and that terrible concoction of his mind would not come to fruition. You were in the midst of correcting course on any minor deviations from his plans if the smoothness of his operation was a testament—but in other moments between consciousness and sleep, he wondered if you shared these same thoughts. The split seconds that expanded into hours of dreams he wished never to wake from.

He couldn't help but linger on the horrific scenario that cast an ever-present shadow over his every thought. It was a possibility, and he shuddered to think of the notion that it would someday become a reality. But this was his one opportunity, and he wouldn't waste it.

He glanced down at his book. In truth, he wasn't much impressed by the pages anymore. This was one of the many books with copies in his personal collection, but it lacked the vitality he had become attuned to. It had been your book of poems that revitalized him, yet he was unable and unwilling to bring such a valuable item into a place such as this. He would not risk the desperation of his opponent at finding his weakness, nor the capabilities of the Special Division for Unusual Powers in finding a connection to the book's owner—so it was contained somewhere safe and sound, where no one else could find it.

That book had opened a separate world that consumed him, body and soul. But that poem that you had recommended—you were quite the romantic, weren't you? His face had flushed during his first reading and the several times after it, though your annotations were even more telling. But it only made the pressure on his heart increase, and he swore it would implode. Perhaps that was an underlying medical condition of his previous host.

And for the first time in centuries, he wasn't quite sure what he would do when he saw you again.

You dislodged yourself from the rubbled remains of the airport, fortunate to have been located further from the destruction Ame-no-Gozen created. The walls around you stood firm, but the roof caved in from pressure above, leaving only a sliver of room to escape to the intact remainder of the roof. Your hands ached and blistered with every inch of your ascent, halted as you took time to cough out the debris that generously clustered at the bottom of your lungs. You looked utterly worse for wear but couldn't find the time to mind given the circumstances.

After what seemed like hours of excruciating climbing, you made it to the top—but, of course, the fabric of your pants decided to snag onto a metal panel that had stubbornly remained intact.

"Oh, come on," you groaned, sitting down to tease and tussle with the ornery piece of cloth. It had been a restless last few weeks, and you simply wanted to sleep. You huffed as the shrapnel decided to release its grasp on your pants, but as you were about to stand back up, you took notice of the shadow before you.

There he was.

You could recognize Fyodor's striking eyes anywhere, even when he was clad in the attire of a fresh body without his signature hat and cloak, but you found that you didn't care much for the finer details when he was finally in front of you. His presence had formed a vacancy in your everyday routine, and for the first time in years, you found yourself completely alone. Even when there was work to be done and plans to create, the majority of his usual subordinates were killed as collateral—not that they had even been much company. But would you be forced to fall into the same line?

The question nauseated you, but you had known the possibilities when you took his hand for the first time. If there was a time for you to part ways, whether at his accord or your own, this would be it. This was your crossroads. But you knew as you slipped your hand into his, outstretched for you to take, that he wouldn't be letting go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part. It seemed your fears were unfounded since when you slipped your hand into his own, outstretched for you to take, you knew he wouldn't let you go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part.

You stood with his help, a contemplative tilt to your brow—but you couldn't stand the silence that continued to persist. So, in the echoes of his formulaic destruction, you allowed yourself to breathe. A release of that suspension and hesitation, unfurling your burden as you lifted your aching hands to cup his face, delighted in the widening of his eyes at the unbalanced scale between you tilted to the other side.

"Федя," you spoke, the sensation of the word foreign to your lips. A spark returned to his eyes as if you whispered the secret to raise him from the dead. "Are you alright?"

The wind rushed through him, breath tumbling with the breeze as it coasted along the metal platform you stood from. Despite reason pleading with him to run from your proximity, he instead chose to intertwine his fingers with one of your hands. He pressed kisses into the curve of your palm as he lined every scar and bruise with a tenderness that soothed your aches.

"I am."

