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euphiea · 10 months

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[NEW FILE UPLOADED]: STATUS: LEAKED//CORRUPTED ↳ Black Panther ↳ Shuri Udaku ↳ Alternate Universe ↳ Synopsis: Absurdity colors the wind, the true song of Aquarius. White doves and weeded lawns bring abundance, and though tradition condemns the latter, it took an absurd eye to deem a dandelion a wishing flower. It took an angel condemned by God to grant it so.

Euphoria’s Annotations: ##Based in 1800s || ##Tribbing || ##Arranged Marriage || #Inspired by: This Fic by Wiinters on AO3 & Queen Charlotte (Bridgerton) || ##Shuri Has A Dirty Mouth

[ATTACHED MESSAGE]:

↳ EUPHORIA: I feel like domspace shuri is more of a dirty, slutty talker than a sadist. Expect heavy edits over time. You are not british here.

Love conquers hate. The elders of the living generation have tried to pass this down, but to no avail, for they leave the context out of it—leave it up to the youth to interpret on their own, without any clue on where to start, what to think. The repetition of the saying with no further explanation rendered it tasteless, wisdom that’s carried nations is now a graying chatterbox that no one pays mind to.

The planet is run by two powerful, opposing kingdoms by the names of Wakanda and Vymont. The war has stretched on for centuries, legend has it the land of Jormil was once rich, nutrient soil—until bloodshed soaked the grounds in great volume, far surpassing the limits of its thirst, and therefore turning it into a vacant, hilled land of wild clay.

As the elders passed and the world modernized as to not be left behind by expansion, the war over resources grew to be a nuisance. The people despised the other side, while the ones who wore the crown could not figure a vital reason to continue fighting. In typical history, when nations quarrel it’s ended by two means: total conquering, or union. This case was different, what could be done when the kingdoms simply grow tired?

The story needed to be good, believable. Enough to throw salt on any fires before they emerge. A fairytale with a valuable lesson, love conquers hate.

Thus, the papers sealing your marriage were drawn.

Princess of Vymont and Princess of Wakanda, two young women who met and fell madly in love, despite being rivals. Desire bewitched you as your knights fought, carelessness revealed your schemings much to the rulers’ horror. Efforts that could move mountains and change the weather, the seasons at will, what it took for either to come around. Now, you join Princess Shuri Udaku hand in hand, allowing love to light the way.

Good, believable.

It’s your duty as Princess to endure for the sake of your people. Your marriage with Shuri was sealed in ink weeks before the matrimonial kiss, and even by that time, you hadn’t spoken much. Complete strangers too skilled at lying for your own good.

You assumed that once you married, once your nations united, you wouldn’t have to see her. Sure, all eyes were on you, closely watching your faces and mannerisms for any chances of fraud, but Shuri is a busy woman, the innovative leader of sciences and technology, she had no real time for you.

“Have you consummated the marriage?”

Unfortunately, your mothers were much keener than the public. Queen Ramonda’s question was met with stiff side-eyes and silent nods, and if that didn’t give it away, it was the five foot distance standing between you.

It’s been five months since your marriage, and three weeks since your holy matrimony was sealed in stone. The months leading up to that night, Shuri made astounding efforts to be a wife to you, despite you claiming she did not need to. You were fine with lying, maybe even a quickie in the case that the Gods and Ancestors happen to be vindictive. Shuri denied, saying she didn’t want to touch you as a stranger when you’re her wife, for you didn’t deserve that, and it wouldn’t feel right.

She moved into your gifted estate and slept in a room three halls over. Three months of dining together, painting, gardening, attending balls and picking out fabrics for elaborate complimenting gowns—newlywed activities, a real honeymoon. Your time spent had ignited a spark, a spark that morphed into an unrecognizable blaze of red heat that charred your skin that night of your first time.

Your first time may be your only time, and it irks you.

The fact that you’re irked, irks you.

You woke up in an empty bed, rung the bell, and as your servants tended to you, you asked them where your wife went.

“She’s at the lab for today. She wanted me to tell you she’ll be home by dinner!”

Shuri kept her promise, she returned about an hour from supper while you were in the garden, reading. The next day, the same servant repeated the same thing, except Shuri will be home a little after dinner, and the next day, she’s going to be staying late at the lab, don’t wait up.

Secretly, you were hurt. Shuri never stopped being a busy woman, but you feel as though she merely prioritized you for one thing, and now that you’ve given it to her, she’s lowered your name on the list.

You could confront her, but for what? You married to end a three hundred year war between nations, not from being in love with one another, like Prince T’Challa and Nakia. You told yourself that you’d get over it, but you overheard your servants gossiping:

“What of Rineea, now that the Princess is married?”

