jealusty--movedaccounts

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.

[jealusty--movedaccounts]

Ketamine

❝Are you floating again?❞

PAIRING : Lee Felix x female reader.

WORD COUNT : 4.6k.

GENRE : Smut, Angst, Fluff.

WARNINGS/CONTENT : Felix freckles appreciation, substance abuse (mentioned; not too graphic), I can't write him without glorifying his cunty voice so there's that.

SMUT WARNINGS : Soft dom!felix, sub!reader, praise, gentle dirty talk, choking that's more of just throat holding, size kink for like a second, unprotected intercourse, some of the hottest and most explicit shit I've written in forever 🔞

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

The floor buzzes beneath feet thumping to the music, disoriented, uncoordinated, moving along to a rhythm all together different, hazy minds conjuring up varying interpretations of the EDM pulsating through the crowded nightclub, swarms of bodies lost in a world far off from reality.

But you are focused on just one. The one who happens to be in your arms. Lost in a world you so wish to be a part of— come to think of it, maybe you are, for his hold on you, your waist tightens a measure, pulling you into his frame, all lithe figure and lean muscles, no damn given to the sweat running down your backs.

"Hey, pretty," he grins. Mischievous. Risqué. Indecorous.

"Hey, pretty," you echo. Capitulating. Yielding. Succumbing.

It's been far too long of this already.

Wrapping arms around the long neck that's entirely too unmarked for your liking, you lean forward, press your mouth to the sweaty skin of his earlobe, let out a confession, soft and sultry, "Care to help get the bead off my bracelet?"

He chuckles, pulls back enough to fix you with a look so deep you feel you're drowning, smirking as your eyes linger on his lips which he then licks, slowly, as if savouring his own taste, "That's one hell of a unique preposition," voice a striking undertone to the bass of the jazz infiltrating the club, you wish the ketamine had been a little stronger.

You shrug, the leer to your mouth unrelenting, "What can I say, I'm full of surprises."

"How many?"

"Why don't you find out?"

He laughs again, this one high pitched, leaking delight. The contrast baffles you— the low baritone to his voice when he commands it, the joyous shrill when he lets go. The itch to uncover its various pitches, vibrations and frequencies runs rampant, deep to the bones, the urge far from being tamable by now, and really, you hold no desire to pursue such fruitless a task.

You encircle your palm around his wrist, secure, enough to let him know of your intentions, and he does— well, he thinks he does.

You tug him along, him following willingly, and breeze past the turn to the rooms—

"Where are we—"

—to stop right in front of the round table, barely visible in the darkness engulfing the space, if not for the neon paints and brushes thrown astrew, the wooden surface marked with streaks of neon.

"Let me paint you," you breathe, looking straight into his eyes, expression unreadable.

He laughs again, this one deep and low, and you resist the shiver that's already threatening to move up your spine, "Huh, full of surprises indeed," he says in lieu of an answer.

You'll assume it's a yes.

So you put your palms flat on his shoulders, forcing him down on the chair in an unexpected display of impatience, and he squeaks, "I don't think it's allowed. Only the artist can use the paints—"

A finger to his lips, his mouth sealing shut, the almost immediate obedience a cause to your smile turning saccharine, "Don't you worry about that. Stay here."

You make your way over to the artists behind the counter, a few feet away from the workstation Felix is sat at, and true to form, make your way back to him with a stamp in your hand.

His eyes widen in intrigued surprise and you smile, wordlessly tugging his wrist and pressing the bottom of the stamp, it leaving a blue hued clover leaf on his pale skin, indicative of the liberty you're both now allowed of indulging in the wide variety of the UV paints decorating the table top.

"How did you manage that?"

You shrug again, amused at his bafflement, "I just don't like hearing no."

"Good thing I didn't say it, then," he says, alluding to the conversation you had the day prior, on the wet sand, by the shore, under the moonlight.

"Good thing you didn't," you agree with a grin.

The brush calls out to you, drawing you in like a magnet would an iron nail. You dip it in the neon green colour squirted onto the pallet from earlier, swirling till the bristles saturate with tincture.

The first press of the tip of the brush to his cheek causes him to gasp, the cold paint a bright contrast against his overheated skin, one you try to ease with the moulding of your lips to the opposite cheek, planting a loud, wet kiss.

He sighs at that, hand reaching forward to rest on your bare thigh, a silent appreciation to your display of affection.

You smile against his skin, taking it as the cue to continue, repeating the process over and over— meeting just the tip of the brush to the skin on one side of his face, brushing your lips to the side opposite.