He didn't need to utter another word—your brief separation had only strengthened your unified understanding of one another, with each crying gesture serving as the final touch. No more trials. No more secrets. The look in his eyes was one of stories. Eyes that had witnessed every dismal aspect of human nature, both in the past you shared, and in the past he traversed alone. But they had become worthless stories to him; the minuscule glimpses of resolution that had served as a sign from God of the promised end turned into the delusions of a desperate man as he found the reflection of the end in front of him—you. In every step he took since your destined encounter, you had been what he was searching for. His hope. His future. His reality. That fraudulent resolution was no longer at the end of a perilous tunnel but right before him.

You understood that the intimacy of your "relationship," with whichever label others tended to tack it with, could never be shared with another soul. Those voiceless, indulgent whispers and subtle, crinkled smiles were mere productions of your shared devotion. But more so, the hummed resonation of your souls spoke the loudest. They had remained empty for such stretches of time, so neither of you knew what to make of it when you somehow poured from your empty cups into the creation of a fulfilling bond. Your only comfort was the notion that this—this was the reason you were created. For each other.

He remembered the moment he laid eyes on you, the sensation that his long-time friend had turned foe, death no longer a temptation out of his grasp but a certainty he could not shake. Your straightforward disposition beckoned him, and he then understood why he had been made with a capacity for love despite acting as the immortal incarnation of its antonym. He had never once felt a need for fruitful devotion, not to some unseen voice from the skies, untouched by the heart and mind of humans, but instead for the one person who would take his heart to the grave with them.

He was immortal, whether by chance or fate, but it was your ability to shake off the temptations of fear that immortalized you in the end. Never once had you allowed your rift in mortality to halt the blossoming kinship between you, prodding at the walls of his solid foundations until they cracked and eroded over time. Fyodor chuckled—he thought he had a capacity for patience, between you were a godsend in comparison. He was the proclaimed "Demon of the North." The man sent to spread the wrathful will of God across the nations. So it was no wonder he had been so tempted when met with a force of benevolence, one which he had rarely witnessed and never known. He could never claim to be worthy of mortal worship when a creature like you stood before him.

You shivered at the sudden touch of his hands as they traveled across the exposed skin of your waist, soft despite his habits. They traced the contours of your figure like a sculptor transfixed on the finest marble. Time had not been merciful in his centuries alone—but it stilled for this moment. For the moment your lips met, and your odyssey was finally over. The spread of his touch was revolutionary, roaming with a cardinal fervor within this wasteland of human misfortune. It sparked a revolt within your mind—your union was taboo, but nothing had ever felt as destined to be.

The muscles of your face tendered as his thumb outlined the brushwood of your lashes. Your eyes drifted shut in a manner that wordlessly pronounced your insomnolence. He kissed a smile against your forehead as you parted, cradling your face as if you were his world. This was an intimacy that could not be replicated, and his mind shattered at the notion of loss.

"Never wander somewhere I can't follow," spoke the desperate man.

You flashed him a cheeky grin. "You won't be able to leave if you want me to stay."

He leaned in, lips close enough to brush. "I won't leave. Not ever again."

And he dipped back in for another taste, addicted to the ambrosial quality of your lips as he buried himself in the shrine of your arms.

дорогая = dear федя = fedya

TAGLIST: @ruru-kiss @miloofc @osarina @meiluvrr @suru1990 @honeymoon38 @saeandscaralover @dazaisms @v4mpash3 @coffeeofsamu @just-another-crack-artist @snowsilver2000 @chyozai @justcallmesakira @little-miss-chaoss @himikoslove @osameowdazai @deepseafragments @aureatchi @tirasamu @kelperspelt @squigglewigglewoo @lovesick-fairy @zyilas @ishqani

a fyodor fic! very original for me, i know. nana and i planned out this collaboration months ago, and were luckily able to schedule it for the chapter release. again, please go check out her side of the collaboration! speaking of chapters, that update was certainly something. i'm intrigued to see the further development of atsushi and akutagawa through the end of this story arc, since it feels like they've switched roles in regards to the desperation, if that makes sense. and, of course, it was interesting to see fyodor express such strong emotion in reaction to atsushi, and i'm excited to see it unfold in the next installment! feel free to discussion discourse below :D

#☆.musings #f!reader #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #fyodor bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader

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