“Riri? She has been spending her time at the lab… I halfway expected it to be a call off situation when they married, but that’s unrealistic, huh?”

“I did too. But they were together for a minute, when I heard of the Princess’ engagement, I assumed it was to her. Now imagine my shock when I found out it was a Vymont.”

“Thee Vymont. I am just the cook, but… Put a Princess and a coworker in front of me, and tell me to choose a spouse. But I’m just the cook.”

“Right.”

Right, you’re a Vymont. A crucial detail so easily forgotten. You’re staying on Wakandan soil, holding a piece of Wakanda’s crown, but in no way are you Wakandan. You’re still an outsider, trapped in a marriage with someone who will never see you as anything but. Although, Shuri is a generous sweetheart with you. She told you once how stupid she thinks the war is, how she’s overcome with glee now that it’s over.

“The war has ceased, and I get a beautiful wife as a token,” She had said to you, standing irritatingly close, “And the prettiest Vymont has to offer, at that.”

You told yourself you just aren’t home at the same time, but the possibility she’s been skipping out on you for a girl she has real feelings for, real history with, sharing real similarities with as a Wakandan scientist—meanwhile, you paint, study music, and teach horse riding to children. Shuri said you were the prettiest Vymont, not the prettiest in general. The Wakandan must be show-stoppingly gorgeous, how silly is it to think one night with a Vymont could amount to many with a Wakandan?

It’s three hours until midnight, the warm bodies of your servants is what’s stopping the estate from growing cold. Ethereal are the full moons in November, traces of clouds brush the stars’ cheeks, the wind blows away October’s remnants, and strips crooked branches naked. The daytime servants are tucked away in their own, the nighttime servants are dutifully buzzing; you know the estate well enough to avoid being seen by them.

“Have you changed—“

You abruptly pause your journey mid-step at the sound of a servant’s voice. You’re at a four way stop, of sorts, near the ballroom. Tongue bitten, fingers digging into the black silk of your nightgown, you take a peek around the corner.

Two brown skinned women in uniform, one holding a lantern, the other a stack of aprons resembling the ones they have situated atop their ragged, black dresses. You didn’t hear the door close, but they’ve just come out of a room, tension releases your shoulders as they walk in the opposite direction of you.

Still, you tiptoe across the way. If they catch you, they’ll gaslight you to death about cold-driven sicknesses and royalty needing their beauty rest until you agree to return to your chambers.

The estate’s grand halls are a gothic black with bleached carpet. The moon’s essence gleams through high windows, illuminating your path in a way you’re thankful for, the hall you just journeyed from had no windows and it’s not wise to carry a candle when sneaking around. Yes, it can be blown out and re-lit, but you’re not in the mood for extra activities. At least, not those sorts, of extra activities.

The name of the game is distraction, you’re looking to blow off some steam by walking around. Being alone in your room, underneath your sheets with your thoughts, is poisonous. You’re meeting with congress tomorrow to discuss plans regarding a new terrorist group that’s been attacking countries under Wakanda, to which the Princess herself will be riding with you. At close proximity in a three hour carriage ride with the curtains drawn.

It’s record breaking how fast your sheets became sweltering, each scenario you pushed away was followed by a new one, filthier than the last. They were all painfully unrealistic, you know this, the only reason you shared that night was to affirm your marriage. The weighed rock on your finger is for your people, for the greater good, your wife’s inventions center just that.

Shuri is resilient, hot-headed. She performs her duties well, a brilliant leader for the intellectual world, and her jokes are funny. Prince T’Challa, her brother, is charming and even-tempered compared to Shuri. He doesn’t raise his voice, his bearded face hosts a permanent smirk, T’Challa is the definition of a dashing prince. Shuri is nothing like him. Humbleness is the only trait they share, really.

She has a smart remark reserved for any situation, she’s attentive to everything, listens even when it’s assumed no one is. One thing you admire in her is her polite streak, she’s genuinely respectful. Shuri treats her staff as coworkers and her coworkers as friends. She’s a friendly, warm hearted woman that gives without a second thought.

She’s a giver indeed, in more ways than one.

You stop at a grand wooden door. You don’t need to look around to know it’s Shuri’s room. No guards crowding the hall, she still hasn’t returned.

Teeth pulling the skin at your lip, you allow your knuckles to brush the smooth wood. Three weeks ago, you were pinned against this door. Days prior she revealed to you her taste for dominance, it was brief and fleeting, like the hint of a character death in a book, you didn’t take it to heart.