By the time you're done with him, his cheekbones are dusted pink, lips parted to give way for silent, laboured breaths, chest heaving, both hands now gripping onto the flesh of your thighs.

"There you are," you reward his patience with a kiss to his slightly open mouth, knowing the effect the temperature play had on him.

"Done?"

"Yeah, just—"

"Is it done or not?"

"Yeah, it is, just—"

You don't get to complete the sentence, for the second it makes its way past your lips, he's already hauling you up and away from the metal stools, weaving the way around sweaty bodies a little too precisely given his dazed state, and you attempt to stop yourself from letting out the endeared chortle tickling your throat.

You fail.

The laugh is genuine, a rarity for you as of late, "Don't you want to see the design on your face?"

Grip on your wrist tightening, he mutters something incoherent— and impatient, if your ears don't fail you— and your laugh only augments, the flutter to your heart almost as genuine as one a long time love would elicit.

That's cause enough for the laugh to die out, and there it is again, the voice in your head, the gaping to your heart— what if you don't see it through, what if it isn't enough, what if all the beads to your bracelet are gone but it still doesn't amount to anything, what if, what if—

"What is it, angel?" his voice is gentle to a degree of surprise, only further confirming of your apprehension of the outcome to this idea, this stupid idea you once thought would be the answer to all that is wrong with you, the mindless proposition you let sweep you off your feet, the scheme no longer seeming likely to be met with a satiating ending, after all.

Is there a way for it to be? Is there really such a thing as a satiating ending?

The graze of fingers against your cheek is grounding, clementing, nurturing in a way it's not allowed to be, you're sure, but you lean into it all the same, the urge to be taken care of encompassing all else.

"Look at me," the taste of his Martini breath in your mouth is what lets you know of his sudden proximity, for your mind has long since lost the ability to pick up on the ongoings of your surrounding, doing the only thing it's good for lately— turning and turning, overthinking, not thinking, processing, comprehending, giving up, crying out to be shut down.

"Angel," the word is lost between your mouths, the Martini flavour so much more prominent now that you feel in it straight on your taste buds, and maybe it's your brain playing tricks that it so loves to, but you swear it tastes better on his tongue than it did on the sugar coated rim of the lowball glass; enough to render you dizzy with a wet contact lasting no more than a few seconds, something seven glasses of watered down alcohol couldn't achieve.

The touch ends before you've had the opportunity to savour it for what it was, and you find Felix looking down at you with so tender a look, you almost wish it didn't have to end like this, that maybe, just maybe, you would've stood a chance, had fate not been so cruel, "Are you floating again?"

You smile, a bearing you've taken to displaying on occasions where emotions fail you, where your feelings are too complicated to be picked apart and be presented with a singular expression, and it's only with years of conditioning that you've trained yourself to perfect it, the reality of it being unalike from the humorous stretch of lips not something anyone is able to pick up on— not that they care enough to anyway.

But he does.

He does pick up. He does care.

You almost believe it.

"Mm," you hum in place of an answer, neither confirming nor refuting, and much like it's always been, you assume there's that, an open ending, a loose offer to mark the end of this discussion, for surely no one is interested in actually knowing you, not now at least, even if they once did, not when it's this close.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't ignore it. He does care.

"I told you not to do that when you're with me."

"Couldn't help it," you despise it, you hate it; the wobble to your voice, the wetness to your tone, the perspiration already forming around your orbs, you hate it all.

He thumbs the tears yet to be shed, wipes them before they have a chance to taint your skin with a wet trail, "That's why I'm here, aren't I? So that you don't float away from me?"

"Then make me stay," you say, without thinking much of the ambiguity of that which you just uttered, and you wouldn't, not if he didn't suddenly look so stricken, "I-I mean—"

"I know, angel, I know what you mean," understanding to a fault, he'd make for a good partner your betraying mind tells you, for all the act of non-functioning it put forth, it certainly has no problem coming up with this particular notion.

Your hand has a mind of its own, reaching forward to trace the specks of neon green dusting his cheekbones, and it's like he suddenly remembers they are there at all, "What did you draw on my face anyway?"

The smirk you sport is more endeared than anything, but it's reason enough for him to cock up an eyebrow nonetheless, "Angel. What did you draw?" there it is, the low baritone, the bass so low. Chill. Arousing.