“Come on, talk to me. Nothing to say now, my love?”

“Is this what gets you off, baby? I can make you cum like this?”

“Everytime you close your legs, I’ll stop.”

Arousal throbs at your core. You’re bad at following your own directions, then again, this is your fifth walk this week.

You were back from a ball that night. Your corset was fitted to accentuate your tits, neatly placed was a silver cross pendant necklace—Shuri’s favorite on you, silver. She smelled heavenly that night, when she pulled you taut to her body as you danced, you felt how tense she was and smiled. You knew you did that.

Courtesy as the new Princess of Wakanda, you mingled with the guests that night, danced with civilians and giggled as they held you close, akin to how she did. They spun and dipped you, kissed your hand, sprayed you with compliments, by the end of the night you were glowing, and Shuri’s grinning face called you ravishing.

You didn’t think your sly little tactic worked until you got in the carriage. You were met with a silence so sudden, so solemn and heavy, it shocked you. Shuri’s gaze locked you in place, her expression unreadable, uncharacteristically so. She didn’t speak the entire fifteen minute ride to the estate.

A frown tugs at your lips. She claimed you as her wife, no one else’s. Perhaps she only meant it then, as a one-night medium for blowing off steam.

Perhaps your connection is meant to be this way, her in one corner, you in the other. Your marriage is one of obligation, a peace treaty, it’s meant to be shallow. After all, she’s Wakandan, and you’re of Vymont, your bloods don’t mix, they never have. It’s stupid to believe they ever could, your alliance was for the people, not you.

Indeed. It’s high time to get her out of your head. It’s silly to crave someone with every bone in your body when they’ll never see you in that way.

“Princess?”

You jump out of your skin, braids knocking against the wood as you whip around.

Behind you is your wife and her royal adviser, Okoye, wearing long, extravagant black fur capes with mini hills of melted snow collected on the hoods and shoulders. Okoye’s lantern allows you to see the way Shuri’s eyes are soft, adoring. Your heart lurches, her fatigue is blatantly obvious, and, still, she’s so gentle.

You suck at following your own directions. You train your attention on Okoye, whose expression is a stark difference from Shuri’s.

“What are you doing out here, and wearing that? It’s freezing,” She presses, scrunching her eyebrows. Your outfit isn’t as skimpy as she makes it seem: a black, thigh-length, silk nightgown with slippery straps, a matching silk robe that trails your footsteps, and black slippers. You cross your robe over your torso and tie it with a loose knot.

“I was only taking a walk-“

“—And where is Aneka?!”

“Enough, Okoye.”

The royal adviser slowly kisses her teeth, but quiets at the royal’s command nonetheless.

“Princess, is everything alright? Do you need anything?” Shuri says, and frowns when you shake your head. “It is almost midnight. You should be asleep.”

You hate this, you would have rather been caught by your servants than your wife.

“I’m fine. As I stated, I was merely just walking around,” You reaffirm, tucking a braid behind your ear before twirling its end. “I was not expecting you, how were your travels?”

“Cold,” Okoye answers, you squint at her.

“We caught wind of a blizzard approaching, so we left earlier than scheduled. I’m so glad I caught you, let’s talk more inside.”

“Ah, I think I should return to my room. We present to congress in the morning.” You tangle your fingers behind your back, feigning a look of disappointment. Shuri tilts her head.

“It’s funny you bring that up,” She says, “That’s what I need to talk to you about. I’m sorry to keep you up, Princess, but I would let it go if I could debrief you on the way.”

Any word of protest dies on your tongue when she ghosts her hand on your hip, brushing past you to open the door. As she guides you inside her room, she bids Okoye a good night.

Shuri doesn’t give you a second to breathe, when the doors close she pulls you into a kiss, sliding her hands along the silk of your waist. She holds you taut against her, a whimper sounds at the back of your throat and she sighs, immediately deepening the kiss. The musk of outside clings to her, it’s not an unpleasant scent, it’s subtle and bearable.

You confusedly try to wrack your brain for conclusions, explanations on how this can be if there’s crucial information to be shared, but the haze that clouds your judgment slaps you away.

You’re chocolate to her burning hands, melting almost too easily into her. The cold, damp fur tickles your palms as you slide up her arms before pulling the hood off. Her hair isn’t detangled enough for you to play in, too dry for a comfortable attempt, so your nosy fingers fall to her neck instead. Arousal is the fire that melts your organs, steadily burns you from the inside out, all you can do is pant and weakly push at her, sweat beading your forehead.

“You’ve been hiding from me, my love,” She mutters against your lips as she very subtly ruts into you, her declaration sends a surge of desire straight through you. She squeezes various areas of your torso as if to leave handprints on your body, she’s asking—pleading for permission to touch you and it’s so hard to think, her and her fucking mouth make it so hard.

Your tongue is too heavy for words, when you buck your hips she furthers her point by sliding a hand between your legs to rub your pussy over the silks.

“I never imagined you to be so cruel.” Shuri guides you back by your waist, and you let her, relishing in the feel of her kissing down your neck; as far as you’re concerned, she can do whatever she wants to you. “How much longer were you planning to deprive me of this? Of you?”

Your back hits a wall, Shuri moans and reconnects your lips—before the smoke can thicken, you break away.

“Have you been sleeping with other people?”

“No.”

Shuri has a special ability, she can move space, manipulate the particles that make up your reality, as she pleases. It’s the only explanation for how heavy the room is now that she has you caged, her amorous breaths lightly fan your eyelashes, her expression is difficult to make out in the dark, but her presence is telling enough. It’s her special ability at play.

Her response is incredibly quick, but she’s not lying. Your lips are chapped, you haven’t done much, is a simple kiss this titillating, to this degree? She’s not lying, but you don’t believe she’s telling the entire truth.

You hum, looking off to the side. Shuri notices, you believe that she’s lying to you, though she swore at the podium she never would; she pays it little regard, there’s other, more pressing matters on her mind, it’s been three weeks since she’s had you, and she prayed to Bast that she got to see you before your trip.

“..You are captivating, my love,” Shuri breathes, “Take off your clothes and lie on the floor.”

It’s her special ability that wills you to pull the knot of your robe a-loose, the garment cascades to the floor and Shuri never takes her eyes off of you, even when she unclasps her cape and tosses it across the room. She’s wearing black trousers and a beautiful white blouse with frills adorning the chest, which suffers the same fate as her coat when she tugs it off.

—

Your legs are stretched to the hint of exertion, halfway numb due to how your wife is situated on top of you, but it’s welcomed, for it gives her access to you, access to your cunt that throbs with each rock of her hips.

Shuri’s wetness trails down your lips to join the puddle dirtying your silks, her breaths fan your ear, accompanied by deep, throated moans that slip without her permission. It’s not as obscene as the slick sounds of your cunts, but it heats your face, blood roars underneath your cheeks.

“You’re enjoying this. Look at you.”

Shuri’s taunting contributes to your lightheadedness. Pleasure is a sea of waves far too rowdy for you to handle, a soft mewl pulls you further in its depths, the only answer you can muster is a nod, eyes struggling to stay open, weakly clawing at her back.

If her people heard any of the things she’s saying, any of the things she’s whispered in your ears when no one is looking, shock would turn their bodies to stone. The months leading up to your first time were torture. Your image matters, it’s imperative you have a good reputation or you risk being overthrown, a lesson your father sat you down and talked to you about when you were 5, and you’d thrown a hissy fit during a festival.

“There’s a mask attached to the crown.” — A quote you once read in a fantasy book, written by a civilian. You internally squealed, they had no clue how correct they were, and they never will, for your mask wouldn’t allow it. It’s partially why you like Shuri, she’s a princess herself, and you’ve seen firsthand the stark difference between Princess Shuri of Wakanda, and Shuri Udaku.

“Can I make you cum like this, beloved? Hm? Make my pretty wife cum all over herself, from a little humping,” Shuri slurs through pants, her clit twitching as it glides along your folds. Her and her fucking mouth is going to be the death of you, she’s so incredibly raunchy when lust impassions her, as if arousal is a poison, a sickness.

Shuri stills her hips at your lack of response, and you whine, jerking into her.

“Yes, Shuri, ‘m gonna cum like this,” You plea, nipples brushing her own as your back arches, “Keep going, please please.”

She shudders, the way you say her name is criminal. Her hips resume their pace, your eyes loll to the back of your head.

“Good girl,” Shuri practically purrs in your ear, “Good girl.”

She sits up to pin you by your shoulders, holding you in place as if you were ever going anywhere. Her pace grows harsher, her grip comes with a resounding ache that fans the flames licking your belly, you’re convinced Shuri can do anything, say anything, and it’ll dampen your arousal the very same.

“I want to fuck you with a toy, just like this. I’ll make you ride me ‘til it hurts, ‘til you can’t think. You won’t know what to do with yourself.”

Shuri’s eyes are trained on your face, you feel moreso than see it, for it’s her special ability. She’s an obvious woman, says what she means and means what she says, even blunt to her own detriment, at times. Her words stir something in you, force their way through your ribs to caress the heart that’s forgotten it’s meant to beat. The knot in your belly is steadily tightening, if she stops you truly might cry.