"Just made you look prettier," you shrug, as though the sentiment was at all possible. Lee Felix looked like a heart attack at the worst of times, bad for the weak of heart, lethal for the thrill-seekers. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"Come on," the tug to your wrist isn't as tight at it once was, but you don't, for once, think about the fact that your stalling might have dampened the urgency of the affair, for as much as you despise yourself for doing just that, you'd despise him even more for tending to your needs so sincerely when it wasn't his care to give in the first place.

So you don't think about it. You let yourself be swept up in the thump of the track, the jostle of the bodies as you make your way to God knows where, the security of his hand wrapped around your wrist, just a tad above the bracelet left with a lone bead, the last one. Bright green, almost the same as the paint decorating his face.

The door collides with your back, closing with the impact of your body, and you barely register the click of the automated lock, as your mind is otherwise occupied with a swollen mouth, soft tongue, sticky lips, all over your own.

He kisses you like he's consuming you, licks you like he's tasting you, bites into you like he's considering cannibalism.

How do you know? Because you feel the same. Or maybe you're projecting. Maybe. It's hard to think when he's pressed up against you like this, the perfect moor to grip on to, the desired anchor to your ever floating mind.

Hands on either side of your head, he parts from you, the reluctance written all over the lines of his face, popping open the buttons to his silk shirt with no small amount of ungrace.

"Fuck," he utters as the third button pushes back into the slit he just so tiringly worked it out of, hands slick with a nonexistent lubricant, for surely getting a simple button undone isn't as tedious a task as he's making it out to be, the booze in his system not withstanding.

The thought gets a laugh out of you, genuine and happy, and the lust brewing up in his orbs dims just a little as he catches your gaze, hands slipping from the cursed button to find purchase on your waist, "Help a pretty boy out?"

You snort even as you reach forward to oblige, "Full of ourselves, are we?"

"It's hard not to be when the sexiest girl just spent almost an hour painting my face," he chuckles, as self assured as ever.

Was that really a whole hour?

"Your horny was showing, babe," he winks, cheeky and all sorts of suggestive.

You swat at his arm, only half trying to escape his grip on you, the subsequent sigh of defeat more for show than anything.

"Speaking of," he pulls back only from the waist up, his hips very distractingly still pressed into yours, "what did you even do up there for all that long?"

As his eyes latch onto something on the bedside wall, you see the playfulness drain from his face, lips parting into a silent gasp, eyes the widest they are able to go, "Holy shit."

You turn your head to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes glide over the constellation of the varying dots and sparkle-shaped neon face paint scattered across his face, carefully marked exactly over each of his freckles.

One of his hands snakes its way up to his face, fingers hovering over each spot as he maps out the path trailed by the paint, as if himself paying attention to the position of the beauty spots marking his skin, "You drew my freckles," he whispers, voice sounding far away, as if emerging from somewhere deep under the water, muffled by the current of the flow, suppressed under the weight of the fauna, the food chain, crushed by the waterspout of emotions, knowing the futility of trying to voice out his feelings over the violent buzz of the storm, and so doesn't even try.

"I told you I made you look prettier. The prettiest," you fake nonchalance, trying to mask how much your heart wants to leap into a giddy dance at his reaction, trying so hard to not let it say : See, I told you. He sees it, sees it for what it is. Not a casual painting. He sees me in it, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You take his face in your hands, the shock and awe and whatever else that he's feeling having made him numb, soft, pliant, and guide him back to your mouth.

I cannot be hidden, your unforgiving heart echoes.

You push at his chest, willing for desire to overtake the ringing in your head, back him up until the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, until he buckles under the momentum and falls on his back, one hand still lightly touching a painted heart on his left cheek, over the most prominent one of his freckles, one that stood out to you the most every time you tried to memorise the pattern the marks on his skin make, one you deemed fit to be assigned a different shape, a heart no less. He touches it softly, tenderly, as if afraid to smudge it away should the pressure at the pad of his finger be too much.

But it is too much. It's all too damn much.

"Let's not talk about it," before the sentiment could even make its way out of your mouth, you had known yourself to be a vile creature to even say it out loud, but the bile clogging up your throat is just the cherry on top. Great. Even your body agrees with how deplorable you really are.

But he smiles. Your heart breaks into a million little shards of ice, sticking into your soft organs, threatening to slit open your skin and fly out of your being.

It's not so bad, you think, at least the blood pumping beast is no longer there to echo how much it yearns for him anymore.

"Got it. Got you," he says, slipping into the role previously requested, taking the signals of start now when you don't even remember giving them away.