The approach of her own release is telling from the way her pussy throbs and pulses along your lips. She lowers her hips, dropping more of her weight to increase the pressure where your desires conjoin, knowing she has you locked in your position. You wonder if she’s holding anything back at the moment, how far her limits are from this point.

“And you’ll take it for me, won’t you? Like the obedient girl you are.” And you shudder, nodding incessantly to the jerky rhythm of your tits.

“Shuri, ’m so close,” You whimper, legs twitching. “Please don’t stop.”

She would be a fool to do so, knowing this she nods anyway, whispering under her breath curses not fitted for a woman of her stature. Pleasure is a sea of waves too rowdy for you to handle, it creeps on you, bringing with it an insurmountable pressure you’d squirm to flee if Shuri weren’t holding you still.

If you asked, she’d say she’s holding you in place to keep the angle right, and it’d be a half truth. She’d leave out the sick satisfaction that surges through her when doing so, the hint, or inkling, that you’re trapped with no other choices. You’re water through her fingers in everyday life. Shuri gulped down her desires when pursuing you, she wanted to go at your pace, do things to your accord, otherwise she’d risk being seen as clingy and eager.

You didn’t believe her earlier when she told you she hadn’t slept with anyone, but she was telling the truth. The entire carriage ride home, Shuri was squirming in her seat, resorting to palming her pussy over her pants to satiate the teenage urge to get off right then and there, for she couldn’t stop thinking of you, in various positions, various settings, far more scandalous than the privacy of her room, far less lady like for a woman of your stature.

Your wife’s eyes roll to the back of her head. “(Y/N), cum for me, Princess, let me see it.”

The air is punched from your gut, your mouth drops open in a silent scream as you release, your stomach twitching at each wave that passes. It’s the feeling of your pussy’s incessant pulsing coupled with the dashing sight of you that drives Shuri to follow, she cums with a broken whimper, her head lolled over her shoulders.

“Yes, like that, just like that,” She breathlessly encourages, hips slown to drawn out thrusts, “Doing so well for me, my love, so so well.”

Shuri’s name is but an anchor, you repeat it under your breath over and over to keep yourself grounded. Her arms jelly, you catch her before she can completely collapse on you—not that you’d mind.

Weeks, she’s had to smile in people’s faces, feign interest in their lives, and come back to an empty home. Weeks, she’s had to camp in her lab to ensure her coworkers’ tasks were done to perfection, and it’s imperative they are—they were not. Weeks, she’s had to live off simple interactions with you, long hug, light conversation, and then she’s pulled away.

Weeks, she’s had to tell herself the lives of others are important too, civilians are people too, if not she’d be under you—or on top of you—all the time, enjoying the serenity your aura provides.

It’s scary how quick it’s come to this. Five months, you met on a chilly day, bedded on a windy night, and now her windows are blanketed in frost. Five months, and the signature of her human coding is tattooed on your finger, the skin where your wedding ring rests.

“Have you been sleeping with other people?”

Shuri makes a mental note to address it tomorrow, at an appropriate time.

#shuri x reader #shuri x reader smut #shuri udaku x reader #shuri udaku x reader smut #black panther

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euphiea · 10 months

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[NEW FILE UPLOADED]: STATUS: LEAKED//CORRUPTED

↳ LE SSERAFIM

↳ HUH YUNJIN

↳ Synopsis: Hatred dies in the face of integrity and love, late nights you catch your soul before it wanders too far, you find yourself outside her door every time.

Euphoria’s Annotations: ##Cunnilingus [Fem!R] || ##Enemies in Public || ##Short and Sweet

The curse of the sixth member. Higher risk of being forgotten, left out, hated. The sixth member is essentially the black sheep, they throw off dance formations and make them an eyesore—even at peak coordination, if that’s possible.

The curse of the sixth member. One ultimately leaves in the end, and peace is restored, the fire is put out. Leaving a K-POP group isn’t a curse within itself, it’s the belittling un-popularity that follows. Now that hatred, the fueling source of clout and fame, has been taken away, what’s left? Nothing. It’s the curse of the sixth member, despised when present, yet the cameras cease their flashing when the door finally closes.

The curse is what makes this such a bad habit, climbing under your bandmate’s sheets in the dead of night, arousal pooling between your heated thighs. You’re meant to be ‘secret not-so-secret’ rivals, meant to obviously hate each other with discretion, because your company agreed it would attract viewers.