He flips the two of you over, bracing himself above you, bringing his mouth towards yours slowly, in a fashion completely opposed to the hungry way he lashes onto you awaiting lips.

He tastes as bitter as alcohol, as sweet as the cranberry juice mixed somewhere in the cocktail, as tart as the lemon he bit into not long after. He tastes like want, like ardour, like a mistake that's not a mistake if you don't let it be, like a regret waiting to be felt that doesn't need to be present at all, like everything that you could ever want, like everything you can't have, not in this lifetime.

Seizing kisses. Skin hot to the touch. Burning mouths. Blood ready to boil over.

There's not much it takes to be riled up all over again, not when it's him in question.

Mind growing soft with a single touch, numb with a single caress, blacking out with a single press, you wish you had time enough to find out if he could someday anaesthetise you better than ketamine.

You're pretty sure of the answer regardless.

Shucking off the rest of your clothes is a frenzy, one you don't remember amidst the clatter of teeth and clash of tongues, but you're elated that it's over all the same, and it's with barely controlled impatience that you manage to urge him to hurry along.

The sink stings a little, like it always does the first time, but you're not too proud to admit that his size might have something to do with it burning a little brighter than it has with past partners.

"That's it angel, nice and wet for me, that's it," he rasps from somewhere deep in his throat, deep voice turning down another octave, working you up even more, enough to allow him free access into your inviting heat, all restraints barred.

"That's it," he hums, hands grasping your waist, thumbs rounding gentle circles on your hip, letting you adjust.

Little does he know, you don't want to.

"Move, Felix—"

He chuckles, that throaty voice doing more for you than you care admit, leaning down to his elbows, swiping his nose left and right, across your own, "Is my angel impatient, hm?"

You whine, having had enough of his teasing, burning hot to the touch, and in this moment, it's all you can do to not snap.

"Felix, I swear to fucking god—"

He just laughs, apparently amused by your misery, head dropping down even lower, long platinum strands tickling your forehead.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, you wrap your legs around his waist, arms around neck, arching up, building the momentum to flip the two of you over, and you swear you're this close to having him on his back, so so close—

A click of tongue, a shove to your calves, and you're flat on your back again, caged in by his weight.

"None of that," he tsks, "you just lie there and look pretty for me, okay angel?"

You whine again, patience hanging onto the last fucking straw, "I don't think—" you gasp, the palladium of his rings cool against your neck. He applies no pressure at all, but the mere act of him wrapping his hand around your throat has you panting, eyes drooping with arousal, vision blurred even more.

"You were saying?" though unaffected at the surface, his fingers are burning hot on your neck, a sweet juxtaposition to the chill of the metal.

"Fuck—"

"That's what I thought," just like that, he's pulling out so far that you fear he's taking it all away from you, before gliding right back in with a loud slap of his pelvis to yours.

"Oh s-shit."

"This what you wanted?" he sounds cocky, painfully so, and if you were of a more sound mind, you might think of riding the attitude off of him, but as you continue to stare up at him and his stupid pretty eyes, accentuated by the stupid attractive face painting on even more stupid face, you just huff. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Aww," he coos, trails a single lean finger across your jaw, ghost touches over your front, down to your waist where he grips it, hard, "can't speak?"

Oh, this motherfucker.

"You know I could—"

"I know, I know. You could dom the hell out of me. But that's not what you want, is it?" he licks your lower lip, thrusts coming to a stop just to prove a point.

"N-no."

"There's a good girl," the haze to your mind from being handled this way might have something to do with it you assume, but you swear his thrusts are more controlled, more dominating, more demanding, "Just like that, baby. Just lie pretty for me. Just for me, right?"

"Fuck, babe—"

"Answer me. You're pretty just for me, aren't you?"

"I-I'm—"

The condescendance to his smile is something you never thought you'd end up liking, but when he's giving it to you so good, you doubt anything he does will be off putting at all, the power he holds reaching concerning heights, but in this moment, it's all you can do to not give in completely.

"I'm aware angel, it's difficult to talk, isn't it?" he coos, and the subsequent pout that settles on your lips is entirely involuntarily, "I'll help you, it's okay. I'm here, right?"

Your hands reach forward, clawing at his biceps that flex with every forward push of his lower half, forcing your body up with each motion, only to bring you back down with the unyielding grip on your waist, the bruises forming there something you look forward to cherishing, long after the lone bead to your bracelet is gone.

"Say 'I'm pretty. Just for you,' " each word is punctuated with a thrust unlike the ones he's given to you up until now, long and hard, unforgiving, not like you want to. Be forgiven, that is.