She sits on the opposite end during intimate interviews, across from you on radio shows. Your stage outfits rarely coordinate, typically group outfits carry two schemes—three if the group is bigger—to ensure you’re tied in, matching with the era—and the company doesn’t want that. If the themes are blue and white, you’ll wear an all white mini dress and fur accessories, while she’ll wear a blue top and pants with braided hair.

When filming vlogs for daily content, your setting is conveniently apart from hers: the kitchen while she’s on the balcony, the pond while she’s getting ready in the hotel room, the dressing room while she’s practicing onstage—it pains you to treat her this way, and it pains her to pretend you’re not the one she wants to be around most.

Late nights at the dorm amount for the time lost. Yunjin gets to have you to herself then, your skin spilling through the coffee stained lines of her fingers as she palms you, grips your waist and the fat of your inner thighs, the plush begging to be bitten and marked.

The sole two sources of light are generally insignificant: the dusted moonlight peeking through the sheer curtains, and her phone’s notifications that come through every once in awhile. The lime citrus of her floor’s cleaning products should be the scent burning your nose, instead it’s her signature warm hazelnut body lotion. Yunjin’s out of sight snd underneath her white duvet where she has your legs spread, two curled fingers leisurely pumping your cunt.

“Do you daydream of this, love?” She inquires against your skin, her voice low and muffled as to not wake Kazuha, who snores peacefully on the other side of the room.

Yunjin’s teasing is nothing short of cruel, numerous times she’s come up behind you to whisper her wants in your ear, backed you into empty corners where the cameras aren’t present—as she’s aware of their locations, always—to grope your tits and urge your legs apart, sometimes she’s bolder: takes your hand and guides your fingers to stroke herself over her garments.

You cant your hips into her touch as a response, still nodding as if she can see you.

“Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything for you, baby, just tell me, you wanna be fucked?” She mutters the question as she scissors her fingers. The sensation crackles at the base of your stomach; you want more, to feel full of her and all she has to offer. You could never dislike your bandmates, much less hate, but Kazuha’s presence is nothing short of a nuisance this current moment.

“Inside,” Comes your small reply, eyes pinched as she curls her fingers into that one spot, sending jolts of blissful sparks with each press; your breath is lodged in your throat, Yunjin knows it’s hard for you to stay silent as is, she’s doing this on purpose. “I want you inside of me, Yunjin.”

“Good girl.”

Desire surges through you at the praise. Your theory is proved when the brunette sucks your clit into her mouth and lays her arm across your abdomen for better grip, her pace turning crucial.

“Oh,” The sound is pulled out of you, your erratic breaths match the wet spasms of your cunt squeezing around her fingers; it’s like your entire body’s lit up, pleasure is an overwhelming force that boils your veins dry, curls your toes and locks you in place, even through the urge to sit up, to scoot away. She knows this too, knows exactly what to say, where to touch, to make you take all of her. It’s cruel how calculated she is.

Your eyes blur without tears. Every inch of you is ingrained in her memory, your body molds with her soul in ways that frighten her, perhaps it’s good you’re kept away. Perhaps your game is for Yunjin’s sake, if even the lightest scent of you, the hint of heat at close proximity, is enough to throw her off.

Compilations of her slipping at rehearsals and on stage, the fans scold the company for overexertion. She’s exhausted, they say, but she puts on a smile and performs well anyway. A natural professional.

None of it is true, not in the way it’s believed. They’ve never had the luxury of seeing you like this, of having you this close. Yunjin’s not the possessive type, but there’s no denying the sense of belonging with you. It’s a quiet, absolute acknowledgment, her soul is yours, and yours hers.

There’s no one on Earth as beautiful as you are, as gifted as you are, as appealing as you are. You’ve expressed to her times you’ve felt jealous and giggled when she called them folktales, but she was serious. They’re folktales, because only in a made-up world would her attention be elsewhere from you.

Your mouth drops open in anticipation, the build-up burns so fucking good it scars you. You softly call her name, “Gonna cum, ‘m gonna cum.”

Yunjin nods as she scoots closer. You grip her head over the sheets and dig your heels in the mattress to fuck into her touch, letting your body plead for more the way your mouth can’t. She flicks and circles your clit, buries her nose in the bed of hair to show her desperation, to show she wants it just as bad as you do, the way her mouth can’t.

Your release hits you hard at first, the initial wave slams into you and lodges the breath out of your throat. Yunjin moans as she coaxes you through it, your clit twitches beautifully in her mouth, your cunt sucks her fingers in and she lets them.

She’s insatiable when it comes to you. This ploy, this game you play to the public, oh how incredibly superficial it is.

But the public doesn’t need to know that. Your bandmates do, and that’s enough. Yunjin isn’t the possessive type, but the story would be different if the public knew this side of you, if even your bandmates knew. Your soul is hers, just as hers is yours.

#huh yunjin x reader #huh yunjin x reader smut #le sserafim x reader #le sserafim x reader smut #girl kisser yunjin agenda

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euphiea · 10 months

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[NEW FILE UPLOADED]: STATUS: LEAKED//CORRUPTED ↳ Avatar ↳ Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite ↳ Synopses: the humidity gets under your skin, eats away at your resolve until you’re covered in the red of your own choices.

Euphoria's Annotations: ##Age difference (Reader is 19) || ##Jake doesn't exist || ##Instructor x Student Implied || ##Scissoring || ##Light Praise + Degradation

The majority of your younger years, your most impressionable, were spent listening to men and their boyish hunting schemes, the same plans recycled and painted over, and you used to give them the benefit of the doubt. If the same animals are being hunted, there’s no need to stray from what’s known to work.

The art of discernment is like an achievement how it hit you, as if Eywa herself had been whispering it in your ear the entire time, and your mushy excuse of a brain took longer than necessary to process it. Communities don’t often flourish by force, but rather, out of boredom. Boredom that festers when life has mirrored one too many times and grown tired of its own reflection.

Just because it works, doesn’t mean you have to do it.

It’s stupid, sure, perhaps even reckless, but it’s kept your arrows sharp and the adrenaline stinging. To hunt is to provide, but what good is risking your life for the betterment of your people, if you aren’t getting anything out of it? Food lacks taste without spices and herbs, your feet slip more when you’re bored, and questions of your credentials are met with initial shrugs and skinned Talioang heads outside of tents—not long after, either.

Hunting is not difficult. In fact, it’s too easy, not challenging or entertaining enough for you to put up with getting bossed around. There have been times you’ve offered suggestions, one time you were directed to stay in the shadows and shoot from afar, you said the beast was going to get away injured or not, for it had too much of a head-start. It was thrown to the winds, and had one of your peers not been perched in a tree, you would’ve been correct.

You are the student for a reason, an elder once said to you, it’s your place to learn, not teach. You sighed and said there’s nothing to learn.

It’s this trait alone that’s gotten you in trouble. They say you act as if you don’t care, as if risking your or anyone else’s life isn’t a crime of morale, as if those whose bodies have been left for dead in the very soil you trudge mean nothing—your hands shake and you pinch crescent moons into your skin, your own shadow questions your identity, your eligibility to belong.

Water off the back generally—not much complaining when bellies are full, and you’re not spitefully disrespectful—still, some nights, you find yourself huddled under a tree basking in blinding fluorescents, tears wringing your esophagus thin until you’ve given up, and they’re forced to flow. Those nights Eywa hears from you the most. Your troubles and fears, they taint the fiery spirit searing your eyes, you just can’t seem to do anything right.

You just assumed she didn’t have time to listen, and you were fine with that. Fine with the inkling, the idea, that she might be there, nodding along and frowning when you cut yourself off to sob, but she’s busy with other, more pressing matters to fret over, and your problems are certainly nowhere near as crucial. Especially considering you’re the very root of them. You never learn your lesson, why would she listen?

Until one day, when you snuck away from the main group in the midst of their distraction, tumbling across branches, bracing yourself on vines, you so happened to turn around and find an arrow one hair away from your nose. The arrow of Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite, the woman tasked with overseeing you.

It had to be Eywa’s way of answering you, of brushing your tears.

The forest heat is that of an invisible, insulated blanket meant to weaken and trap. Sweat sticks to your skin, and the excessive wetness permits you to turn your nose up at water, as refreshing as it looks. The thought of drinking it digs a pit in your stomach like no other, and this is yet another trait of yours looked down on: your acceptance of dehydration.

No matter, it’s the least of your worries. The lightest of your problems, when it’s Neytiri weighing on you.

Your chest rises and falls in light gasps, on pace with the jerking of your tits as the woman ruts her hips into yours, causing the crown of your head to dismissively tap the tree base you weren’t always so close to. You’re hidden underneath a giant leaf, away from the rest of your group tasked with finding your own hunt; ever so often she turns her head, her ears twitching, listening for their presence. She’s named the greatest tracker for a reason.

The feeling of her cunt humping the throb of your clit is dizzying you. She has your left leg hooked over her shoulder, slick sounds of wetness pierce the clouds of your daze, but it only thickens with each bump of her clit.