"I'm p-pretty—"

"Mhm, that you are."

"For.. f-for—"

"For who, princess?"

"Y-you. Fuck, you-"

"And who am I?"

Your eyes snap open, wide and glassy, and looking up at him, the knot to your tongue tightens, the words you were barely able to string together on the plastic rope now spilling out of it, the bracelet you so hoped to make now gone, leaving behind just the string hanging off from the eye of the metaphorical needle.

You whimper, a sound you barely recognise, the first tear rolling down your temple to find home in your already damp locks, only for another one to follow the wet trail it created.

"Easy, angel," he's a little late in thumbing away your tears this time, them having already marked the skin with their sticky essence, "You do know who I am, right?"

You do, you really do. How could you not? He's the one, the company to your last trip, the shoulder so generously offered, the warm body to your cold nights in the unknown city. The one.

But no matter how hard you try, how much you attempt to channel your thoughts, the name at the edge of your mouth, yet it fizzles out the second you try to force it out. It burns on your tongue, the familiar taste of it, and it's so close, you can feel the silky texture of the way it sounds, it's just there—

"Felix!"

Your body tightens, strains, then convulses with intensity more befitting a seizure, eyes barely coloured, for your irises have all but disappeared in their chase to roll as far back as is humanly possible, a string of nonsensical gibberish falling from your lips, his name suddenly tearing its way past your throat, and once it's said, it's the only thing your vocal chords are capable of vibrating out.

This seems to have awoken something in him, as he yanks at your wrist with unadulterated force, biting into the string of your bracelet, snapping the it with a fierce pull of his teeth, the single bead clattering onto the ground, the resounding bounces clear even amidst the sounds blanketing the room.

"Yes, that's right, that's me," he growls, claiming, animalistic, hips unrelenting in their chase to unmake you, pushing your body up with each stroke, "Say it again, say my name again."

"Fuck. Felix, Felix, Felix, fucking hell—"

"That's it, that's it. Keep calling me. I'm right here."

Your voice grows small, heart thumping loud enough to mask the sound of his body colliding with yours, all that wetness, all that want, all that ardour, it masks it all, "Felix," the name ends with a sob, your mouth parted, body arching up into his.

"You know me now? You know who I am?"

You're still shaking, your thighs trembling, high lasting longer than it ever has, and you are left to wonder if you've begun coming down at all. Indeed, the white hot pleasure has spread all around your field of vision, blending, merging, no longer distinguishable. You don't know where your pleasure ends and his begins, but you behold the scrunch of his face, the slack to his jaw, the shutting of his eyes, the deep moan he tries and fails to stifle with a sink of his teeth into the plush red carpet that is his lower lip.

He catches himself at the last moment as his elbows give out, face mere inches above you, long silver locks having been segregated into sweaty ropes to curtain his forehead and temples, and he looks down at you, panting hard, breath condensing onto your skin.

He's dishevelled. Far gone. Broken.

He still looks like a heart attack.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzle into his chest further, plant a grateful kiss to his pectoral.

Perhaps it'd be foolish to thank him for spending a night with you.

It would be, had it been that— a mere night, living on the edge of pleasure, with a warm body, never to meet again.

But it's not, and so it's not.

It's not a mere night. So it's not foolish.

He knows as much, it's reflective in the way his arms wind around you in a fashion that makes you fear he doesn't plan on letting go, and despite the alarms blaring in your head, you lie there, pliant and unmoving, blaming the fact on your exhaustion, "Will you be here when I wake up?" a kiss is pressed to the top of your head, an act somehow more intimate than the activities partaken in thus far.

If he thought that simple action might convince you to change your mind, you're afraid you'll have to let him down.

"You know the answer," you stay still, barely breathing.

"I do," he stays still, mimicking the stance you uphold.

Both still, wide awake, trying to commit the warmth of the other's body to memory, for the night is over, and so is your stay here.

[I plan on writing a spin off to this piece explaining all that's left unanswered; the bracelet, the reason for the main character's departure, why they can't be together, etc. Send an ask if you wish to be tagged when it drops. Meanwhile, you could send me your hypotheses and what you think could be the reasons for the aforementioned events, my ask box is always open to chat. ♡]

Feedback and reblogs are very highly appreciated. They're what keep the community alive and help content creators stay motivated.

[Send an ask if you wish to be added to the permanent taglist.♡]

© ss-skyearn 2023. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting and translating any of my works is not allowed.