“‘Tiri,” You whine, angry nipples peaked with arousal. Neytiri’s gilded eyes are glazed over, it’s the proof of her own heat, proof you aren’t alone in your condition, if you didn’t need it so bad you’d accuse her of using you.

Sometimes she looks at you like you’re the bane of her existence, and Eywa, the warmth that bakes in your stomach taints your soul. The look in her eye is unrecognizable, so unfocused yet trained, she tears away from the object of your desires with a silent sneer bearing her teeth.

“Loud," She warns under her breath, hunching over to hump into you more. As her warm breath fans your face, you flatten your palms against the wood, bracing yourself. "Too loud, my sweet girl. What will happen if we're caught?"

The sensations revolving around the pressure are numbing, butterflies erupt in your belly at the nickname, she only calls you this when your pussy's wet. Liquid heat spills from the cracks of your heart, so open and vulnerable for her, and trickles down your torso, igniting at your expense as she throbs against you. A whimper escapes your bitten lips, you're doing your best to be quiet for her, to be good. She hasn't called you good.

You can feel all of it, how her clit twitches when you scratch at her arm, her body's sweat gluing your leg, her wetness dripping down your clit to join the pool underneath you—it's overwhelming.

Your sounds aren't answer enough, she slaps the skin of your tits in another warning, eliciting a wet shudder out of you.

"You’ll—punish me, miss." No louder than a whisper, and it's pathetic, even for you.

A low, honeyed moan vibrates her throat as she quickens her pace. She catches your jaw and digs her nails into your cheeks, almost as absent minded as you are. Neytiri's more responsible than you are, her rank was earned, it didn't fall out of the sky. Her punishments when you're disobedient are unrelenting, by the end of them she's reduced you to a sobbing mess, begging for mercy.

"So messy. I can feel how wet you are, all this for me, mm?"

You nod, babbling yes, it is for her, so close to saying you belong to her, that you're her property, and it's like she senses it. She grips your right tit and thumbs your nipples, pure pleasure erupts in mere sparks, but it's heightened, because it's her.

"I watch you, you know. You hump your pillows at night and dirty your sheets—"

You gasp, back arching into her chest, and she pushes you back down.

"—You rub your thighs together when you're crouched. You make it so easy for me. Such a needy girl. You can't hide from me, and you know it."

A knot coils in the depths of your tummy, a ball that grows and tightens at her words, only intensifying the pulsations between your legs. Neytiri hums, long, rough fingers smoothing down your torso.

"Please, please, I've been—good. 've been good for you, 'Tiri, please," You sob, mindlessly canting your hips into hers, and she hisses. "'m gonna cum, miss, please make me cum--"

She shushes your pleads and your pleads alone, your tongue slacks in your mouth, unable to form many words, so it resorts to hushed gasps and whines. You hate that she's right, you are easy, and you want her all the time. You're a terrible liar, you make it obvious in the sense that she knows you're hiding something from her.

Neytiri's stubborn streak clashes with your avoidance, she pulls when you push, and your escape attempts never fail to end in vain. An intellect like hers doesn't let much get past, when your eyes linger on her chest, when you shy away at her touches and your legs are too shaky for proper landing, resulting in unfamiliar clumsiness—she knows.

"Let it out, come on. Maybe now you can focus, mm? Can't hunt when your pussy's wet, can you?" Neytiri presses, relishing in the way you choke, how your eyes roll to the back of your head, it's amusing to her, a sight to see. "Pretty, pretty girl. Let—haa, haa—fuck, let me take care of you, baby, show me how good I make you feel."

Hole pulsating against her clit, your release takes you by surprise, she covers your mouth just in time to dampen your high keen. Pleasure drowns you in waves, bouts of heat thrum against your skin before spilling out, your hips twitching as if to milk yourself.

Neytiri does a finer job of that on her own, calms her erratic pace to drawn-out thrusts, knowing how sensitive your clit gets when you cum.

"There it is, cum for me," She encourages, her hand catching your burning tears, "Good girl, so obedient, for me."

It's stickier now, the feel of her lips slotted against yours. You cum so much harder when she humps you, makes you feel pathetic, degrades you with how desperate the act is. Despite the feel of your skull imploding on itself and the distant shivers that clench your stomach, it doesn't take long for you to catch your breath.

Neytiri's hips slow to a stop as she brushes your hair out of your face. Her thumbs caress your cheeks with newfound gentleness, admiration softens her eyes.

"…Come, we must continue."

#neytiri x reader smut #hey #i wrote this in two hours #neytiri x reader #neytiri x fem!reader #neytiri x fem!reader smut

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